Gon's Harem System
Chapter 35: The talentless son of the Duke is going to the ring!

Chapter 35: The talentless son of the Duke is going to the ring!

The voice boomed once again, this time louder than before, cutting through the air like a thunderclap.

"IF YOU’VE NOT TAKEN YOUR SEATS, RUSH TO THEM NOW, BECAUSE THE SPECTACLE IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!"

The entire courtyard, once alive with the low hum of excited chatter, fell into a sudden, tense silence.

People scrambled to find their places, eager to witness the event about to unfold.

The smell of dust mixed with the faint scent of blooming flowers from the surrounding gardens, adding a layer of earthy sweetness to the tension in the air.

The sun, low in the sky, bathed the courtyard in a golden hue, casting long shadows across the stone ring at its center.

Spectators, from nobles in their fine robes to common folk in simple tunics, rushed to the rows of benches surrounding the arena, each person eager to claim their view of the action.

In the center of the courtyard, the ring stood stark and unforgiving.

The crowd could feel the anticipation building, like a pressure in the chest, as the sound of footsteps rushing to the seating echoed throughout the open space.

"TAKE YOUR SEATS, NOW!" The voice demanded again, this time with a sense of urgency, before it faded into a low hum that seemed to vibrate in the bones of everyone present.

As the last few figures took their places, the quiet that followed was almost unnerving.

The air was thick with expectation, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

The only sound was the rustle of clothing and the occasional gasp as eyes turned toward the ring, where figures began to emerge from the shadows at its edge.

Gon’s eyes flicked upwards, following the powerful sound of the voice that had boomed through the air.

His gaze landed on a raised platform, an elevated box perched at the edge of the encircled arena.

It was larger than the simple wooden stands around the ring and seemed to exude authority in its design.

The box, draped in crimson banners, overlooked the entire courtyard with a clear, commanding view of the ring.

At the top of the box, tall and imposing, stood the figure that had called the crowd to attention.

From this high vantage point, the announcer could see every corner of the arena below, his sharp gaze cutting through the crowd, ensuring all eyes were on the spectacle.

The figure stood tall, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as the last golden light of the day clung to the edges of the towering structure.

The announcer, who was also the referee, stood in stark contrast to the humble fighters.

His attire was extravagant and bold, a statement of his authority and presence in this grand arena.

Draped in a deep purple robe, the fabric shimmered in the light as if woven with the night sky itself, rich and regal, catching the sun’s rays in bursts of violet and gold.

Around his neck hung several gold chains that clinked softly as he moved, their gleam mesmerizing in the daylight, catching every eye in the crowd.

His face, sharp and commanding, was framed by short, neatly combed hair, the color of midnight.

A glint of confidence gleamed in his eyes, betraying no hint of uncertainty as he looked over the fighters below him.

His posture was perfect—straight-backed, head held high, as he looked around excitedly.

The way he gestured was almost theatrical—every motion precise and deliberate, as though the flick of his wrist or the tilt of his head was as much a part of the performance as the fight itself.

The announcer’s long, wiry mustache was an unmistakable feature that seemed to have a life of its own.

Its twisted ends curled upwards, almost like the horns of a ram, giving his face a sharp, somewhat mischievous expression.

Every now and then, in the midst of his grand gestures or as he surveyed the ring with calculating eyes, his fingers would instinctively reach up to twiddle it.

The motion was practiced and absent-minded, as if the mustache had become a comforting presence in his hands

The announcer’s voice boomed again, filled with both excitement and authority, as he thrust his hands forward in a dramatic gesture, urging the crowd to focus their attention on the moment that would soon unfold.

"OUR COMPETING MAGES SHOULD NOW STEP FORWARD, LET US SEE THEIR FACES!" he proclaimed, his voice carrying an almost tangible weight, drawing every ear in the courtyard towards him.

With the words echoing through the courtyard, the anticipation in the air thickened.

The spectators, their eyes wide and their hearts racing, leaned forward in unison, eager for the spectacle to begin.

As soon as Gon heard the announcer’s words, his chest tightened with anticipation.

His heart hammered in his chest, but he sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself.

His senses sharpened, and for a moment, the bustling noise of the crowd faded into the background.

All that remained was the weight of the moment—the ring before him, the fierce competitors around him, and the unknown challenges ahead.

He knew this was his time.

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the crowd.

The faces of the spectators, eager with excitement, blurred in his peripheral vision.

But he didn’t let it distract him. His focus was on the ring ahead, the center of the storm.

With each step, his muscles tensed, and his magic began to hum in his veins.

He moved swiftly, his feet sure against the stone ground, cutting through the buzz of the crowd.

The nearer he got to the center, the stronger the magical pressure in the air became.

The hum of energy felt like static against his skin, thickening as if the very earth beneath him knew something momentous was about to occur.

As he walked through the crowd, Gon could hear the murmurs ripple through the air, the low buzz of voices rising in pitch with every step he took.

It was as if the ground itself was vibrating with the collective anticipation of the audience, and their whispered comments filled his ears like the rustling of leaves.

Some were curious, others eager, and a few seemed skeptical.

"Isn’t that the Duke’s talentless son?" One voice whispered from the crowd, the words cutting through the murmur like a dagger.

Gon’s pulse faltered for just a fraction of a second, but he quickly masked the brief moment of discomfort.