The Dragon Emperor of Another World: Awakening of a Legend

CHAPTER 3: Champion

When tournament day arrived, Feya Town's outskirts thrummed with excitement. The once-crumbling coliseum—an ancient relic from a forgotten war—now blazed with life. Banners depicting crossed swords, serpentine dragons, and arcane runes fluttered above the massive gate. Crowds surged through the entrances, packing into stone bleachers while vendors shouted over the din, hawking everything from flame-grilled meat skewers to frothy mana elixirs.

Ethan adjusted the straps of his Arcane Godslayer armor and took in the scene. The amethyst gemstone of his ring pulsed in time with his heartbeat. At his side, Celestia surveyed the gathering throng, her arms folded and silver-white hair braided neatly down her back. Even in the chaotic press of people, she stood out—elegant horns, scales glinting at her temples, and an expression that warned she was not to be trifled with.

"You know," she said in a low voice, casting a dubious glance at the roaring stadium, "this isn't exactly a subtle way to keep a low profile."

Ethan flashed a quick grin. "Who said anything about subtlety? I'm here to make a statement."

Celestia snorted. "You, making statements? Next you'll claim you only entered for the prize money."

He laughed under his breath. "Hey, prize money and attention. We could use both."

She muttered something in Draconic that Ethan didn't catch—but her tone made it clear it was no compliment. He just smiled. Despite her grumbling, he could tell Celestia was scanning the arena, already thinking of potential threats.

They joined the line of contestants waiting to register. The queue snaked past a marble statue of a four-armed goddess of war—perhaps a patron of the tournament. Warriors of every kind jostled around them: brawny swordsmen boasting of past victories, lithe monks with prayer beads, robed mages quietly chanting warm-up spells, even a beastmaster calming his chittering cage of venomous fox-squirrels.

Ethan drew no small amount of attention himself. Whispers rippled through the line at the sight of his armor's intricate runes and the confident way he carried his greatsword across his back.

"Who's the cosplayer?" one armored knight scoffed loudly to his companion, eyeing Ethan's gear up and down.

"Looks too shiny. He won't last two rounds," the companion replied.

"I'd bet he's some rich noble's kid playing hero," sneered a third, a scarred lancer balancing a spear on one shoulder. "Dead meat walking."

Ethan felt a flash of irritation, but Celestia placed a calming hand on his arm. "Let your fighting speak for you," she murmured.

When they reached the registration table, a bored-looking guard in a tunic emblazoned with the town's crest squinted at Ethan. "Name and origin?"

"Ethan Lockwood," he said clearly. "Er… hailing from, uh, the unknown reaches." It was as good as any answer given he was literally from another world.

The guard raised an eyebrow but didn't press. He handed Ethan a wooden token carved with a number and pointed him toward the contestants' gate. "Fancy armor," the guard remarked. "Let's see if you can actually swing that blade, Mr. Lockwood."

Celestia squeezed Ethan's shoulder. "I'll find a vantage point to watch your back," she said. "Knock 'em dead."

He nodded and made his way through the archway onto the arena floor.

Stepping into the coliseum was like entering the heart of a storm. The crowd's roar hit him first, a wall of sound filled with cheers, jeers, and the stamping of feet on stone. Heat swirled around him; the obsidian tiles underfoot were etched with faintly glowing runes, humming with contained magical energy. Across the circular battlefield, a heavy gate groaned open and Ethan's first opponent stepped out.

The announcer's amplified voice boomed across the arena: "Next challenger—Ethan Lockwood, a warrior from distant lands unknown!"

A chorus of curious murmurs and a few scattered laughs came from the stands. Ethan set his jaw and drew his greatsword, its polished steel catching the midday sun.

Opposite him towered a brute of a mercenary, easily six and a half feet tall and bulging with muscle. The man's armor was cobbled together from dented plate and cured wyvern hide, and he hefted twin battle-axes that looked capable of cleaving through a door. He banged the axe heads together and let out a guttural roar to pump himself up.

Ethan's heart thudded. This is it—the real thing, he thought. No respawns, no pause button. Across the arena, the mercenary grinned wickedly at him.

A great gong rang out, the sound reverberating in Ethan's bones. The match had begun.

The mercenary charged like a bull, closing the distance with startling speed for his size. He raised both axes high and brought them down intending to smash Ethan into the ground.

Ethan reacted on instinct and gaming-honed reflexes. He sidestepped at the last possible second, the twin axes whistling past him and slamming into the floor where he'd stood, cracking the obsidian tile and sending a burst of sparks flying. The crowd roared at the dramatic near-miss.

With one fluid motion, Ethan pivoted and summoned power to his blade. "Void Arc!" he shouted, surprised at how naturally the ability name came to his lips. His sword glowed briefly purple, trailing light as he slashed in a wide crescent.

A wave of shadowy energy arced out and caught the mercenary across one shoulder. The hit wasn't deep enough to fell him, but it sheared through leather and drew blood. The brute bellowed in pain and rage as a dark red stain spread down his arm.

The crowd's murmur grew; they hadn't expected the newcomer to actually land a blow first.

Snarling, the mercenary circled warily now. He feinted left, then lunged right, swinging an axe low. Ethan parried, his arms shuddering under the impact. The man was strong—Ethan's boots squealed against the runic floor as he was pushed back.

He's stronger, but I'm faster, Ethan realized, flexing his gauntleted fingers on the hilt. The mercenary rushed him again, aiming to grapple and bring both axes down from above. This time, Ethan didn't retreat. Instead, he surged forward to meet the charge head-on.

At the last second, Ethan dropped into a slide across the smooth tile, skidding right between the man's braced legs. The axes whooshed harmlessly above him. Before the mercenary could recover, Ethan was on his feet behind him. With a grunt of effort, Ethan swung a crushing upward strike.

The flat of his greatsword caught the mercenary under the chin with a resounding clang against the helmet. The big man's head snapped back; he toppled like a felled oak, crashing to the ground in a heap of steel and dust.

For a heartbeat, silence hung in the air. Then the announcer's voice boomed, "Victory to Ethan Lockwood!"

A wave of cheering (and some boos from those who lost bets) rolled through the stands. Ethan exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. One down.

He glanced up to see if he could spot Celestia. She had managed to find her way into a balcony seat in what looked like a VIP section, likely intimidating her way in. She met his eyes and gave a small nod—her version of applause.

The tournament progressed in a blur. Between matches, a healer checked Ethan over and minor cuts or bruises were mended with quick healing spells. He faced a wiry duelist in round two, whose twin daggers struck like vipers. She was fast, but Ethan stayed patient and ended the duel with a well-timed pommel strike that left her seeing stars. Round three pitted him against a grizzled beastmaster and his snarling thunderwolf. That fight forced Ethan to stay on the move constantly—dodging lightning and claws—until he managed to stun the wolf with a blast of void magic and knock the beastmaster unconscious with the flat of his blade.

By the time the announcer called the semifinal, Ethan's name was being chanted by a section of the crowd delighted by the upstart underdog. He rolled his shoulder, trying to dispel the ache creeping in. He was faring well, but each fight was taking its toll. Still, adrenaline and excitement coursed through him. I can do this, he thought.

The gate across the arena groaned open once more. Out stepped a knight in gleaming silver armor etched with holy symbols. The sunlight caught on his armor, making him shine brilliantly. He carried a longsword of his own, its blade engraved with radiant glyphs. Even his shield looked enchanted, an ever-shifting mosaic of light.

The knight saluted Ethan with a respectful nod. "You fight well," he called across the din. "Word travels fast in the stands. I've been looking forward to testing your limits."

Ethan returned the nod and readied his stance. "I hope I live up to the hype," he replied. "Let's see which of us finds the other's limit first."

The crowd hushed in anticipation. This duel promised to be a spectacle: light versus shadow, classic knight versus unknown warrior.

A horn sounded, and they closed the distance. Their blades met with a thunderous crash that drew cheers. Ethan struck with an overhead slash, but the knight caught it on his shield which flashed with protective runes. The knight counterattacked with a series of quick thrusts, his sword emitting arcs of holy light. Ethan parried and sidestepped, the edge of one light-blade grazing his pauldron in a spray of sparks.

They traded blows with growing intensity. The knight's technique was masterful, honed through years of training. His strikes rang against Ethan's sword and armor like hammer on anvil. Ethan answered with creativity and unpredictability—switching grip, changing stance, mixing in feints learned from countless hours of gaming duels. Magic flared around them as latent enchantments in the arena responded to the clash: protective wards crackled, dissipating stray energy that might endanger the audience.

At one point, the knight bashed Ethan with his shield, knocking him back a few steps and eliciting a gasp from the crowd. Ethan wiped sweat from his brow, noting a small cut above his eyebrow where the edge of the shield had grazed him. Blood trickled warm down the side of his face, but he grinned through it. Celestia was leaning over the balcony rail now, fingers gripping the stone, her face tight with concern.

Panting, Ethan circled his opponent, and the knight did the same. They were both tiring, their once-crisp movements growing heavier. The crowd's cheering swelled and ebbed with each exchange of blows, thoroughly enthralled.

Ethan realized the knight had a subtle rhythm: a half-second pause every time he prepared a heavy swing from the right. It was barely there, but once Ethan spotted it, he knew it was his chance.

Feigning weariness, Ethan left a small opening on his left side. As expected, the knight took the bait, stepping in with a powerful right-to-left slash intended to knock Ethan's sword away. But Ethan was already moving. In that half-second window, he ducked under the glowing blade, allowing it to whistle past harmlessly. With the knight over-extended, Ethan drove his elbow into the man's armored ribs and then swept his leg behind the knight's knees in a decisive maneuver.

The knight hit the ground with a crash of metal. Ethan immediately pressed the tip of his sword to the fallen man's breastplate.

Chest heaving, the knight went still. He raised a gauntleted hand. "I yield," he gasped, a mixture of frustration and respect in his eyes.

A beat of stunned silence was followed by an eruption of applause. The announcer declared, "Winner of the semifinal: Ethan Lockwood!"

Ethan offered a hand and helped the knight stand. "Well fought," Ethan said sincerely. The knight nodded, and despite having lost, he gave Ethan a brief salute of respect before leaving the arena to a smattering of appreciative claps.

There was no rest now—the final match was at hand, and the crowd was at a fever pitch. Ethan rolled his neck and stretched his arms as he waited for his final opponent to be announced. He silently hoped it wouldn't be another hulking brute; his muscles were screaming for relief.

When the opposite gate opened, a hooded figure in flowing robes glided out onto the field. Pulling back her hood, the opponent revealed herself to be an elven woman with hair like spun silver and eyes that crackled with arcane power. She held no weapon in her hands, but a tall staff made of living oak and encrusted with crystals floated beside her, levitating on its own. As she stepped forward, the ground where she walked sprouted brief flickers of glowing flowers—residual magic emanating from her presence.

Ethan swallowed hard. A spellcaster. This could get tricky.

"You have strength," the elf said, her voice amplified by magic rather than volume. It echoed ethereally. "But raw strength cannot outmatch true magic."

Ethan raised his sword in a ready stance. Every part of him was sore, but he forced a confident smile. "Good. I was hoping for a real challenge."

The announcer barely had time to signal the start before the elf struck. She moved her delicate fingers and her levitating staff responded instantly, swirling to point at Ethan. A blazing bolt of fire hurtled forth. Ethan sidestepped and the fireball exploded on the ground behind him, sending a wave of heat across the arena.

She did not let up. A series of staccato gestures summoned shards of ice in midair and launched them like daggers. Ethan ducked and weaved; one shard glanced off his left greave, numbing his calf with cold.

Lightning crackled along the length of her staff next, coiling like a snake before lashing out in a forked strike. Ethan managed to throw himself into a roll, the lightning scorching the air above him. He came up to one knee, breathing hard, bits of his cloak smoldering from the close call. The crowd was roaring—the spectacle of elemental magic was a rare treat.

I have to close the distance, he realized. If he stayed at range, she'd pick him apart.

Feigning a stumble, Ethan baited her into casting another flurry of small fire missiles. As the fiery orbs streaked toward him, he drew on the last dregs of his stamina and sprinted directly at her through the hail of flames. The heat seared, and one fireball grazed his shoulder plate, leaving it blackened, but he grit his teeth through the burn.

Surprised by his aggressive charge, the elf hastily levitated backward, trying to pull away and unleash a bigger spell. But Ethan was quicker. He threw himself forward in a tackle, leading with his sword. The blade wasn't aimed at her; instead, he brought it crashing down onto her oaken staff with all his might.

There was a crack of thunder—half from the staff snapping in two, half from the discharge of the spell she'd been channeling. The shockwave knocked both of them apart. Ethan skidded on his back across the ground, dazed. The elf was flung against the arena wall, her broken staff clattering to the ground beside her.

When Ethan staggered to his feet, sword still somehow in hand, he found the elf kneeling amid splinters of wood and flickering sparks of dissipated magic. Her hood had fallen back over her face. Slowly, she rose, pushing it away. To his relief, she didn't appear injured—just stunned and wide-eyed.

She lifted one slender hand, not in a casting pose but in surrender. "I… yield," she said, voice soft but clear.

For a moment, nothing happened. It was as if the entire arena inhaled and held breath. Then an uproar shook the very stones. The spectators leapt up in cheers, stamping and whooping in approval of the spectacular final duel.

Ethan stood in the center of the arena, chest heaving, soot and sweat streaking his face, and realized he had won. A wild, exhilarated grin spread across his face as the announcer proclaimed him the tournament Champion.

Celestia was on her feet in the gallery, clapping (finally) with a proud, fanged smile.

Ethan was led toward the podium where a town official presented him with the prize: a finely crafted velvet-lined box, inside which lay a leather pouch embroidered with tiny runes. It looked unassuming, but he recognized it—an Adventurer's dimensional storage pouch, capable of holding far more than its size suggested. The very one advertised before the tournament.

He took the pouch reverently, bowing to the official and then to the roaring crowd. My first real victory in this world, he thought, a swell of pride and relief washing through him.

Yet as he stepped down from the podium, the jubilation in his heart was tempered by a prickling at the back of his neck. Even amid the celebration, he felt eyes on him—different from the adoring or jealous stares he'd gotten thus far.

"Celestia?" he murmured as she joined him on the arena floor. Her smile had faded; she was scanning the dispersing crowd, expression tense.

"What is it?" he asked under his breath, following her gaze.

She didn't answer immediately. Then, barely moving her lips, she said, "We're being watched. And not by fans."

Ethan swept his eyes over the exits and seating. Finally, he spotted it: a cloaked figure lingering at the edge of a shadowy archway. The person stood unnaturally still amid the moving crowds, face hidden beneath a hood, and they were staring straight at Ethan. No applause, no movement—just silent observation.

As soon as Ethan locked eyes on the figure, they turned without haste and melted back into the surging crowd, gone before he could take a single step after them.

A chill that had nothing to do with the evening air ran down Ethan's spine. "Well," he said lightly, trying to ease the tension as he and Celestia left the arena grounds, "looks like we've made an impression."

"Yes," Celestia said, keeping a hand on the hilt of her curved dagger. "And I doubt all of our new admirers mean us well."

By the time night fell, the town tavern was buzzing with news of the tournament's upset victory. When Ethan and Celestia entered, a cheer went up from those who recognized him. Within minutes, a frothy mug was shoved into Ethan's hand by a tipsy well-wisher, and a trio of wide-eyed apprentices were asking him a dozen questions about his fighting techniques. Across the room, a group of local adventurers raised their glasses in salute. It seemed everyone wanted to toast the new champion.

For a while, Ethan allowed himself to enjoy it. He clinked mugs with a dwarf who claimed to have lost a bet on him in the first round ("Worth every coin to see Samson the Strong knocked on his arse!" the dwarf laughed). A shy elven girl from a noble family asked for his autograph, giggling when he awkwardly obliged. A minor lord even sent over an invitation to a celebratory banquet the next night, should Ethan wish to attend.

Yet beneath the revelry, Ethan felt a constant undercurrent of unease. He caught Celestia standing guard at the edge of the tavern, her arms crossed and her crimson eyes fixed on the door and windows, rather than sharing in the festivities.

When a lull in the crowd finally gave him a moment to breathe, Ethan slipped away from the hearth and joined Celestia at a small corner table. She pushed a cup of spiced wine toward him. "Try to act like you're relaxing," she said softly, though her eyes still tracked every movement in the room.

Ethan took a sip and let the warm spices calm him a fraction. In a low voice he admitted, "I thought I'd feel safer after winning. Instead, I feel like I just painted a giant target on my back."

Celestia's gaze flicked to him, softening for a moment. "You did," she replied bluntly. "You're carrying valuables now—equipment, prize money—and you've shown skills that will make some people jealous or nervous. Not to mention…" She trailed off, scanning the tavern once more.

"Not to mention what?" Ethan prompted.

She leaned closer over the table, her voice a mere thread of sound amidst the tavern's clamor. "Not to mention that whoever or whatever summoned you is likely aware that you're here. Power like yours doesn't appear without making ripples."

Ethan felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He glanced around; the tavern patrons looked innocuous enough at first glance, but who knew what ulterior motives might lurk behind some of those smiles?

He didn't have to wonder long. Across the room, a man cloaked in midnight-blue sat alone at a small table, nursing a glass of amber wine. He hadn't joined in any toast or conversation. In fact, he hadn't moved since Ethan entered, except to lift the glass to his lips occasionally. When their eyes met—because Ethan realized with alarm the man had been watching him intently—he noted a small symbol embroidered on the cloak's shoulder: a black scorpion curled around a silver dagger.

Ethan stiffened. He leaned toward Celestia, keeping his face neutral. "Blue cloak, by the far wall," he muttered. "He's been staring."

Celestia didn't turn immediately. She reached for her own drink, as if bored, and said quietly, "Embroidered scorpion?"

Ethan nodded, pretending to be engrossed in his cup.

"Syndicate," Celestia confirmed, her voice almost inaudible. "Smugglers and assassins for hire. Artifact traffickers. If he's here, it's because of that." Her eyes flicked to the leather pouch attached to Ethan's belt. "And if I'm right, there was a scorpion drawn in chalk on our inn door this morning. They've already marked us."

Ethan's hand reflexively moved to cover the prize pouch, fingers tightening around it. It was more than just a sack of gold—this was a powerful magical item itself. In the wrong hands… well, he didn't want to think about that.

"Alright," Ethan murmured, draining the rest of his wine and rising. "Time we call it a night."

Celestia was up in an instant, as if she'd been waiting for those words. They made their way out of the tavern, Ethan exchanging quick farewells with those who congratulated him again on the way out.

The cool night air was a relief. Together, they walked back to the inn where they had rented a room. The streets were mostly empty now, save for a few revelers stumbling home or guards patrolling with lantern spears. Celestia's every footstep was silent grace, while Ethan's armor clinked softly as a reminder that he was still wearing most of it.

When they reached their inn—a quaint two-story building near the town's edge—Celestia guided Ethan around to the back entrance instead of the main door. "Just in case," she whispered.

They slipped upstairs to their room without incident. It was a modest space—a single narrow window, two cots, and a stout wooden door with a simple lock. Celestia immediately went to the window and peered into the darkness, her tail swishing restlessly. Ethan secured the door and propped a chair under the knob for good measure.

He began to pace, the events of the day replaying in his mind. "Syndicate," he muttered. "They really think they can just rob me?"

Celestia snorted softly. "They'll do far worse than rob you if given the chance. These aren't random street toughs. If they want that pouch or anything else, they'll send professionals."

Ethan drew his sword and laid it on the small table next to his bedroll. He felt a mixture of anger and anxiety building. "It's like a dungeon boss prepping an ambush," he said, trying to use gamer logic to steady himself.

Celestia cracked a tiny smile. "Then you know what to do—prepare and don't let your guard down."

He nodded and forced himself to sit on the edge of the cot, taking a long breath. "I guess sleeping with one eye open is the norm for now."

Outside their shuttered window, a plain-coated figure detached from the shadows of the eaves and slipped away to report that the marks had gone to ground.