The Capital woke to the clash of metal and the smell of hot grease. Caravans that had arrived during the night set up stalls around the coliseum, and the crowd—merchants, soldiers, gamblers, nobles with feathers—poured into the stands like a sea hungry for blood. The whole arena vibrated: banners of the five kingdoms snapping in the wind, horns of opening, drums that made the ground itself beat.
Asori, Blair, Mikan, and Mikrom waited in the fighters' antechamber, a damp stone corridor leading out into the blazing light of the arena. On the other side, the roars of the multitude and the heralds' calls thundered.
—Remember —Mikrom said, tightening his leather wristguards—: today they push the bracket to the quarterfinals. That means back-to-back fights, no time for theatrics.
—You love theatrics —snorted Mikan, perched on a barrel, legs swinging as if waiting for a show.
Blair wasn't listening fully. Her eyes lingered on the shadow of the adjacent passage, where a man in dark armor, helmet under his arm, stood unmoving. She didn't recognize him; she couldn't. But something in that presence raised her hackles. A cold density in the air, a weight that wasn't sound or smell: as if the night itself had stood upright.
Asori stared at him. And though Astral flowed steady in his torso and shoulders, his hands trembled faintly. He hid it by clenching his fingers.
—Again? —Blair whispered, gripping his wrist.
—My body… —he swallowed—. Remembers something I never forgot.
No Eryndor was here today to anchor him with jokes. Only his breath, the heartbeat shared through the Sweet Kiss, and Blair's warm hand. She didn't want to show him fear. She also didn't understand why she couldn't see this knight through the bond, when other times it had let her glimpse more than her eyes could. As if a fog—maybe a spell?—veiled the man's face and essence.
—I'm with you —she said, plain.
—I know —he answered, and the tremor receded half a step.
A thunder of horns cut the words short. The gates rose with the screech of chains. Sunlight spilled like a blade across the sand.
The imperial box was a theater above the theater. Crimson curtains, black columns, guards in polished armor. At the center of the balcony, with insulting elegance, stood a young man with chestnut hair, light eyes, a smile of polished iron: Darian, nephew of Zeknier. His armor was more jewel than defense; his cape more announcement than garment. To his right, chained to a column with rune-carved shackles, was Aisha.
She wore a simple white dress, her wrists and ankles marked by iron. She was beautiful in a way that hurt, not for her face but for the compassion in her eyes: in the middle of the storm, she looked as if she were praying.
—People of Azoth! —Darian spread his arms, his Astral-amplified voice oily and theatrical—. In the name of my magnificent uncle, the great Zeknier, I open the Tournament of Light! The brave who enter this arena will prove their worth. One of the victors… —he paused, fox's grin— will receive the honor and generosity of our Empire: the Bearer of Light.
The crowd roared. Some cheered; others shifted uncomfortably. Darian clicked his tongue toward Aisha as if displaying a fine goblet.
—Don't disappoint me —he added slyly—. I have wagers to collect.
Blair bit her teeth until they tasted metal. Mikan muttered under her breath:
—What garbage of a human.
—Garbage with an army —Mikrom murmured.
Aisha lifted her gaze. For an instant, her eyes found Blair among the throng, and then—like a thread—fastened onto Asori. It was a flicker, a hope Aisha herself couldn't explain. Darian noticed and tugged the chain with a twisted smile.
—Eyes down when I breathe, little light.
Blair's skin burned inside, half with rage, half with sorrow. The Sweet Kiss vibrated in her chest, and Asori felt it, knowing she was sickened and furious.
—First matchups! —a herald cried from the arena as officials drew names from wooden tokens—. To the sand!
Fights paraded. A lancer from Veltramar drove stakes of wood through the ground; a monk of Nifelheim froze air from his palms without being a bearer; a swordsman of Caldus set his blade aflame with Astral and made it whistle. There were deaths—quick, ugly—; there were surrenders; there were bloody ovations. Each fought for glory, for coin, for private causes. Above it all, Darian laughed, sipping from a goblet refilled by a page without being asked.
—It's all measurement —Mikan murmured, watching—. Zeknier hunts with an arena.
—Let him hunt flies —Mikrom said—. We're here for the Light.
The next name dropped like a coin into a well.
—Asori versus Karn of Veltramar.
A murmur rippled through the stands: the unknown boy who had thrown Jason out in a blink, against a colossus famed for his spear and undefeated streak in regional tournaments. Bets flew like schools of fish. A crier shouted: "Two-to-one on Karn! Five-to-one on the boy!"
Blair clutched Asori's forearm, eyes drilling meaning without words: Don't destroy yourself. But win. Mikan winked, smug. Mikrom smacked his shoulder with dry pride.
Asori breathed. Not transformation for show, but reinforcement. He let Astral climb and embrace bone and tendon. Not a whirlwind of wind, not a white glow; an inner firmness, an invisible armor. His steps into the light were stone well-set.
Karn awaited. Two meters of muscle, weathered skin, spear bound with leather, a scar crossing his brow. He spun the shaft, iron singing.
—They say you felled lightning —he grinned, gold tooth flashing—. Let's see if you can fell a tree.
—Depends how hollow it is —Asori shot back, and the stands chuckled nervously.
The gong.
Karn was a storm of steel. The spear darted in and out with thrusts meant to pierce, not score. Asori didn't back away: he crossed his forearms, Astral tensed in the muscles, and blocked the first strike. The clash shivered through the arena. Another feint, a sweep low: Asori leapt just enough, not by wind but by legs; landing, he chained three hardened-knuckle strikes at the lancer's wrist. Karn staggered, surprised.
—Not bad —he growled.
He came again. High thrust, lateral sweep, tip at the throat. Asori cut angles, glued himself to the weapon's axis like a dance. Each clash of metal made the crowd swallow hard. No flourishes: only steps, pivots, shoulders; knees cutting lines, elbows finding gaps. Asori's Astral pulsed in forearms and shins, hardening bone, sharpening reflex. He looked stronger than the body that carried him.
Karn shifted rhythm: shoved with the shaft, then jerked to hook Asori's ankle and drag him out. Asori dug his heel—Astral in the talon of his foot—and didn't budge. The crowd leaned forward as one.
—Son of a— —Karn grinned, genuine—. Good.
Reverse. The tip drove low, for the liver. Asori twisted his hip, let the iron pass a hand's breadth, and with the same momentum landed an upward kick to the giant's ribs. A collective "ah!" rose as Karn hopped back half a boot. Asori's Astral kept his foot from shattering.
—That's it! —someone shouted.
Blair didn't shout. She watched. The bond carried echoes of Asori's centered pulse; not the blind embrace of Awakening, not the fury of Delta Burst. Control.
Karn switched again. Let go with one hand and hurled a gauntleted punch as heavy as a mace. Asori met it wrist to fist—Astral compressed in the bone—and the strike rebounded with a crack that made the Veltramaran curse. Asori ducked another swing; two quick blows sank into the giant's sternum.
—Damn! —Karn laughed, and then used his signature: a diagonal charge that turned his spear into an arrow. He crossed the platform; Asori, for the first time, gave ground. The tip grazed his shoulder—not a cut, but heat under skin. Second charge. Third.
The crowd smelled blood.
Asori felt the prickling of real danger, and with it, clarity. Not the time for Delta Burst; not a game. Aetherion. The name filled his chest with air. Not wind, but a lake of energy.
He drew his right hand back to his hip, fingers cupped as if holding the night. Astral swirled into his palm, no visible glow, compressed until it was weight. His left arm lowered, anchoring. Karn lowered his spear like lightning.
—Now! —Blair whispered.
Asori's fist, wrapped in Aetherion, struck the shaft mid-length. It didn't sound like metal: it sounded like stone breaking. The spear splintered, split in two like dry twig. The front half flew, embedding itself far away.
Silence pooled.
Karn stared at the fragments, eyes wide. Then he roared and lunged bare-handed, trusting size. Exactly what Asori expected. The boy slipped inside the embrace, tightened the space, and chained:
—a knuckle strike to the collarbone, a cross to the jaw, a sweep at the Achilles.
Karn collapsed to his knees. Asori gripped the man's breastplate edge, anchored hip and ground, and spun him round. The giant stumbled toward the limit. With the momentum, Asori planted his palm to the man's chest and released the Aetherion. Not to break—only to push.
Karn tumbled from the platform in a whirl of dust.
Gong. Animal roar from the stands.
—Winner, Asori!
Some cheered; some booed for not finishing him. "Coward!" "Honorable!" "Show-off!" "Coward!" The arena decided that love and hate were the same act at different volumes.
Above, Darian clapped three times, joyless.
—What charming luck the brat has. They say he beat Jason in a breath, didn't he? —he laughed—. Let's see if his tale lasts more than a fight.
He drank. Raised the cup toward Aisha, who gazed at Asori with wet eyes, seeing he valued life unlike the rest. Then, lazily, Darian tugged the chain to force her to bow. He didn't look at the pain. He didn't enjoy it; he despised it.
—Don't get attached, little light —he muttered so low many shivered without hearing—. I decide who you belong to.
Blair gripped the bench until her knuckles cracked. Mikan laid a hand on her knee.
—Breathe, princess.
Asori came down from the platform. The Astral still warm in his arms faded obediently. Blair greeted him with a half-smile that wanted to be whole.
—First time I've seen Aetherion that clean —she said, pride in her tone—. And without wrecking your fist.
—It tried —he joked, shaking his aching hand—. But today my fist wanted to be my friend.
—Don't let that spear touch your shoulder again —she scolded softly.
—Yes, Gray-haired princess.
They shared a second of "we're alive." Mikan clapped theatrically between them.
—Alright, lovebirds, save the romance for halftime. We still need two rounds to reach quarters.
Mikrom, scanning the updated bracket, whistled.
—And it's about to get ugly.
The rest of the day, the arena devoured names and spat winners. Mikan danced with twin daggers and humiliated a famed Donner swordsman-poet; she choked him out in ten seconds, smiled at the crowd, and left without a glance. Mikrom crushed a Caldus warlock reliant on circles: a tremor, a sudden pillar, and the warlock kissed air outside the line.
The knight in dark armor fought silently. His opponent never knew when he lost: a step, another, and he was out. No shine, no flair. Just precision. Asori watched from the corner of his eye, stomach knotting with something that had nothing to do with Astral.
—Mental —Blair murmured, her thumb brushing the back of his hand—. It's your body remembering. It's not happening again.
—When I look at him, it feels like… —Asori shut his eyes briefly— …like he carries death in his shadow.
—Then look at me —Blair said, her hand warm stone—. Here.
The rest of the matches blurred. Heralds shouted until their throats cracked. Afternoon turned to copper, drums shifted rhythm, the crowd grew hoarse and wilder. The round of sixteen closed as the sun brushed the coliseum's crown.
Darian stood. His cape kissed his heels.
—What a delicious day! —he boomed, over-acted—. Blood, sweat, promises… and my fun intact. Tomorrow we keep baking heroes. But not before…
He gestured. A herald rushed with a tablet. Darian pretended to study, then smiled like picking a toy.
—Hear it well.
The herald descended to the arena, Astral projecting his voice like a trumpet of light.
—Quarterfinal bracket!
A murmur slithered through stands, bellies, temples.
—Match one: Asori of Azoth versus Riven of Nifelheim.
—Match two: Mikan of Azoth versus Sae of Veltramar.
—Match three: Kiron of Caldus versus Dax of Donner.
—And match four: Mikrom of Azoth…
Pause. Blair's throat locked. Asori felt the world tilt.
—…against the Knight of Shadow, Sir Kael.
The coliseum inhaled at once.
The dark-armored man below didn't move. No gesture. Just being, as always. Yet something primal vibrated across the timbers. Mikrom smiled, slow, humorless.
—At last —he said, two fingers to his temple in salute—. Let's dance, shadow.
Above, Darian lifted his cup and, soulless, toyed with Aisha's fist like a trinket. She didn't resist; her eyes sought the arena again, toward them. Hope—small, stubborn—refused to snuff its candle.
The crowd began to disperse like waves, full of stories to trade in taverns: that an unknown boy had shattered a spear with his fist; that a ninja laughed as she dismantled egos; that a knight who seemed like no one was the deadliest there. And as the coliseum's shadow stretched over the streets, one whisper clung to the cornices:
—Tomorrow… Mikrom against the Knight.
The tournament was no longer spectacle. It was a mechanism.
And it had already begun to turn.