It was the day of the tournament.
A heavy tension filled the air as nearly a thousand participants filtered into the colossal arena. The stadium was an architectural marvel—tiered seating spiraled around the battlefield like a coliseum of old, blending ancient grandeur with modern steel. Massive crystal screens floated midair, showing live footage of the competitors and the crowd's reactions.
Each participant had been assigned a numbered seat, scattered across the arena to discourage early alliances or pre-battle confrontations. I found mine halfway up the northern stands. As I slid into the cold metal seat, I scanned the crowd. Some were stretching, others meditating, and a few were already eyeing their competition with wolfish grins.
Then, with a sudden rumble beneath our feet, the ground in the center of the arena cracked open. Fireworks erupted from the stadium walls, whistling skyward before exploding into bursts of green and gold. The crowd roared.
A round platform rose from beneath the stage, and standing atop it was a tall, thin man in a perfectly pressed brown suit, his face angular and pale, with a curled mustache that twitched as he grinned. On his head sat an absurdly tall brown top hat, adorned with a silver feather and clockwork gears that clicked and spun.
He threw his arms wide as more fireworks thundered behind him. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WARRIORS, MAGES, MONSTERS, AND MASKED MEN! The stars have aligned! The hour is here!"
The crowd erupted into cheers.
"Welcome… to the Grand Uonuma Tournament of Blades and Blood!"
Behind him, the ground rumbled again as massive military tanks rolled onto the field from hidden doors in the arena walls. Their barrels tilted upward, and with a series of coordinated booms, they fired into the sky—bursting not with bullets, but with dense plumes of colored smoke that formed dragons, swords, and celestial runes across the horizon.
"This is not merely a competition," the announcer shouted, his voice magically amplified to echo across the stadium. "It is a celebration of strength! A festival of fury! A war without politics—where your fists, blades, and spells are your only voice!"
He dramatically spun on his heel. "Only one will rise from the bloodied sand. Only one will earn the favor of the gods—and the mysterious prize locked within the vault of stars!"
The arena buzzed with anticipation. Every fighter here had their own reasons for coming—fame, revenge, pride, or darker motives. As for me... I had my mission.
My eyes narrowed behind my mask. Elarion had warned me that the real threat lay not in the spotlight—but in the shadows behind it.
Suddenly, the screen above the arena shifted. A name flashed in bold crimson letters: "KURO THE STAINLESS."
The crowd grew wild.
A figure walked slowly onto the stage from the eastern gate. Kuro was tall and lean, clad in a black-and-silver cloak that swirled like smoke around his frame. His hair was jet black, slicked back perfectly, and his eyes… they gleamed like obsidian glass. Cold. Empty. Beautiful, in a haunting sort of way.
He moved with predator's grace—arrogant, relaxed, as if the whole world were already beneath his boot.
He stopped mid-arena and raised a single hand. The cheering quieted as he curled his fingers inward… then snapped.
Boom.
A blast of wind pulsed from the ground around him, sending dust flying. It was a display of raw mana—controlled, powerful, and terrifyingly precise.
Then, as if summoned by fate, the screen flashed again. This time: "TAREK ALVIRIS."
My alias.
My blood went cold. I was being pulled into the spotlight far sooner than I expected.
I stood from my seat, hearing a few murmurs ripple nearby. With my hood drawn up and my mask concealing all but my sharp eyes, I made my way down the steps and onto the stage.
As I stepped onto the battlefield and faced Kuro, the air between us felt electric.
His gaze landed on me, and he tilted his head, smirking. "Oh?" he said, eyeing my mask with exaggerated curiosity. "What's this? Did a circus performer get lost on his way to the freak show?"
I stayed silent.
Kuro chuckled, running a hand through his perfect hair. "Or is it… no, wait. Don't tell me." He leaned forward, his voice dripping with mockery. "You're wearing that mask because you're ugly, aren't you?"
The crowd let out a collective "ooooh," sensing a fight about to explode.
I met his eyes without flinching. "No," I said calmly, my voice firm beneath the mask. "I wear it to keep my enemies from seeing the fear in their own reflection."
His smirk faltered for a brief second.
Then he grinned wider. "Cute. Real cute. Let's see if you're still cute when you're begging for your limbs back."
Before anything could escalate, the announcer raised his cane and slammed it into the ground. A burst of energy pulsed out, separating us.
"Save the blood for the rounds, gentlemen!" he barked with a smile. "The matchups will be posted in one hour. Until then—keep your weapons sheathed, your tempers cold, and your hearts burning."
Kuro winked at me mockingly before turning and walking away, the crowd parting for him like a wave. Whispers followed in his wake.
I stood there a moment longer before stepping off the stage.
As I returned to the waiting area, I couldn't help but feel the weight of a thousand eyes on my back. I wasn't here for glory, but I knew now that I'd have to earn respect by force.
This wasn't just a tournament.
It was a war.
And I was ready.