Archmage Amber Nois cast one last glance at the trickster god. His eyes gleamed with mischief, lips curled in that infuriating half-smile of his — the kind an elder brother wears when daring a younger sibling to do something reckless. Every line in his face said he was waiting for her to take the bait.
"We both know you don't mean what you just said," The great Archmage, Amber Nois replied, her voice carrying the sharp edge of seasoned authority. "And I am not in the habit of sending my trainees to their deaths. So unless you'd like to go toe-to-toe with me right here, I suggest you wander off and look for another… champion. Or should I say, another suicidal fool?"
She spat the last words with open defiance, her chin lifted, her robes faintly stirring from the hum of magic around her.
The trickster god's smile thinned, but his eyes never lost their mocking glint. "Ouuhhh… fiery," he drawled. "I do enjoy a little resistance. Unfortunately, I'm not in the habit of having my words brushed aside. I can concede this much—" He spread his hands in a mock gesture of generosity. "Bring out your 'trainees,' as you call them, and I will choose my champion myself. Unless, of course, you prefer to choose for me…"
The air between them seemed to tighten, as though the colosseum itself was holding its breath. The great Archmage, Amber Nois was about to refuse when a low voice came from her side.
"My master," said Uriel Commes, the Scarlet Raven, stepping forward. His crimson mantle swayed like a spill of blood. "Let him select his champion. At least this way, you will not be the one offering them up on a platter."
The trickster god turned his head slowly toward Uriel, his smile returning with dangerous warmth. "Ooouhhhh… clever one. You seem to have a smart subordinate, compared to your pestering one." His tone was almost playful, but there was something razor-sharp underneath.
Uriel met his gaze without blinking. "But," he said, voice steady, "whoever he decides to choose must be willing to go with him. Otherwise, it won't count."
A flicker — almost too fast to notice — passed through the trickster god's expression. Irritation. But when he spoke, his voice was smooth again. "This is the first time mortals have withstood me this long," he said, his words heavy as falling stones. "My patience… is wearing thin. I will remember you." His eyes locked on Amber, and there was no mistaking the promise in them. This was the first time mortals or maybe a immortal and and another mortal had withstood him so much, and it erked him to no end.
Amber stood unmoving, her aura steady, her will like a wall of stone. If he wanted a fight, she was ready to give him one that would scar his pride for centuries.
Finally, she gave a sharp nod. "Bring out our fifty best fighters. Only those who willingly choose to, may follow him."
The trickster god's smile deepened, but it was unclear whether it was satisfaction or deep anger.
Uriel bowed slightly, his movements crisp, and departed to gather the fighters. The Oradonian Base was vast—a fortress hidden from mortal eyes, its very walls woven from arcane enchantments. Great silver wards shimmered faintly beneath the surface, and every inch of the structure pulsed with the protective magic of its guardian, the great Archmage Amber Nois. None could even find it unless they were a god with at least the abilities of the trickster god; and to even still hope to breach it was another matter entirely.
Within the hour, the Scarlet Raven returned, his dark cloak fluttering like a shadow with wings. At his side marched the fifty finest among the newly promoted trainees—warriors forged from the heat of discipline and the cold edge of survival. Out of the one hundred and twenty who had advanced to the second level of training, these fifty stood apart.
Cole was there, his eyes sharp and hungry for challenge. Wuza Selone followed, her quiet, deliberate steps masking the coiled spring of violence beneath. Even Jalel Arvey, the once-notorious gang leader whose name was a curse in some corners of the land, and had once attempted to defy the great Archmage and was punished severely for that, stood in the ranks—flanked by a few of his equally dangerous underlings.
The trickster god studied them all, still wearing that infuriating grin. He looked at them the way a monkey eyes a fresh, unguarded banana—playfully, but with unmistakable intent.
His gaze lingered on the Scarlet Raven longer than the rest. Every instinct told him he could kill Naze if given the chance. The sheer power in his aura was like a blade at his throat. But his subservient bond with the Archmage made him untouchable, for now. To strike through him would be to bring Amber Nois herself into the game too early, and the trickster god was not yet ready for that confrontation.
No—he had other plans for the Archmage. Subtler ones. He would lower her guard, let her believe herself safe, and only when her defenses had softened would he return to finish the work he had delayed for far too long.
"Alright…" his voice cut through the air like silk sliding over steel. "Who wants to follow me?" His tone held a lazy charm, but his eyes glittered with something sharper—something that promised danger and temptation in equal measure.
He paused, as if tasting the moment, already deciding on the bait that would make even the most cautious step forward. The reward he was about to offer would not merely interest them—it would haunt their dreams until they reached for it.
"There is this fight in the imperial colosseum that goes on for ages," the trickster god began, his voice dripping with tempting mischief, every word curling into the listeners' ears like a forbidden whisper. He paced slowly before the line of trainees, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his smile widening as though he were telling a bedtime story—except this one was about blood and glory.
"It is on the ground of the stages where legends are made," he continued, his tone laced with theatrical awe. "What better way to carve your name into history than to let your legend be born there? Picture it—thousands in the crowd, roaring your name until the walls tremble. Songs written about your triumph, strangers bowing in reverence when they hear your story." His eyes gleamed, catching the torchlight like shards of molten gold.
He let the pause hang, then added with a sly grin, "And here's the kicker… the current champion is a blind man. I mean, really, how hard could it be to finish off a blind man? Unless, of course, this entire training business is a scam." His last words dripped with mockery, as if daring anyone to prove him wrong.
A ripple of murmurs ran through the fifty. Some clenched their fists in silent excitement, others shifted uneasily.
Amber Nois's voice cut through the air like the sudden snap of a whip. "You should know," she said, her tone cold and clear, "that it is a fight until death. Whoever follows him may not come back alive." Her gaze swept over the group, her eyes like sharp blue steel, lingering just long enough on the younger faces to ensure her warning sank in.
The trickster god's smile didn't falter—but the corners of his lips stiffened, a subtle tension betraying his irritation. His eyes flicked to Amber, holding her gaze a heartbeat too long, like a predator momentarily denied its prey.
"Ah, but isn't that the beauty of it?" he replied softly, his voice low enough to make them lean in, "Legends aren't born in safety… they're forged in the fire of risk."