In Truth, His Gate Closed Long Ago

"How's your wound?"   "Fine, Harris."   "Let me take a look at it—"   "No, it's fine." He pulled away. "Someone healed it with magic after the last fight, and the bandages are there to keep it from getting infected. If you look at it now, I won't have time to put it back on before the next round starts."   "...By your command, Elliot." Harris frowned. After a moment of silence, he forced out a sentence. "Are you sure you have to go down this path?"   Elliot kissed his teeth, and his expression hardened. "If you don't like seeing me get hurt, you can go home." He stood up from the bench and picked up his sword from beside him. "You've coddled me enough for the last decade. Just leave now and we can skip the teary goodbyes." His tone was bitter. Nothing could convince him to abandon what he had worked so tirelessly for. He didn't mean to be rude, but he grew tired of this redundant conversation.   From beyond the gate, Elliot heard the caster introducing the next matchup. Someone from Wacu versus him—he missed the name. "That's me, then," he mumbled, choosing to look at the slowly rising portcullis rather than his butler. "Thank you for your care, but I'll be fine now."   As Elliot heard the gate lock in place, he stepped out into the sun. He heard the metallic grate of chains behind him as the entrance lowered. That didn't matter to him, though. What mattered was his opponent. What mattered was how he would win and what strengths he would display using his foe. What mattered was which instructor would pick him. After all, it was too late for Elliot to turn back.   And even if he could, what was there to turn back to?