Their eyes were like daggers, sharp and piercing, cutting through the air with a weight that made Griffith's skin crawl.
"Why are they staring at me as if I'm some sort of strange creature?"
Griffith whispered to Gilbert, his voice trembling with confusion and unease.
"You should've teleported back to where you came from. New York, was it?"
Gilbert replied, his brow furrowed in disbelief as he too struggled to comprehend the situation.
"Is New York even in the Asliner Continent?" Gilbert asked, his tone filled with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.
"That's the only possible explanation for anything so bizarre."
He shook his head sharply, frustration etching deeper lines into his forehead.
"If the spell brought you here, then when the Gambit starts and the spell is dismissed, the candidates should return to where they came from."
Gilbert explained, trying to make sense of the disorienting turn of events.
"What if I can't go back to where I'm from? What happens to me then?"
Griffith's voice wavered, and worry creased his features, twisting his expression into one of sheer anxiety.
"Well, you could always try to eliminate the candidates who are here with us."
Gilbert's response hung in the air, heavy and laden with implication.
"But that is considered dishonorable and not fit for the king."
The two turned their gaze toward the trio of candidates before them. Each stood with an intensity that made the air feel electric, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills, each searching the depths of the other's soul. The standoff was shattered when the twins—Candidates 3 and 7—turned, their matching dispositions unsettlingly synchronized as they walked away in a dismissal that echoed mockery.
"Tsk, you guys won't last until the end of the month."
One of them sneered, their words dripping with disdain as they departed, leaving behind a palpable tension. Candidate 9 seamlessly blended into the swirling mist, disappearing as if she were a manifestation of darkness itself. Griffith and Gilbert exchanged apprehensive glances. Fear reflected in Griffith's eyes was unmistakable. Staring at the twins, he felt an oppressive weight bearing down upon him, as though an unseen force was attempting to crush his very spirit.
"Who are they?"
Griffith finally managed to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.
"The blue-haired twins are known as the Twin Horns, nobles who lead a formidable mercenary group,"
Gilbert replied, his tone shifting to one of cautious respect.
"And the black-haired girl is Theresa Rubel, an exceptionally talented student from Kiligrim University. She's a force to be reckoned with."
Despite not fully grasping the significance of their titles, Griffith felt the tendrils of fear coil tightly around his heart.
"But you shouldn't be too scared. After all, you are a candidate; you must possess something that gives you a fighting chance against them."
Gilbert added, attempting to reassure him. Griffith averted his gaze, a wave of shame washing over him.
"Yeah, I guess..."
His voice trailed off, a hint of uncertainty lacing his words. The crowd around them was still, eyes boring into them like knives, accompanied by murmurs that filled the air, translating into a relentless buzz of judgment and curiosity. Griffith felt increasingly out of place, as if he were a foreign entity in a world that didn't accept him. Gilbert, ever observant, noticed the turmoil written on Griffith's face.
"As your sponsor, I'm here to ensure you have the best opportunity to win. If you feel lost, I'll take you to my home!"
Gilbert offered, his tone brightening as he extended an olive branch to the anxious young man.
"Really?"
Griffith's eyes flickered with hope and disbelief. "Why not?" Gilbert shrugged casually, his enthusiasm infectious.
"Could you also explain this whole Gambit thing to me?" Griffith asked, eager yet hesitant. "I'll fill you in on everything to the best of my ability," Gilbert responded earnestly. Without warning, Gilbert grabbed Griffith's arm, the gesture surprising him, as if he were an unwilling participant in this strange theater of life.
"We must hurry, or we won't reach the mansion before sundown," Gilbert urged, pulling Griffith along at a brisk pace.
He didn't protest but instead glanced back over his shoulder at Cornelius. Their eyes met, and Cornelius returned Griffith's gaze with a venomous glare, reminiscent of Theodore's, though tinged with a more restrained disgust, as if he were struggling to contain his seething resentment. Gilbert and Griffith swiftly exited the grand throne room, spiraling down a series of ornate staircases and traversing a labyrinth of doors. They brushed past knights clad in gleaming armor, and the walls were adorned with statues and intricate art pieces, each more magnificent than the last. It felt like a dream, both enchanting and disorienting. After what felt like an eternity marked only by the echo of their footsteps, they finally reached the colossal front door. This grand entrance seemed fit for a giant, leading to an expansive courtyard illuminated by the soft glow of the dusk sky.
"Where are we...?" Griffith breathed in astonishment, taking in the breathtaking sight around him.
"We're at the royal palace, of course,"
Gilbert proclaimed with a sense of pride, gesturing widely. At the far end of the vast courtyard, next to towering gates, stood a line of carriages, their polished surfaces reflecting the fading light, while horse caretakers busied themselves tending to the steeds. Guards patrolled the area, their vigilant silhouettes standing like sentinels over the opulent grounds.
"Hey! Get my horses and ready the carriage!" Gilbert commanded one of the caretakers with authoritative confidence, signaling the start of their departure.
Approaching his carriage, Griffith marveled at the lavish interior adorned with sumptuous red fabric, plush cushions, and gold-embroidered pillows that seemed to invite him into a realm of comfort. He climbed in and settled onto one of the cushions, a sense of intrigue sparking within him as Gilbert joined him.
***
Six hours slipped by during the carriage ride through the dense wilderness, their journey punctuated with small talk, both of them holding back a torrent of questions. The night sky unfolded above them, a tapestry of stars twinkling like distant promises. As they finally arrived at Gilbert's mansion, the structure emerged from the shadows, looming grandly against the forest's backdrop, cloaked in an air of mystery. Vines coiled around its stone walls, and the fountain at the front, though beautiful, was draped in moss, lending an ancient charm to the estate. It was secluded, surrounded by dense trees, the nearest town a two-mile trek away. Gilbert and Griffith dismounted the carriage, stepping into the cool night air before walking together toward the old mansion, where butlers stood ready to greet them at the door. Gilbert guided Griffith into a small, cozy room adorned with a coffee table and plush sofas on either end. The walls were lined with towering bookcases, filled to the brim with tomes, each spine a gateway to knowledge. Two grand windows flanked the far wall, casting silvery moonlight across the room.
"Sebastian, would you please fetch my eldest son?" Gilbert instructed one of the butlers in a formal yet urgent tone. Although the words were phrased as a request, it was clear this was a demand.
"Right away, good sir," Sebastian responded promptly, bowing slightly before departing, leaving Griffith to steal a glance around the room, his mind swirling with thoughts and questions about this mysterious place and its inhabitants.
"Please take a seat; we have matters to discuss before I permit you to drift off into slumber."
Gilbert suggests, gesturing toward the plush sofa across from him, his expression a mix of seriousness and anticipation.
Griffith, still trying to wrap his head around the whole situation, replies, "So what exactly is a sponsor? I have a vague idea, but I'm still piecing it all together, man."
A hint of frustration creeps into his voice as he shifts uncomfortably.
Gilbert leans forward slightly, his hands weaving through the air as he explains, "We, as sponsors, select a candidate to endorse and support. Our role is to equip them with the necessary tools or, in some cases, weapons they require to maximize their chances of success. Initially, we raise our placards and shout out the amount of zuries we're prepared to provide. However, the ultimate decision hinges on whether the candidate desires to accept the sponsorship."
A flicker of relief crosses Griffith's face as he processes this.
"So you're here to support me?" he asks, his tone softening. "Indeed," Gilbert replies, though his demeanor shifts to one of seriousness.
"However, I must ask you a few questions as well. What unique powers or abilities do you possess that you can bring to this endeavor?"
"Power? W-What are you even getting at, man?" Griffith stammers, clearly bewildered by the line of questioning.
"Well," Gilbert explains, an edge of disappointment creeping into his voice as his earlier excitement fades, "each candidate is chosen based on the potential success they can deliver for our nation, as well as their capacity to compete against other candidates."
Griffith furrows his brow, struggling to find clarity. "And who decides these candidates?"
"The decision rests with the spell," Gilbert replies, his tone cryptic.
"Wait a minute," Griffith interjects, "I saw a little boy among the candidates. How on earth could he possibly compete with fully grown adults?"
Confusion washes over him as he grapples with the absurdity of the situation.
"I can't say I understand it entirely myself. This current generation of candidates is remarkably disordered," Gilbert admits, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "It's just… unusual."
"What do you mean by 'disordered'?" Griffith asks, raising an eyebrow.
"First of all, you showed up 30 minutes after the spell had been activated, which is bizarre and has never happened before, and there are now 15 candidates vying for attention. In contrast, the largest recorded number of candidates in previous generations was just six! It's rather perplexing,"
Gilbert exclaims, his voice rising in exasperation.
"And to top it all off,"
he adds with a hint of incredulity,
"candidate number one happens to be the acting King of the Sahar'iimbiraturia! I'm beginning to seriously doubt my son's prospects."
"Wait, he's a King?!?"