The trickster god strolled leisurely in front of the fifty chosen trainees, his long coat swaying like a curtain of shadows. His grin widened, sharp enough to cut through pride and fear alike.
"If you fight for glory on that stage," his voice rang like silver bells dipped in venom, "isn't it better than being cooped up in here, fattening like pigs for the slaughter?" His hollow gaze gleamed, catching every flicker of uncertainty on their faces. "Out there… your destiny is waiting. Destiny does not care about your failures or your excuses. It only looks at results. And here—" he gestured lazily at the vast, rune-etched training hall "—you will never have results that matter."
He stopped pacing, letting the silence weigh on them like chains, then tilted his head with a grin that was almost feral.
"So follow me… and I will make you so powerful, you'll forget you were ever useless trainees shackled to a failed organization." He spat the last two words like venom, his voice rising with a mocking lilt designed to cut at their pride.
The great Archmage, Amber Nois didn't flinch. She stood statuesque, arms crossed, a tempest brewing quietly in her blue eyes. She didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, and that alone made his smile tighten at the corners.
The hall fell into hushed murmurs. The trainees exchanged quick glances, their whispers rippling like a dark tide:
"This guy seems like someone full of crap..."
"If he could, I'm sure he would've killed our leaders and dragged us all away like he did with Josh Aratat's men..."
"Wait, how do you even know that?"
"Common knowledge. Everyone saw it in the colosseum. They're trapped in that cursed tote dimension of his..."
"So what do we do? I mean... imagine what a real fight could do for our growth. Life or death—"
"You idiot. That's not training. That's suicide. You can barely weave a third-tier spell and you want to fight in the Emperor's Colosseum? What a joke."
The tension grew thick enough to choke on. Even the magical torches flickered as if holding their breath.
Then—movement. A single hand rose from the circle, pale against the thick gloom like a ghost daring to touch fire. Every eye swung to it. It was Agatha—the voluptuous beauty with curves that made even statues jealous, the same woman who shared quarters with Wuza Selone. Her expression was taut with conflict, like a bowstring drawn too far, straining but refusing to snap.
The trickster god's head swiveled toward her with an elegance that felt wrong—too smooth, too fast, predatory. His grin stretched wider, carving shadows across his face, a smile that promised nothing good.
"Hmmm… Agatha," he purred, tasting her name as though it were honey on his tongue. He let it roll, slow and decadent, until the sound dripped into the silence like molten gold. The room seemed to lean closer.
Agatha froze. Her breath caught sharp in her throat.
"What in the—?! How do you… how do you even know my name?" she stammered, the words tumbling over themselves, her voice trying for strength but landing in trembling fragility.
"Of course I do." The trickster god stepped closer, boots whispering against the obsidian floor. "I am the Trickster God. I know the profile of every mortal alive…" His eyes slid like molten gold toward Amber Nois, and for a flicker—a heartbeat—there was venom in his grin. "Except for a few."
That glance—sharp as a blade and twice as cold—was for her. She didn't move. Didn't blink. The unreadable fortress of her presence drove him mad inside, but his smirk never broke.
""So," he said, tearing his gaze back to Agatha with the unhurried elegance of a stalking feline, "what do you want to ask me, little Agatha?"
The words slithered through the air like smoke, curling around her throat and squeezing. All eyes turned to her. The room, moments ago a simmering pot of murmurs, went deathly still. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, every instinct screaming that she was staring into the eyes of a predator—one draped in silk and smiling like sin.
"My question is..." She hesitated, not because she lacked courage, but because courage was suddenly a fragile thing in this room. "If I go with you—and if I win that match—are you going to take me under your wing? Train me as your subordinate?"
A ripple tore through the crowd like a whip crack. Gasps. Stunned silence. Even the torch flames seemed to flicker in shock.
Wuza Selone's jaw nearly unhinged. "Agatha… why would you even want to leave? Ain't you fine here? Plus, master has been treating us all well…" Her voice was almost pleading.
"Speak for yourself." Rita's tone was venom wrapped in honey. Her eyes cut into Wuza like twin daggers. "You're the favorite here. You can't possibly see past your own neck. Not all of us have that luxury."
The Trickster God chuckled—a low, silken sound that slid across the room like a blade. He loved this. Two beautiful women, bristling with ambition, each unwittingly feeding his game.
"Well…" He spread his arms like a benevolent deity, though his grin promised only chaos. "If you join me—truly join me—and even win against the current champion, become my champion… then I will show you the world. Wealth beyond imagination. Fame that will bend nations to whisper your name. I will teach you martial arts so pure, so absolute, they will carve your name into the bones of history. Magic—arcane and forbidden—that would make archmages tremble. And weapons…" His eyes glittered like a serpent's under moonlight. "Weapons that will turn you into a storm no god could tame."
His words dripped like honey, but everyone knew honey could drown you just as sweetly as poison. Yet the effect was undeniable. One by one, bodies shifted, hearts betrayed their homes. Agatha moved first, jaw set, eyes burning. Rita followed, like a blade drawn from its sheath. Then another… and another… until fifteen stood at his side, lured by promises of power and glory.
Those who stayed behind turned instinctively to the Great Archmage, Amber Nois. Perhaps expecting her wrath. Her disapproval. But the woman didn't so much as twitch. She stood with the composure of a deity with a terrifying calm in her stillness, arms folded, gaze blank—as if carved from the marble of indifference. Her silence said everything: Your choices are your own. So will be your graves.
Wuza Selone's lips trembled. "These guys… I thought they were happy here."
Cole's voice came cold, brittle as glass. "What's on a person's face is never what lives in their heart."
Even Wuza faltered when her gaze caught Agatha's. "She said… she said she loved it here. That she wanted me to teach her…"
Cole didn't even look at her this time. His voice was iron, unyielding. "She was lying, Wuza. And now? Now she's going to die for it."
The words hung in the air, heavy with prophecy. Cole turned his eyes toward the Great Archmage again, waiting. Hoping that the great Archmage , Amber Nois would try to convince them to stay, but Amber Nois didn't so much as blink.
And that silence… that silence was louder than any storm.