Gon's Harem System
Chapter 163: The hallway

Chapter 163: The hallway

A third figure brushed past, close enough that her sleeve grazed his arm, a lithe girl with a sharp jaw, her hair flicking back in a haughty arc.

A glowing orb hovered at her shoulder, spitting faint sparks, and she didn’t even glance his way, her nose tilted like she owned the air itself.

Gon smirked, undeterred.

Rival or not, she was a looker, and he’d crack that shell eventually.

The courtyard pulsed around him, ripe with chances, fights to win, women to charm.

Milo’s coin clinked behind him, a dull echo.

Let him waste his time, Gon was already moving.

****

The Grand Hall swallowed them whole as the steward ushered the group inside, its vastness stretching out like a cavern carved from light.

Marble floors gleamed underfoot, polished to a mirror sheen that threw back warped reflections of the mages’ boots.

High columns of white stone soared upward, their surfaces veined with gold, holding up a ceiling painted with murals of past champions, stern faces frozen in triumph, swords raised, mana swirling in faded hues of crimson and blue.

At the far end, a dais loomed, crowned by King Roderic’s throne, empty now, its dark wood and gilded edges brooding in silence.

The air hummed with the faint crackle of magic, a residue from decades of tournaments, and the sharp scent of polished stone stung Gon’s nose as he stepped inside.

The steward led the way, his clipboard tucked under one arm, herding all 24 mages, two from each duchy, a motley pack of talent and ambition, toward the center of the hall.

Gon positioned himself a few paces from Milo, his eyes sweeping the group with purpose.

The tournament was his proving ground, a chance to carve his name into Hanan’s legacy, and he sized up the competition with a predator’s focus.

A blonde in a green robe twirled a silver ring, her stance loose, nervous, maybe, but he noted her anyway, her delicate features a bonus.

Another stood near the front, dark-skinned and poised, staff resting casually against her shoulder.

Skilled, he figured, and striking too.

He filed that away, his mind already on the fights ahead.

Milo leaned against a column, one shoulder pressed to the stone, flipping his tarnished coin, clink, catch, clink, catch.

His sword hung at his hip, untouched, and his half-lidded eyes roamed the hall with a vague disinterest.

Gon let him be, his attention elsewhere, fixed on the stakes unfolding before him.

A figure stepped forward from the dais, cutting through the crowd’s murmur.

The training master was a wall of a man, his face a map of scars, jagged lines crisscrossing his jaw, one slicing through a milky eye.

His voice boomed, rough as gravel, silencing the hall.

"Listen up! You’re here for one reason, to prove you’re worth a damn. Three days of training with the king’s gear starts tomorrow. Best swords, best runes, best chance you’ll get. Day four, you rest. Then it’s the Battle Royale, winner takes glory, losers take dirt. Don’t waste my time."

Gon’s lips twitched into a half-smirk, his pulse quickening.

Three days to hone his edge with palace gear, swords sharper than Hanan’s, runes he’d only heard whispers of, then a day to strategize before the chaos hit.

The Battle Royale was his stage, and he’d make damn sure every mage in this room remembered him.

His gaze flicked to a redhead near the edge, adjusting her leather gloves with sharp, confident moves.

A fighter, he bet, and easy on the eyes, maybe worth a word later.

The master’s words sank in deeper, glory or dirt.

Gon didn’t plan on tasting the latter.

The hall thrummed with tension, 24 pairs of eyes glinting with their own schemes.

Gon stood taller, his mind racing through moves, slashes to test, footwork to perfect.

The women were a perk, sure, but the tournament was the prize.

He’d come too far to settle for less, and this was just the beginning.

The Grand Hall’s tension splintered as the training master left, the mages breaking into clusters like shards of glass scattering across the marble floor.

The vast space buzzed with low murmurs, boots scuffing against stone, and the occasional clink of metal as servants hauled in training gear.

Swords with edges that gleamed like ice, axes etched with faint runes, enchanted baubles pulsing with soft light, they piled the loot near the walls, a tempting heap of tools Gon itched to test.

His pulse thrummed with the promise of it, three days to wield the king’s best, to sharpen himself for the Battle Royale.

He moved through the crowd, eyes sharp, already mapping out who’d be worth crossing blades with.

A loud laugh cut through the din, raw and unapologetic, pulling his gaze to a tall, muscular woman near the gear.

Zara, he’d dubbed her in the courtyard, her leather armor hugging a frame built for war.

She hefted an axe from the pile, testing its weight with a grin that bared her teeth.

Gon drifted closer, drawn by her boldness, she looked like she could split a man in half and laugh about it.

"Hanan, right?" she said, sizing him up like he was a sparring dummy.

Her eyes flicked from his sword to his stance, appraising.

"I’ll test you later, see if you’re more than talk."

Gon smirked back, liking the challenge.

"Count on it," he replied, his mind already picturing the clash, and, yeah, she wasn’t bad to look at either, all strength and fire.

Across the room, Milo wandered into the orbit of the lithe girl with the sharp jaw, her glowing orb spitting sparks at her shoulder.

His sword swung a little too close as he flipped his coin, and she whirled on him, eyes flashing.

"Watch that blade, or I’ll melt it down," she snapped, her voice cutting like a whip before she stormed off, orb trailing her like an angry pet.

Milo shrugged, catching his coin mid-air, unbothered as ever.

Gon noted it, another rival in the mix, and a prickly one.

Good to know.

His gaze shifted, snagging on a figure across the hall, Talia, sleek and confident in dark armor that hugged her like a second skin.

She stood apart, arms crossed, her cool, assessing stare locking onto his.

Her lips curved into a faint smirk, sharp and knowing, before she turned away, leaving him with a flicker of intrigue.

Tournament material for sure, he thought, and damn if she didn’t look good doing it.

He’d figure her out, on the field or off it.