The coliseum roared.
Stone walls groaned under the weight of thousands, the echo of drums pounding like war calls through the blood-soaked air. Flags of every noble house fluttered from balconies, each one watching—waiting—for their champions to rise and fall.
Ian sat quietly in Velrosa's private box beside Eli. His hood was drawn, his posture still, but his eyes never left the sand. Below them, the arena floor stretched wide, carved in old dust and layered in centuries of blood and bone.
It was a place ant for warriors and monsters.
And today, he would be both.
Velrosa sat to their left, draped in silver-threaded black. She was regal as ever, her expression unreadable as nobles in nearby seats stole glances and whispered behind fans and wine goblets.
To them, she was a noble on the brink of ruin, making one final gamble with a cursed sword at her side.
The bell tolled across the arena. A chorus of horns followed, their blare long and deep.
A golden-robed herald stepped forward onto the raised central platform. He raised his staff high, voice amplified by spellwork woven into his throat.
"Let the League of Champions… begin!"
The crowd erupted.
A sea of bodies stood, scread, stamped. The noise was deafening, a tidal wave of sound that reverberated through the bones of the coliseum.
The herald turned.
"For the first match—representing House Voren, the Steel Fla of Kor! Sir Halric Vance!"
A gate thundered open on the far left side of the arena.
A knight erged—tall, clad in crimson-plated armor inscribed with fla runes. A blazing longsword rested on his shoulder, its edge glowing faintly orange.
The crowd howled his na.
"VS!" the herald cried. "From the Northern Crags, representing House Yelvarn—The Pale Maul, Kareth Stonejaw!"
Another gate swung wide.
Out stepped a mountain of a man, shirtless save for iron pauldrons and heavy bone bracers. His skin was grayish, as if stone ran through his veins, and he carried a war maul that looked like it was carved from the spine of a giant.
Ian leaned forward slightly.
"They're both top-tier C-rank Gladiators," Eli said quietly beside him, arms crossed. "Not noble bloodlines, but dangerous. Kareth's been here two years. Halric's newer, but his swordcraft's tight."
Below, the combatants t in the center of the arena.
No pleasantries.
Just a bow of mutual respect, and then—
The horn blew.
And they exploded into motion.
Fla t stone.
Halric's blade sliced through air, arcs of fire trailing with each swing, while Kareth bared down with brute power, hamr strikes like quakes. The sand beneath them turned to glass where fire lingered. Sparks flew.
The crowd scread.
Ian watched in silence, tracking each move.
The timing. The pace.
The mana embedded into their gear, how they adjusted to fatigue. Halric feinted low—Kareth didn't bite. Kareth roared and surged forward—Halric used the opportunity to slip behind and slash deep into the man's back.
It went on for several minutes. Both n bloodied. Neither relenting.
But eventually, the hamr grew slower.
A final burst of fla, a perfectly tid parry—and Halric drove his sword through Kareth's side, flas detonating from the wound.
The giant fell.
The arena erupted.
"Victor: Halric Vance!"
Ian exhaled softly.
Eli gave a small nod. "Clean. Controlled. Could have been better though."
Ian didn't respond.
The next match was called quickly after the sand was cleaned.
"Representing House Mordaunt—the Chains of Dusk, Leera the Binder!"
From the shadows of the gate erged a woman cloaked in blood-red robes, long black chains wrapped around her arms like serpents. Her face was veiled, eyes burning with purple sigils.
The crowd's reaction was a mix of awe and fear.
"VS… representing House Trask, the Erald Brawler, Gorim Thorne!"
This ti, the gate opened to a cheer. Gorim was huge—green-skinned, thick-jawed, as though part ogre-blood. He raised his arms to the crowd and beat his chest like a war drum.
The mont the horn blew, he charged.
Ian blinked—and the match was over.
With a flick of her hand, Leera's chains surged like living creatures.
One wrapped around Gorim's neck. Another snapped around his leg. Before he could even lift a fist, she whispered a command word—and his body collapsed, twitching in the dust.
The arena fell into stunned silence.
Then—"Victor: Leera the Binder!"
Velrosa let out a low breath. "She's gotten stronger. She wasn't that fast last season."
"She's been training with the mindmages," Eli murmured. "Chaincraft mixed with psychic bindings. Lethal combination."
Ian didn't speak. His hands were resting on his knees, motionless, eyes focused.
Because now, the herald was stepping back into the center again. This ti with more fanfare. The drumbeats shifted rhythm.
The air itself seed to tighten.
The crowd knew what was coming.
"And now…" the herald shouted, voice carrying through magic across the stands. "For the third match of the League of Champions—one of the most anticipated clashes of the season…"
The crowd surged.
"Representing the Grand House of Lugard—the Splitter of Steel, the Butcher of the Southern Docks… Torkas the Splitter!"
The gate to the right split open.
Torkas walked out.
He was every bit the beast they had claid.
Bare-chested, bald, tattoos of war gods inked across his pale skin, his arms looked like sculpted tree trunks. In his right hand was his infamous axe, as tall as a man, blade chipped from dozens of kills but still gleaming.
The coliseum shook with chants.
"SPLIT-TER! SPLIT-TER!"
Torkas grunted and slamd his axe into the dirt.
The herald waited, drawing the mont out.
"And his opponent… the victor of the pit leagues… the breaker of Varn… the one they now call the Demon Blade…"
The energy shifted. Mixed cheers, gasps, curses.
"IAN OF HOUSE ELARIN!"
But Ian was already moving.
He rose without a word, stepped forward to the edge of Velrosa's balcony—and leapt.
A blur of black. A gust of wind.
He landed hard on the arena floor, crouched in a crater of cracked stone. Slowly, he stood, cloak billowing behind him, gray eyes fixed like daggers on the colossus across from him.
The crowd was silent for one, perfect mont.
Then chaos.
The Arena Gas had begun.
And death was watching.
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