A little over an hour had passed since Alden and I had taken our places in the cenacle. The hall was even more crowded now, with newly arrived participants filling every available space. Leaning against one of the side walls, I observed in silence while Alden, the chubby young man, and a new figure—Thadeus, who had joined us not long ago—exchanged impressions about the tournament.
What we knew so far was little, but enough to spark theories. Everything pointed to the objective revolving around protecting something, but what? An artifact? A person? A territory? The absence of information only sharpened the tension, and our conversation wavered between hypotheses and speculations.
Before doubts could dig in any further, a mighty sound began spreading through the air. A grand and thunderous orchestra echoed against the stone walls, vibrating in the bones of everyone present. The beating of drums, the blare of horns, and the scraping of strings announced the moment. A soldier marched across the hall, firm-voiced, instructing everyone to form ranks. The chatter ceased, replaced by the disciplined cadence of steps and movements. A few minutes later, the cenacle began to empty.
The intense light outside struck me the moment I crossed the threshold, but soon the glare gave way to a spectacle worthy of legend. A massive choir of nearly two hundred demons stretched out ahead, divided between singers and musicians of wind, string, and percussion. Their voices and instruments intertwined, weaving a sonic mantle that seemed to lift the very air itself.
That was when I realized: the moment I stepped outside the cenacle, my feet no longer touched stone. I was standing on a floating platform, perfectly square, one meter by one, that kept me suspended in the air. Around me, all the other participants were arranged in the same way, each on their own levitating base, orbiting slowly around the arena's core like electrons circling a colossal atom.
The choir's sound swelled in intensity, reverberating through the packed stands. The crowd, seized by fervor, erupted in cheers and applause, ovating the competitors. With a quick mental calculation, I estimated there were more than two hundred participants present — all under the same collective gaze, all about to discover what, in truth, they would be tasked with protecting.
A shiver ran up my spine as I took in the scene: I was standing inside a colossal coliseum. The inner space was so vast it seemed to defy architectural logic, stretching nearly five square kilometers. Monumental stands rose like walls of living stone, brimming with demons of every caste, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Yet what drew the most attention was not the grandeur of the structure. At the center, where one would expect a floor of trampled sand, stood a massive translucent orb, as if half a sphere had emerged from the ground while the other half sank into the arena's depths.
Its surface pulsed with natural energy so dense it made the skin prickle and the air itself vibrate. Anyone who dared to stare into it would see something even more unsettling: the interior shifted constantly, revealing landscapes that changed by the second — a blazing volcanic region, an endless dune desert, a frozen tundra, a stifling swamp, a lush forest… and other places impossible to name, as if every ecosystem in the world and beyond had been trapped inside, in eternal metamorphosis.
Before I could begin to form any theory about what in the hell I was looking at, a sound cut through the air.
"TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING…"
The prolonged tone echoed in the marrow of everyone present, vibrating in the bones, raising goosebumps, and imposing absolute silence. It was not just a sound — it was a harmonic.
I recognized it instantly, but this was not like mine, raw and untamed; this carried centuries of refinement, like the voice of a master who knew every breath of the universe itself.
Then, a raspy, aged voice, heavy with authority and history, filled every corner of the coliseum.
"Be welcomed, competitors, to the stage where only courage and determination will shape destiny. This is… the Tournament of Protection."
As the old, raspy voice resounded through the coliseum, I felt the air itself vibrate, as if the very walls of the place bowed in reverence to the sound. Within seconds, a thunderous ovation erupted from the stands, the choir answered with even grander chords, and the entire environment turned into a tide of excitement. The sound reverberated through my chest, not merely as noise, but as a living wave that seemed to pull my soul into the heart of the spectacle.
Little by little, the roar subsided, giving way to a silence thick with expectation. That was when, atop a much larger and elevated platform, appeared the figure who drew every gaze.
A tall, gaunt demon, almost skeletal, with long white hair cascading to his waist like strands of ancient snow. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, each line seeming to hold centuries of stories and battles. His attire was breathtaking: a ceremonial robe of black silk with crimson reflections, embroidered with arcane symbols in golden thread that shifted subtly, as if alive. His shoulders were adorned with polished obsidian plates and fine chains of dark silver, gleaming under the arena's magical light. He was the very image of power and tradition.
His voice, amplified not by common tricks but by prana itself, cut through the vast space and sank deep into my chest.
"It is with joy and honor that the Empire welcomes each of you — warriors, masters, and spectators. Today, before witnesses from every kingdom, we celebrate the strength, the courage, and the duty that uphold peace. But before this tournament begins… rise, and salute the Sovereign who guards the night and guides our destinies — Her Majesty, Queen Selene Noctis."
The response was deafening. Shouts, applause, and acclamations thundered like a storm without end. My eyes sought Selene, and there she was, seated upon a monumental throne of black stone and crimson crystal, isolated in a dais that radiated unshakable authority.
To her left, towering like a living fortress, stood Drakk Miracle-Claws: a colossus three meters tall, bronzed skin, a beard as thick and black as his presence, dobermann ears held high, and a flawless black suit tailored as though to emphasize even more the weight of his legend.
To her right, a tall and slender woman, bearer of an ethereal beauty, her silver hair gleaming like moonlight caught in strands of silk. Her aura was blurred, nearly impossible to discern, and yet magnetic — Lyra, one of the council's elders, watched everything in calculating silence.
Valerius raised his hand, silencing even the most impatient murmur. His voice rang out clear and implacable, as though each word were a decree carved into stone itself.
"I am certain you have not come here to hear an old man speak, but to witness the contest we have prepared for you. So let us forgo the formalities, and allow me to reveal what awaits you."
From behind him, like a flight of stars frozen in ice, hundreds of small bluish orbs rose into the air, drifting toward each competitor. When one settled softly in my hands, I felt a dry chill seep through my skin, as though I were touching the very marrow of winter itself.
"What you hold is no simple artifact," he continued, "but an egg. A beast egg of the highest strain, collected from the four corners of Atlas, the wildest and most perilous places that exist."
A murmur rippled through the arena. Some competitors regarded their orbs with reverence, others with suspicion. I myself could not fathom how such a frozen sphere could harbor life.
"The Tournament of Protection," Valerius went on, "demands that you hatch these eggs within the setting to which you will be sent. Yet this will not be possible without finding the incubators hidden across the territory. Only within them may life bloom."
The crowd fell silent. Even my breathing seemed to slow, unwilling to lose a single word.
"As you may notice, your eggs are in a state of natural regression — a deep slumber that has emptied their vital essence. To awaken them, you must feed them… and the energy required lies within the eggs of your adversaries."
The revelation hung in the air like a drawn blade. Some competitors exchanged wary glances, others clenched their fists.
"For an egg to reach full maturity within an incubator, it must be fed with the core of another egg each day, for ten days. In conclusion: to hatch your own, you will have to take the eggs of your rivals."
"I need not explain that those whose eggs are stolen will be immediately expelled from the artifact and eliminated from the tournament."
Valerius paused, letting the weight of his words settle like dust after battle. Then, with solemnity, he declared:
"May skill and cunning be the true blades upon this field. And let the Tournament of Protection… begin."
The ground beneath my feet trembled, and the platform began to slide toward the colossal orb at the center of the coliseum. Its glow pulsed in rhythm with my own heartbeat. In seconds, everything around me dissolved — and I was hurled into a new reality.
Not only I, but every competitor had been caught off guard by the sudden end of his explanation.
The stands still roared, but Valerius had not finished. His voice, now laced with a sharp humor, cut across the air:
"Ah… forgive me. At my age, I sometimes forget the smaller details. Like the fact that the regions you are about to enter are still inhabited by many of the beasts that once laid these very eggs. A small oversight on my part, I imagine."
The audience erupted in laughter and applause, savoring the cruelty veiled within the announcement. It was easy to see they delighted in the promise of a blood-soaked spectacle.
Soon, the spectators noticed that the competitors within the artifact moved at an accelerated pace. This revealed a distortion of time itself — what would last ten or more days inside would, to those outside, pass in no more than a single day.