When Ethan arrived at the tournant arena, he was completely shocked. He had expected a huge space, but this was… sothing else entirely.
The sheer scale of the coliseum before him made even the most grandiose depictions in storybooks feel quaint. It was massive—an architectural marvel carved into the mountain itself, with high blackstone walls laced in gold and silver.
Hundreds of floating platforms orbited the main arena where he assud all of the first few rounds would be conducted.
Ethan's gaze swept upward. Suspended all around were colossal projection screens, displaying live footage from many of the arena platforms and, of course, the central grand arena.
Above them, dozens of powerful mages and professors hovered, sitting in magical observation thrones like so divine tribunal.
And it was packed. Thousands of students filled the surrounding tiers, not to ntion professors, association mbers, and even foreign observers from rival academies. The tournant wasn't just a school event. It was a spectacle, a testing ground, a silent war for prestige, talent scouting, and future alliances.
"...Holy shit," Ethan muttered, montarily forgetting how sleep-deprived he was. After wandering here and there, his gaze finally wandered to the big ass throne that was at the center of everything.
Whose seat was this? Only soone with a supre ego can place themselves at the dead center of all that power and pageantry.
The throne wasn't just oversized—it was obscene. A towering monstrosity of obsidian, starsteel, and pulsating mana threads that ran like veins through its backrest. Spiked armrests, carved from so beast's polished fangs, and a cape of flowing shadow magic draped across it like a living thing. This wasn't a seat; it was a declaration. A silent roar of I am above you all.
Ethan squinted. The throne was empty for now, but there was no mistaking the symbolism. That was the headmaster's seat. The infamous "black-hearted tyrant" of Blackstone Academy.
The man who, despite barely appearing in public, had shaped the lives and deaths of more students than anyone else in the last decade. The kind of man who would drop a student off a cliff and call it a "character-building exercise."
"Yep," Ethan said dryly, eyes narrowing. "Definitely compensating for sothing."
He shook his head and looked at the token, which was now glimring with a number 25. That had to be his bracket number. He walked over to the entrance, and naturally, there was an entrance fee of 100 gold coins, which he begrudingly paid.
Just as he was wondering how to get to his platform, an air bubble ford around him, automatically and effortlessly lifting him to the respective platform.
The sensation of floating caught Ethan off guard for half a second. The air bubble was incredibly smooth, faster than a lift but slower than teleportation—like being wrapped in an invisible cushion that carried him upward with surgical precision. The city-sized coliseum shrank beneath his feet as he ascended.
The bubble deposited him gently at the edge, vanishing the mont his boots touched the platform's shimring boundary lines.
Across from him, his opponent had already arrived.
A tall, broad-shouldered young man stood there, twirling a crystalline spear with practiced ease. He wore Blackstone's second-year robes, the silver trim marking him as soone who had at least survived the academy long enough to not be cannon fodder. His features were sharp, smug, and frad by fla-red hair bound back in a warrior's braid.
"Johnny Vincent," the boy sneered. "I heard the rumors. Didn't think you'd actually show up."
Ethan rolled his neck with an audible crack. "And you are?"
"Arlen Voss. You'll rember that na after I scrape you off this platform."
Ethan smiled lazily. "I don't even rember your na now."
The system bell chid with a flourish.
[Match 25: Comncing in 10… 9… 3… 2… 1… BEGIN.]
And just like that, the tournant had begun.
Arlen moved first. A flick of his wrist sent his crystalline spear spinning forward, charged with a pulse of compressed mana. The weapon moved like a bolt of lightning—clean, efficient, and designed to end a fight before it began.
A second year student was naturally a lot stronger than a first year student and it definitely looked like Arlen's confidence wasn't misplaced. All second year students had already ford their pseudo mana cores, and the power of a core could not be underestimated.
Ethan could see how strong the opening move was. He did not dodge. The crystalline spear shot through the air like a falling star, aid straight at his chest. But he didn't panic—his hand slipped into his coat and whipped out a glowing strip of parchnt.
Wind Talisman: Slice.
A flash of erald light burst in front of him. A compressed arc of wind scread outward and clashed with the spear in mid-air. The impact created a sharp crack, and the mana-forged weapon jerked to the side just enough to veer off course.
It scraped past Ethan's shoulder and embedded itself in the edge of the platform with a tallic twang.
Arlen's eyes widened slightly. Not because Ethan had blocked the strike, but because the wind arc hadn't been cast from a spell circle. It was a talisman.
Ethan didn't give him ti to regroup. He was already pulling out two more talismans.
The second—Lightning Bolt—activated with a snap of his fingers. Arlen barely brought his guard up before a crackling bolt of electricity shot across the space between them, hamring into his barrier and pushing him back a step.
And then the third—Nature Root Bind.
Vines erupted from the floor beneath Arlen's boots, latching onto his legs. They didn't hold long—Arlen's mana surged, and he tore free with a burst of force—but the delay was just enough.
Ethan unleashed two more Lightning Bolts, and Arlen was helpless. The spell bypassed the weakened defense and slamd into his chest, lifting him slightly off the ground before hurling him backward like a ragdoll.
He hit the edge of the platform hard, sparks dancing across his scorched robes. His body twitched once… then stilled. At the last mont, a healing glow enveloped him, and the two of them were carried out of the platform.
[Victory: Johnny Vincent.]
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