Blaise Dean stepped forward with calm precision, his silver-ranked, low level rod glinting faintly in the sunlight.
The arena seemed to vibrate with tension as his bare feet met the polished marble floor. Across from him, Siwa Loma stood with effortless grace, her long hair tied back, her eyes gleaming like polished gemstones. She was the queen of transmutation magic, the girl who could turn her body into whatever she desired—steel, smoke, water, or something far more nightmarish.
And now, she was his opponent.
A ripple of murmurs spread through the stands. The crowd, unable to contain themselves, began to whisper—soft at first, then louder, like the rising hiss of wind before a storm.
"That boy should just give up. She'll twist him into a knot before he even gets close!"
"Heh—he's got no chance. That girl's too powerful."
"Dude, be sensitive. He's an orphan, remember? He's got no mother to run home to."
"Pfft—still, that Siwa girl… she looks kinda—uh…"
"She's fourteen, you creep! You need deliverance."
"Pedophilia's a crime, you idiot."
"Alright, alright! It was a joke!"
"Yeah, and that's how it starts—'just a joke'—until the guards come knocking."
"Anyway, poor boy. He's fought hard, but there's no way he's walking out of this one a winner."
"He hasn't even fought yet! You can't just decide he'll lose."
"Heh. We'll see."
Their voices wove together—mockery, pity, concern, admiration—until they became a single murky hum. Blaise could hear every word, and though some pierced deeper than others, he didn't flinch. He had long learned to filter the world: to tune out the filth, the laughter, the doubt—and hold onto the faintest sparks of belief that reached him.
A few rare voices, somewhere in the crowd, whispered encouragement.
"Go on, Dean. Show them what you've got."
"Fight like you always do—with heart."
He breathed in, slow and steady, gripping his rod tighter. The polished metal felt warm against his palm, the only thing grounding him in that roaring ocean of noise.
The silver weapon was his one edge, though even that had lost its mystery—everyone already knew it was a silver rank low-level weapon, and were prepared for it. Its advantage was mostly psychological, and now even that had been stripped away.
Still, Blaise's expression didn't waver.
He looked up, eyes locking on Siwa Loma. She stood motionless, her cloak fluttering faintly, a small smirk curling her lips. Her confidence was chilling. She didn't see an opponent—she saw prey.
The officiator raised his staff, his voice booming across the arena.
"Both contestants—step forward."
Siwa obeyed first, each step graceful and deliberate, her aura shimmering faintly with magical energy. The marble beneath her feet rippled slightly, as if reality itself bent in deference to her will.
Then Blaise moved. The moment he stepped into the centre ring, the crowd erupted. Cheers, jeers, and wagers broke out in waves.
In different parts of the stands, several betting booths had already sprung to life. Merchants and spectators tossed coins, gold chips, and even family crests onto tables, shouting odds and predictions.
"Siwa to win in under five minutes!"
"Fifty silver coins says the boy lasts at least three!"
"He'll surprise her, I tell you—don't underestimate Dean!"
The atmosphere was electric—half festival, half execution ground.
Even the nobles seated near the imperial box were drawn in, leaning forward with curious smiles. His Majesty, Emperor Josh Aratat, watched silently from his elevated seat, his expression unreadable.
The Scarlet Raven somewhere close to the fight, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
Siwa tilted her head slightly, studying Blaise. "You don't look afraid," she said, her voice calm, melodic, almost teasing.
Blaise met her gaze evenly. "I don't have time to be afraid."
That earned him a faint laugh from her—a sound that somehow carried across the entire coliseum. "Then I'll make this quick," she said softly, her hands glowing as the sigils of her Transmutation Grimoire floated before her like ghostly tattoos.
The officiator's staff hit the ground with a sharp clang.
"Combatants, ready yourselves. The duel between Blaise Dean of the Martial Arts Academy and Siwa Loma of the Oradonian Order Academy shall begin—now!"
Shouts and excitement reached a height the coliseum had never known. The roar of the crowd rolled like thunder, echoing from wall to wall until it felt as though the very stones were alive with anticipation. Vendors pushed through the masses, waving slips of parchment, shouting odds, while metallic counters clinked in quick succession.
The betting booths were overflowing.
The odds stood clear for all to see—
10:1 for Blaise Dean.
2:1 for Siwa Loma.
The numbers told their own story. Hardly anyone believed Blaise had a chance. He was the underdog, the hopeless fighter, the name that drew laughter rather than cheers. Still… a few stubborn hearts placed their faith on him.
Among them were two girls—both orphans from the martial arts academy, unable to participate in the tournament due to injury and lack of sponsorship. They had come all the same, clutching a small pouch of coins.
The older one had short brown hair tied in a loose knot. The younger, with big round eyes, clung to her arm as they approached a booth run by a crooked-faced man whose grin was missing a few teeth.
He leaned over the counter, voice rasping like sandpaper.
"Well, what do we have here? Two pretty little birds at my booth. I suppose you're here to bet on your favourite—Siwa Loma, eh?"
The girls exchanged a quick glance. The older one straightened her back.
"My name is Ouake," she said, her voice clear despite the noise. "And this is my sister, Ouale. We're placing our bet on Blaise Dean."
The man's grin froze halfway. For a moment, he just stared at them—then barked out a laugh.
"On him? You might as well toss your money in a well! But sure, little doves, I'll take it."
He reached lazily for a ledger, already imagining their loss. He didn't need to bully them—he thought the world would do it for him.
But Ouake pulled out a small scroll instead. "Before we give you our gold," she said evenly, "you'll sign this contract to ensure you don't cheat us of our profit."
The man blinked, taken aback. "Profit?" he chuckled. "You two came prepared, huh?"
She didn't smile. Neither did Ouale. They simply stood there, waiting.
Amused, he decided to humour them. He dipped a quill into red ink and scrawled his name on the scroll. The girls followed, pricking their fingers to seal it. A faint pulse of red light shimmered across the parchment—a blood oath.
The man flinched as a brief sting ran through his chest, a mark burning faintly near his heart. "What in the blazes—?"
Ouake rolled up the parchment. "A safeguard," she said softly. "For honesty."
He waved them off, scoffing. "Doesn't matter. You'll lose anyway."
The sisters placed their ten gold coins on the counter—ten Nazare Blade Empire gold coins, all they had. It clinked like a final prayer. If Blaise somehow won, they'd earn a hundred gold coins — a fortune that could really help them and increase their savings.
Though the emperor's orphan scholarship provided food and lodging, it didn't grant luxury or freedom. Sometimes payments came late, and with corrupt nobles like the recently executed Withlo Ziloman stealing from the funds, weeks could pass without proper meals or new uniforms.
This, then, was their chance — not just for money, but for faith.
Ouake looked toward the stage, where Blaise Dean stood motionless under the bright glare of the coliseum lights. Her fingers tightened around her sister's hand.
"Don't lose, Blaise," she whispered. "Just this once… please don't lose."