Elior turned on the last button of his suit. His hands didn't tremble, but his chest was heavy, as if every breath pressed against iron. He stepped out of the bunker and into the night.
The air was sharp, biting with midnight cold. Torches ringed the broken arena, flames twitching against stone. Around him, members of the three ideologies crowded the stands, faces lit with hunger, their screams rising like a storm.
"Blood! Blood! Blood!"
Elior's gaze moved forward. Azmaik stood in the center, the red rune glowing faintly from his pocket, a cruel smile stitched across his face.
"I've changed the rules," Azmaik said, his voice carrying above the noise. "Forget the tower climb. No pawns. No steps. You will face only the three of us. Leader against leader. Flesh against fate."
The crowd roared louder, stamping feet against the cracked ground.
Elior didn't speak. He let his fist loosen. His Face pulsed faintly under his skin.
The first figure approached.
Vincent Chilham. His boots tapped steady against the cold stone. Reddish hair, slicked back like flame. His jacket gleamed with noble cuts and golden trim, but his eyes—sharp, proud, merciless. His expressions were colder than the arena itself. He stopped only a few paces away, his chin tilted, his hand resting on a saber that hung like a promise at his hip.
"You will bow," Vincent said, his voice calm but carved in steel. "Or you will die here tonight."
Behind him, laughter rippled.
Sassy Star leaned lazily on a cracked pillar, her grin wide enough to show teeth. "Oh, how lovely," she sang out, almost mocking. "The boy thinks he can stand." She clapped slowly, each sound echoing. "Elior Jones, little dreamer. Try not to bleed too quickly. I want a good show."
The crowd howled. Torches flickered higher. The arena seemed to grow smaller, tighter, filled with nothing but cold and expectation.
Vincent drew his saber in one slow motion. The blade hissed against the night, catching the firelight, glowing faintly red as if it were drinking from the torches.
Elior stepped forward, eyes steady.
The screams fell to silence.
The duel was about to begin.
....
Grace lingered inside the dim bunker, her steps soft against the cracked floor.
Among the shadows she noticed someone. A boy curled near the corner, half-hidden beneath a thin quilt. His frame was lean, fragile even, as though he hadn't eaten properly in days.
She approached slowly, lowering her voice so as not to startle him. "Do you need something?" she asked, gentle but firm.
The boy lifted his head. Brown hair, unkempt and falling across a face that might have been handsome if not for the fatigue written into it.
A scar cut across his left eye, pale against his skin, old but still raw in presence.
He parted his lips with hesitation, then spoke in a low tone. "Radahn," he said, almost like he had to remember it. "Just Radahn.... I don't know who...."
Radahn felt something hazardous then looked other side of her.
Grace blinked. She studied him quietly, noting how little he wore barely a pair of trousers beneath the frayed quilt draped over his shoulders.
Across his chest and arms were fading bruises, long healed but merciless in their story. Whoever he had been, the world hadn't been kind.
His mouth kept moving after that. Strange sounds spilled out, not any language Grace had ever known.
It was like the lectures of something ancient, syllables heavy with gesture yet impossible to grasp.
She knelt a little closer, trying to catch the rhythm of his muttering, though it made no sense.
The boy's eyes stared past her, as if chasing phantoms only he could see.
Grace exhaled softly. "Alright," she whispered, half to herself. "You're safe here."
She adjusted the quilt around his shoulders, tucking it tighter. Then she left a small share of the rations beside him, bread and a flask of water.
The boy didn't lift his gaze, still caught in whatever trance those words held, but his fingers pointed faintly toward the food.
Grace stayed there for a while, watching, making sure he would eat, he wouldn't vanish into the empty, alone in a corner.
....
Shouts from the gathered ideologies echoed in the dark, yet Elior's world narrowed to the man before him.
Vincent Chilham stepped forward with calm arrogance, red hair tied back, his noble jacket immaculate despite the ruinous world. He held himself as though the dust beneath his boots was unworthy of touching him.
"You may kneel and live," Vincent said smoothly, a faint curl on his lips, "or stand and die a pitiful death. It makes little difference to me."
Elior didn't answer. He rolled his shoulders once, eyes steady. His daggers glimmered faintly under the fractured moonlight. He never liked to waste words.
Vincent smirked at the silence. "I see. You've chosen pride over survival. Then allow me to break both."
Neither moved for several breaths. The crowd screamed for blood, but inside the ring, there was only tension measured and suffocating. Then both lunged at once.
Elior's blade swiped where Vincent had been, but the noble slipped to the side, almost lazy.
Vincent's sword stabbed at Elior's ribs, only for Elior to fold backward, daggers slicing upward at an angle that would have caught a slower foe. The air hissed from the speed, but steel never met flesh.
They circled again, eyes fixed, each reading the other's stance. Every shift of weight, every twitch of fingers was a language they both understood.
Vincent struck low, his sword sweeping for Elior's leg. Elior stepped back, pivoted on one heel, and spun behind him.
His dagger was a whisper away from Vincent's throat but Vincent leaned just in time, slipping into shadow. The blade cut only cloth.
"You're cautious," Vincent said over his shoulder. "Too cautious. Afraid of your own strength?"
Elior answered with silence again, eyes narrowing. He darted forward, two blades striking in rhythm, one feinting high while the other sought an opening beneath Vincent's guard.
Vincent's parry was precise, his sword twisting the angles apart, forcing Elior back with sharp, efficient steps.
The assassin's dance continued. Strikes never fully committed, always a test.
They darted across the arena in silence, breath measured, movements sharp. Their fight was not about reckless blows but layers of deception. Every attack was a lure, every defense was a trap.
Vincent abruptly changed pace. He vanished into the side shadows of the arena, moving so lightly his boots hardly stirred dust.
Elior stilled, his daggers loose in his hands, waiting. He knew chasing carelessly meant death.
A whisper of fabric behind him. Elior pivoted instantly, blades crossing.
Sparks scattered as Vincent's sword slammed against his guard. The noble had tried for his back, but Elior's reflex caught it.
Still, the force pushed him off balance, sliding across the dirt.
Vincent's eyes glimmered with cruel delight. "You read me well. Better than I expected. But I've ended dozens like you. Precision always wins over desperation."
Elior steadied himself, chest rising and falling. His face betrayed nothing. He adjusted his grip on the daggers, angling them like fangs ready to strike.
Another rush.
Vincent's blade cut fast and close, elegant arcs meant to corner, not kill immediately.
Elior ducked low, countering with thrusts aimed at the pressure points of Vincent's arms.
Again, Vincent deflected, but he had to step back. For a moment his jacket sleeve tore, a shallow cut showing through.
Vincent glanced at the mark and chuckled. "Not bad. You bit me. Still, you'll need more than scratches."
Elior simply held his head, his silence saying more than words. He wasn't here to chatter. He was measuring. Waiting.
The air between them grew heavier. Every motion was calculation, every strike a coin toss between life and death.
They were predators, both aware one mistake would end it. The crowd's cheers blurred into nothing.