Above the chaos of the arena, in her private viewing box gilded with ancient crests of honor, Champion Stelle leaned forward, her chin resting lightly on her hand as her sharp eyes scanned the aftermath below.
The crowd had broken into thunderous cheers following the aether explosion, voices rising in a frenzy of bloodlust and awe.
Around her, nobles and high-ranking officials murmured in excitent, but none dared to speak louder than the Champion herself.
Her servant, a pale, nervous thing in a tight uniform, edged closer and whispered,
"Champion... that last aether burst took out over ninety percent of the contestants. Isn’t that... a bit much?"
Champion Stelle didn’t turn. Her gaze stayed locked on the arena floor, watching the final eight fighters—especially one figure who stood just a little too still, too calm.
A slow smile curled her lips.
"It was perfect. This round was never about fighting fair. It was about cutting away the useless."
She said.
The servant hesitated.
"Then... did he make it through?"
Stelle turned her head, amusent glinting in her eyes.
"Take a guess."
Before the girl could reply, Stelle stood up. Her presence shifted instantly—no longer casual, but sharp, commanding.
Her crimson coat fluttered behind her as she stepped toward the balcony edge.
"Where are you going?"
Her assistant asked, almost breathless.
"To clean house. Let’s move things along."
Stelle said.
Below, the arena was in disarray. Corpses, weapons, broken gear, even lingering clouds of aether residue clogged the battlefield.
The announcer’s voice crackled over the intercom system, struggling to sound composed.
"W-We ask all remaining contestants to please exit the field so we may begin cleanup and preparations for the final rounds—"
Then gasps rippled through the crowd. Eyes turned upward.
Stelle was standing, arms outstretched, her expression unreadable. And then she snapped her fingers.
A sound like thunder cracked through the stadium.
In an instant, the entire arena ignited.
Waves of fire, tinted violet with aether, surged across the battlefield like a storm of living fla.
The bodies of the fallen were incinerated, their remains turned to ash in seconds. The weapons lted. The very floor of the arena pulsed with heat and energy, then cooled almost just as quickly, leaving a scorched, perfectly clean field.
A brutal, flawless purge.
Even the announcer was speechless.
Stelle’s voice carried over the stunned silence. She didn’t need amplification—her aether carried her words, clear and cutting.
"To the eight of you who remain—well done. You gave us a show worth watching."
She said, smiling.
Nova looked up from the arena floor, his gaze eting hers.
Stelle continued.
"But if you think that’s enough to defeat ... then you’re nowhere close. From this mont forward, only the best move on. Entertain , or be erased."
She turned sharply and walked away from the balcony, her coat flicking behind her like a blade.
The crowd exploded in applause. A mix of awe, fear, and wild excitent.
Below, the remaining fighters stood in silence, the magnitude of their future opponent weighing heavily on them.
The mont Champion Stelle took her seat again, her voice rang out like a whip across the arena.
"Start the next round. Now. I’m in the mood to watch sothing bleed."
The announcer stamred at first, clearly caught off guard.
"U-Understood! R-right away!"
His voice buzzed through the speakers, growing steadier as
He fell back into his role.
"Ladies and gentlen! Champion Stelle has spoken! The competition will now jump to the top-four selection! The final eight will face off, and four victors shall rise!"
The crowd erupted in cheers again, bloodlust reigniting in their eyes.
Up in the control box, a screen flickered as a computerized draw began, shuffling nas and data until a match appeared on the massive display.
FIRST MATCH: NOVA vs. XIL’THAR THE VOID-KIN.
Nova stepped forward with no reaction. His cloak shifted around him as he made his way to the center of the arena, silent as ever.
On the opposite side, his opponent erged—a bizarre being made entirely of inky-black ooze, a shifting blob that vaguely mimicked a humanoid shape.
A single glowing eye blinked in the center of the mass.
The creature moved with a liquid grace, but radiated sothing cold, ancient, and deeply arrogant.
The announcer’s voice wavered.
"Nova... versus Xil’thar... Begin!"
The arena hushed.
But Xil’thar did not attack. He stood—if it could be called that—regarding Nova with a flickering eye. Then he spoke, his voice like oil slicking across water.
"You will not win this match."
Nova raised a brow but said nothing.
"You do not understand what you face. My body exists on a wavelength beyond your comprehension. My senses are flawless. Your weapons will pass through . Your strength will an nothing."
Nova yawned.
Xil’thar continued.
"I have fought your kind before. You all share the sa patterns. Emotion. Overconfidence. Simplicity—"
Nova summoned his sword into his hand, then imdiately dissolved it.
In its place, he manifested a sleek pistol made of dark alloy and glowing with thin lines of embedded aether. He pointed it straight at Xil’thar.
The void-kin paused.
"Guns will not—"
The shot rang out.
The bullet glowed bright with aether as it tore through the air and struck Xil’thar directly in the center of his body. It passed through him without resistance—just as predicted.
But Xil’thar hadn’t sensed the payload.
Aether pulsed inside the void-kin for a brief mont.
Then exploded.
A silent detonation, more a ripple of reality than fire or force, cracked the air. Xil’thar froze, his entire form shuddering.
Then, with a hissing screech, his body began to unravel. One second, he was standing, and the next, his mass scattered into wisps of black mist, vaporized into nothingness.
The arena fell dead silent.
The announcer sputtered, looking down at the empty battlefield where only Nova now stood.
"...Winner—Nova!"
The crowd, stunned at first, erupted into wild applause and angry shouting. So cheered, others demanded explanations, but all were focused on the sa thing: the impossible.
Nova turned away from the center of the arena, his pistol dissolving once again into his aether inventory. He didn’t even glance at the space where Xil’thar had stood.
The initial wave of shock and awe quickly turned sour. The cheers twisted into jeers as the reality of Nova’s victory settled in.
"He cheated!"
Soone yelled from the back rows.
"That wasn’t a fight, that was a cheap trick!"
Another bellowed.
"Coward! Use your hands, not toys!"
The arena filled with voices, echoing with frustration. Spectators pointed at Nova, gesturing furiously.
"Where’s the honor in a gunfight?"
"He didn’t even let Xil’thar finish his monologue!"
"Bring back the real warriors!"
Nova stood still, his expression unreadable as the crowd vented. He didn’t react, didn’t flinch. Only his eyes shifted, slowly scanning the faces screaming at him.
Anna, watching from the stands, clenched her fists.
"Idiots. You call him a coward? After he just erased sothing that could’ve torn any of them apart?"
She muttered under her breath.
The announcer tried to calm the mob.
"P-Please rember, there are no weapon restrictions in the rules! Aether-tech is fair ga!"
But the murmuring wouldn’t stop. The crowd had already decided that Nova was no warrior—they wanted blood, not precision.
Up above, Champion Stelle leaned forward, her eyes gleaming.
"It’s turning out to be more fun. What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?"
She whispered.
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