Timeless Assassin-Chapter 444: Arrival

(Planet Tithia, Sir Lewis Hamilton Arena, 4 Hours Before The Fight)

The gates to the colossal Sir Lewis Hamilton Arena finally swung open, a full four hours ahead of the much-anticipated fight, as the first eager wave of ticket holders began pouring in, only to find themselves greeted not by music or fanfare, but by the cold, unflinching vigilance of the Cult’s elite security forces.

Each spectator was brought to a halt and subjected to a thorough pat-down, scanned meticulously with mana detectors, and questioned with a level of intensity more suited to a war zone than a live event.

Carry bags were emptied, storage rings examined with scrutiny, and no exception was made for anyone—regardless of their appearance, age, or social standing.

From a curious toddler barely four years old to a frail man well into his nineties, everyone was checked with the same exacting standards.

This intense security protocol did not stop at the front gates either.

In the hours leading up to the fight, Squad Leader Kavan and his dedicated security division continued to sweep the entire arena perimeter with methodical precision.

They inspected every hallway, combed through every vent, cleared every food tray, scoured every basement restroom, and even searched the intricate mana ducts built deep within the infrastructure.

Their stern expressions and razor-sharp posture left little room for doubt—this was not a team that took risks or allowed complacency to settle in.

Even the local patrol officers, those stationed in the stands to maintain order and keep the crowd in check, were not given blind trust. They too were vetted multiple times, as the security team refused to leave anything to chance.

Today’s event was too big to mess up due to complacency and hence nothing was left to fate.

—------------

(About 180 minutes before the fight begins)

High above the steady hum of the pouring crowd and the relentless efficiency of the gate checks, the Elders began to make their entrance.

One by one, they ascended into the arena’s upper tiers with their entourages trailing behind, each clad in flowing robes and full face masks embroidered with the insignia of the Cult, their presence drawing attention from every direction as they stepped into one of the twelve private VIP boxes designed exclusively for the Cult’s highest council.

They waved down at the masses like benevolent politicians, offering graceful nods and cheerful thumbs ups, basking in the roar of cheers, all while silently nursing their contempt for the rival Elders seated just a few feet away.

"Ready to see your candidate lose big time?" the Fourth Elder leaned in, his voice low and laced with a smug edge, whispering just loud enough for the First Elder beside him to hear.

The First Elder, ever composed, simply smiled in response, placing a firm hand on the Fourth’s shoulder before replying in a voice equally calm, "Enjoy this Councilman life while it lasts. You never know when your own time on that seat comes to an end."

Their words were light and their tones polite, but the look in their eyes told a far different story—a rivalry layered in history, politics, and deeply personal stakes.

Because beneath the pleasantries and ceremonial robes, every Elder knew what was on the line today.

Victory would not just secure prestige for the winning side’s candidate, it would elevate their entire faction within the Cult’s hierarchy.

Should the Fourth Elder’s candidate triumph, his faction was poised for a meteoric rise in influence and reach. But if he lost... then the consequences would be swift and unforgiving, with the political careers of his entire faction ending overnight.

So as they sat in their lofty VIP boxes, their voices composed and their body language rehearsed, the Elders belonging to the Fourth Elder’s camp couldn’t help but feel the creeping anxiety underneath it all.

Because this was no ordinary duel. This was the moment which would decide their political future.

—------------

(Meanwhile, down in the warm-up rooms)

Far from the political rivalry and the roaring crowd, hidden beneath the arena stands, lay two vast locker rooms, each constructed to accommodate over two hundred competitors with ample space to stretch, spar, and prepare.

But today, those expansive rooms remained largely empty, as only one fighter occupied each.

Aegon Veyr and Leo Skyshard had both arrived exactly at the designated reporting time, three hours prior to the scheduled bout. Their entries were quiet and unannounced, yet their very presence shifted the air around them, drawing attention like gravity without needing a single word.

The inspection officials were already waiting, armed with artifact readers, detection scrolls, and testing kits, their duty clearly outlined: to verify that every weapon, article of clothing, and auxiliary item both fighters possessed was free of poison, forbidden enchantments, or any trace of foul play.

The process was clinical, thorough, and executed with unwavering precision. Both competitors complied in silence, their faces unreadable, their auras steady.

Yet while the inspection team maintained a veneer of professionalism throughout the process, their curiosity, being human, quietly bled through.

They had heard the whispers, the theories that had dominated internal channels and tavern talk for weeks.

Leo Skyshard, they said, had already broken through to the Transcendent Tier. The rumors claimed that his Grandmaster status was nothing more than a clever illusion, crafted to deceive his enemies and keep his true power hidden until the right moment.

So naturally, as they ran their scans, their fingers paused for just a second longer than necessary.

They repeated the readings. Once. Then again.

But each time, the result remained unchanged.

No indication of Transcendent breakthrough.

Leo Skyshard was still, definitively, a Grandmaster.

The officials said nothing. Their expressions never wavered. Their duty was not to judge.

But beneath their stoic faces, in the quiet corridors of their thoughts, a conclusion had already formed.

’He can’t win. This fight is already doomed.’

They didn’t voice it aloud, nor did they allow a single hint of bias to escape their features, yet as they finished the inspection and turned to leave, their inner certainty followed them out like a shadow.

In their minds, the outcome of this match was already a foregone conclusion.

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