TOPWL 121

“Did you come to see me?”

Khalid asked gently, one arm wrapped around Yudit’s shoulders. Yudit sucked in a breath like a man waking from a nightmare. His eye contact with Hiore had lasted only moments, yet his back was already drenched in sweat.

Hiore hadn’t usually released his pheromones so forcefully. He hadn’t even seemed particularly angry, and still it had felt overwhelming. Yudit looked down at his palm, slick with sweat. He couldn’t quite put it into words, but something about it felt different today.

“It’s been a while, Prince Hiore. Do you have business with my lover?”

“No. We spent many years under the same palace roof—I simply wished to ask how he’s been.”

Even in such a tense moment, Hiore went out of his way not to say “brother.” It was almost admirable, in a way. Still, it seemed he had no real desire to confront Khalid directly; slowly, he began to back away. Khalid, smiling pleasantly, turned his gaze on Hiore and spoke.

“I see. I mistook your Highness’s behavior for someone who was harassing my beloved.”

Still holding Yudit in his arms, Khalid released a fraction of the pheromones he’d been suppressing toward Hiore. And though none of it was even directed at Yudit, just being near it made his stomach churn. Hiore, who was on the receiving end, had turned visibly pale.

“Your Highness ought to learn better control of your pheromones. Dogs that piss all over the place without knowing their surroundings usually end up chased off the street, don’t they?”

Despite the cutting remark, Hiore bit his lip and said nothing. It seemed even speaking was difficult while enduring Khalid’s pressure. Yudit had heard that Alphas sometimes fought using their pheromones like this—but seeing it up close was something else entirely. Hiore was trying to endure it, but his thighs were trembling.

“I… I have to get ready for the match… I’ll be going now.”

“I look forward to meeting you in the arena.”

Khalid’s voice was saturated with sincerity. Hiore gave him a sharp glare, but after another moment of enduring Khalid’s aura, he turned and fled.

“…Are you alright? You don’t look so well.”

Noticing how pale Yudit had grown, Khalid quickly withdrew his pheromones. In truth, Yudit wasn’t well at all. It felt like being trapped inside a carriage on a sweltering summer day. Still, not wanting to burden Khalid just before a match, he nodded.

“I’m fine. I think it’s just the atmosphere here.”

“Everyone’s on edge, that’s for sure.”

Khalid leaned close and whispered softly into Yudit’s ear.

“They’re on edge because they’re weak. I don’t know how to bare my fangs, so you don’t have to worry. I’ll be right by your side.”

Yudit blinked and looked at him, somewhere between exasperated and touched, before letting out a laugh.

“So what brings you here anyway? Came to cheer me on?”

“Ah, I came to give you this.”

Yudit pulled something from his coat. It was a handkerchief he had embroidered himself. It bore Khalid’s family crest and his initials. He hadn’t even wrapped it—he’d wanted to pass it off casually—but he’d spent countless late nights stitching it by hand. Khalid accepted the handkerchief and looked down at it in silence for a long moment.

“…You embroidered it yourself?”

“Yes. Don’t look too closely—there are spots I rushed through.”

Yudit smiled awkwardly. Khalid held the handkerchief carefully and pressed his lips to it, a faint curve forming there.

“Thank you. It means a lot.”

“This is about all I can do, really.”

“There’s one more thing.”

“What is it?”

“A kiss for luck.”

Khalid grinned slyly. Yudit’s cheeks flared crimson.

“I—I should go now.”

“I was joking. Or… no, I take it back. I wasn’t joking.”

Khalid’s shamelessness was unrelenting. He gathered a handful of Yudit’s long hair and pressed a kiss to it, solemn as if making a vow. The sensation stirred something deep in Yudit’s chest.

“I’ll bring you victory.”

“Don’t overdo it. What I want most is for you to come back safe and unharmed.”

It was only after the hunt that Yudit realized what truly mattered to him. Khalid tapped his temple lightly and smiled.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

After parting with Khalid, Yudit returned to the entrance line. He waited quietly, and soon noticed Huyan narrowing his eyes, looking off into the crowd.

“What is it?”

“I think I just saw someone I know.”

Yudit followed his gaze and spotted the village weaponsmith. Back in the village, he hadn’t felt anything in particular—but now, seeing a familiar face in the bustling capital, he felt oddly glad.

“Do you think something’s going on?”

But the weaponsmith looked utterly miserable. Tracks of tears still stained his cheeks, as if he’d been crying for a while, and his nose—red and swollen like an apple—hinted at a proper breakdown.

“We should go ask what’s wrong.”

“I’ll bring him over.”

As Yudit stepped out of the line, Huyan gently stopped him and took the task upon himself. When Huyan approached, the weaponsmith managed a brief, pitiful smile—before bursting into tears even louder than before. Flustered, Huyan began to comfort him, patting his back as the man blew his nose loudly into Huyan’s collar. Watching the scene, Yudit bit down on his lip to keep from laughing.

After a while, Huyan returned to Yudit, looking grim.

“He came to see Wadiram’s match, but someone pickpocketed his ticket. He couldn’t get in.”

“Oh no…”

Yudit truly felt sorry for him. The man’s weapon shop was enjoying its greatest prosperity in years, and for him to leave everything behind just to see Wadiram’s match must have taken immense courage and resolve. Without a second thought, Yudit said:

“Well, this must be fate. Let’s bring him in with us.”

As a prince, Yudit didn’t need a ticket to be admitted to the VIP section. Bringing along a few acquaintances wouldn’t cause any trouble. Judging by Huyan’s nod, he’d been hoping Yudit would suggest that.

“I’ll go fetch him.”

Huyan walked back to the weaponsmith and spoke with him at a slight distance. The man, who’d been standing there like someone who’d lost his entire nation, suddenly clapped his hands and began hopping up and down with joy. Yudit smiled warmly at the sight. On the way in, the weaponsmith thanked Yudit over and over again as they headed to the inner VIP seats.

“Wow! You can see everything from up here!”

“Careful. You’ll fall if you lean too far.”

The weaponsmith had cried out in awe, peering down from the VIP box. Seeing how much he was leaning, Yudit warned him gently. Realizing he might’ve gotten a bit too excited, the man pulled back and sat down. Still unable to contain his excitement, he kept fidgeting with his hands. Yudit glanced at him and smiled faintly.

He had worried the royal family might all be seated together in the VIP section, but fortunately they’d been given a separate box with four seats.

Because they’d spent so long in the waiting area, the opening ceremony was nearly over. The weaponsmith grumbled bitterly about missing the military band’s performance, and Yudit tried to soothe him as the oath was recited in the background.

“With this, the swordsmanship tournament is now declared open!”

The brief declaration came to an end, and the deep blare of horn-trumpets echoed through the arena. The roar of the crowd followed, and soon the first match began.

The first duel featured Hiore and a commoner boy. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. His youthful face made “boy” feel like a more fitting word than “man.”

He was pale from nerves—no doubt from the pressure of being first and facing a prince. His palms were so sweaty that he kept wiping them on his trousers. The tension in his body seemed to radiate out into the stands. Still, the boy didn’t flee. He steadied his grip on his sword. If his teacher were watching, they’d likely be worried—but also proud.

Then the judge signaled for the match to begin.

Hiore closed the distance in just three steps. His blade surged toward the boy’s throat. The boy barely managed to parry the first strike. It wasn’t skill—it was instinct, a raw, animal drive to survive.

The clash of metal rang through the arena. It was obvious to all—he was completely outmatched. In both skill and build, the disparity was clear. Many in the crowd must’ve thought that Hiore could show at least a little mercy.

But Hiore had no intention of meeting anyone’s expectations. On the eighth exchange, the boy’s sword finally shattered. The fact that he’d lasted even that long was admirable. As the blade broke, the boy reflexively reached for the falling fragments.

Hiore’s sword was already descending toward the boy’s wrist. He saw it—he knew—and still made no move to redirect.

The sharpened edge cut straight through the boy’s right wrist.

The entire arena watched in stunned silence.