Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 82: New Faces.

Chapter 82: New Faces.

The VIP viewing room was gold-trimmed silence, broken only by the soft clink of glasses and the occasional puff of old nobility laughing too loud.

Counties. Earls. A few smug Dukes.

They were all saying the same thing.

"This year’s competition is the best yet."

"The potential revenue if we invite international schools—immense!"

And right in the middle, King Joseph, in full effortless regality, sipping something dark and expensive, nodded like he already owned the outcome.

"I plan to open the tournament. Let others enter from the outer regions. Maybe across the border. Why limit something so... profitable?"

Every noble in the room agreed immediately, of course. Some clapped. One actually bowed. Conrad said nothing. He just sat there, arms resting against the polished railing, eyes locked on his father like he was studying him instead of listening.

Hans noticed it.

Leaning toward him, voice low, he nudged Conrad out of the trance.

"You good?" he asked. "You’ve been staring holes through the king since he opened his mouth."

Conrad blinked. Took a breath.

"I was just thinking... Amari’s gotten strong."

Hans raised an eyebrow. "That’s where your mind went?"

Conrad gave a lazy shrug, but there was weight behind his words.

"Watching him out there—it’s crazy. I remember when he and Apollo used to train together. Back when they were still close. They were... different. Even back then, I knew they were stronger than me. Not just physically. It was the way they thought. The way they saw things."

Hans leaned back, letting him talk.

"I always thought I had everything," Conrad said. "Bloodline. Mana. Respect. But watching them? It made me realize how stuck I was. They fought like they had something to prove. I fought like I didn’t want to lose my image."

He paused, a quiet scoff slipping out.

"I was naive. Entitled. I thought if I just showed up, I’d win. They shattered that mindset in less than a year."

Hans smiled, nudging him again. "So what you’re saying is—you’re finally becoming self-aware."

Conrad rolled his eyes. "Don’t get used to it."

Hans laughed. "You’ve changed, though. A couple years ago, you were a spoiled little brat with no ambition. Just vibes and royal robes."

Conrad smirked. "Yeah, well. Watching people fight harder than you—live harder than you—kinda kicks your ego in the ribs."

He looked back down at the arena. The dirt. The noise. The two figures he couldn’t stop thinking about.

"Sometimes I wonder... if we ever fought, the three of us—me, Amari, and Apollo—what would that look like?"

Hans crossed his arms. "You think you’d win?"

Conrad looks at Hans and smirks. ’’Now? Definitely.’’

...

(In the waiting room.)

Back in the waiting room, the squad was gearing up—quiet stretching, last-minute checks, boots tightening, focused silence. Amari stood near the door, chains loosely draped around his shoulders like always, fingers twitching like his thoughts wouldn’t sit still.

"I need to clear my head for a bit," he said casually.

Maverick looked up, frowning like he was about to say something, but Amari was already halfway out the door.

He wandered the venue with no real direction—boots tapping across polished stone floors, the roar of the crowd rumbling faintly behind thick walls. For a minute, it felt... calm. Too calm.

That didn’t last long.

"Hey! You can’t go that way," a stern voice barked. One of the competition staff stepped into his path, arms crossed like some kind of glorified hallway bouncer.

Amari slowed, eyes narrowing. "Why not?"

Before the guy could answer, a group of students strolled right past—laughing, relaxed, barely giving Amari a glance.

The staff didn’t stop them.

Amari raised a brow. "Okay... so they can go through, but I can’t?"

The staff didn’t offer a reason. Just waved him off like he was a stray dog near a fancy party. "Move. Go back where you came from."

Amari didn’t argue. No point. He just nodded once and turned around.

Whatever.

He kept walking. Let his boots take him wherever they felt like going, until the crowd noise faded and the corridors got quieter. Less polished. Less "public."

That’s when he noticed—he wasn’t supposed to be here.

He paused near a back hallway, the air still and cool, when the muffled voice of the announcer came through the walls:

"THE NEXT ROUND BEGINS SHORTLY! FIGHTERS, RETURN TO YOUR PREPARATION ROOMS."

Time was moving again.

He turned, trying to retrace his steps.

And then—bam.

He walked straight into someone coming out of the restroom.

"Oh—my bad," Amari said, stepping back.

"No worries," she replied, smoothing her sleeve, her tone light and melodic. She looked up at him—and then her eyes lit up. "Wait... you’re Amari."

Amari blinked. "Uh... yeah."

She smiled. One of those bright, no-filter smiles that made everything slow down for a second.

"You look way shorter up close," she teased.

Amari scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how not cool he probably looked. "Thanks... I think."

She chuckled.

"You part of the tournament?" Amari asked, trying to play it smooth.

She shook her head. "Nope. Just watching."

"Oh," he said, almost disappointed. "That’s a shame."

"Why’s that?" she asked, tilting her head with a smirk.

He met her gaze, shrugged. "Means I won’t get to see you again."

There was a pause.

And then—she laughed. "I didn’t think you were funny."

"I didn’t think I was either," Amari said, laughing with her this time.

Then someone else walked over.

An older man—grizzled, scarred, with a deep line across his right eye and a face that looked like it had survived a war and kept going anyway.

"You done, Ayla?" the old man asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. I’m coming now."

The old man’s eyes landed on Amari. There was no fear or judgment—just recognition.

"You’re the one with the chains," he said.

Amari blinked. "Yeah. That’s me."

The old man’s expression was unreadable. "You fight like someone who knows pain."

Amari didn’t know what to say to that.

"You two..." he hesitated, eyes flicking between them. "Are you from the Oruba Clan?"

The old man chuckled. "No. Just farmers."

Amari frowned. "Weird. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like me in this city."

Ayla smiled softly. The old man shrugged.

"We live nearby. Farm out by the eastern valley. Only come through when it’s busy like this. Events bring coin. Stories. Life."

There was a short silence—an oddly warm one.

Then the old man patted Amari lightly on the shoulder, firm but respectful. "You should head back. Get ready."

He looked Amari in the eye.

"Win. Make us proud."

Ayla gave him one last smile before turning to leave. "Good luck, chain guy."

Amari stood there for a second. Then walked back to his room.