The cold gleam of the kitchen knives in the hands of the boy from Group Thirteen—reflecting in the fearful eyes of some members of Group Twelve—turned the already tense atmosphere into something even heavier.
"Cut your necks."
The words hung in the air, heavier than many of the fists flying around the arena. Fear momentarily paralyzed most of Group Twelve, but Neale's voice sliced through the hesitation.
"Don't fall back! Don't let your convictions—and the weight of your words—lose their value over a bluff!" Neale shouted, even though he knew the enemy's intent wasn't a bluff at all. "And even if he uses the blade, he's just a deranged punk. I'll handle him. I won't let someone like that overpower my will—so do the same and don't back down!"
The enemy—a lean boy with glassy, adrenaline-filled eyes that seemed to crave blood—lunged forward with a horizontal slash aimed directly at Neale, who had taken the front line of Group Twelve. The strike was sloppy, like a street thief's swing, but it carried strength and killing intent.
Neale barely managed to block with both knives still sheathed when the attacker spun and launched a kick at Neale's ribs. Lira intercepted it, preventing the full impact and forcing the enemy to stumble back two steps, though he didn't fall.
"Now!" Neale commanded.
Six members of Group Twelve formed up, surrounding the remaining nine from Group Thirteen. The boy in black stayed apart, as if he still intended to fight alone, while the rest clashed with everything they had.
At that moment, Lira moved with surprising agility. She dodged another strike, scooped up a handful of sand from the arena floor, and hurled it into the armed boy's face. He screamed, clutching his eyes while wildly swinging the knife in desperation.
Neale and Lira rushed him, weaving through his blind, frantic slashes, confident they were about to land clean hits—
But just before they did, he smiled.
With his free fist, he drove a punch into Neale's stomach and followed with a spinning heel kick to Lira's face, knocking both of them to the ground.
"I've been surviving on the streets my whole life. You really think I wouldn't know where you were, making all that noise when you move—"
His sentence was cut off.
The boy in black appeared midair and drove a devastating elbow—powered by his other arm—straight into the attacker's ear.
"I didn't even hear your steps…" the nearly unconscious boy muttered before collapsing face-first into the sand.
"Weakling… stay quiet," the boy in black said in a youthful yet deep voice.
When the rest of Group Twelve saw one of the strongest opponents down, they seemed to ignite with renewed determination. Even without technique or training, they surged forward. The combined weight of seven bodies throwing punches and kicks overwhelmed Group Thirteen, fueled by raw anger.
One of the enemies broke free from the encirclement. He must have been close to the fallen knife-wielder because he charged straight at the boy in black, rage burning on his face. The boy in black stood calm and still.
As the attacker closed in, the boy in black barely rotated his body, as if watching everything in slow motion. The punch cut through empty air. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the attacker's arm and twisted—bone snapping. Still gripping tightly, he slammed him into the ground with a dull thud. The boy writhed in pain before losing consciousness. The one in black didn't even look winded.
Who is he? Neale wondered, impressed as he and Lira got back to their feet. That boy was no ordinary rookie.
Meanwhile, in the combat square where Group One fought, the battle had already ended with four injured on the opposing side.
Demoralized after losing two strong members, Group Thirteen was cornered and defeated one by one. Even so, the instructor from the House of Leonidas did not end the fight.
"Everyone's down, sir. Aren't you going to call it?" one of the twins from Group Twelve asked.
"The fight only ends when all enemies are on the ground and unable to react. And there's still one," the instructor replied.
Group Twelve looked around, but no one else was standing. Only the kitchen-knife boy remained, crawling across the sand, still dazed from the blow he had taken.
"You can't be serious. He's not even capable of fighting anymore," Neale said firmly.
The instructor remained silent, watching with cold eyes.
"Damn it, this is ridiculous. It's unnecessary," Neale muttered, surrounded by his group.
"You don't have to do it. We'll handle it," one of them offered.
"No… You've already done enough. I failed to finish my part. I'll do it."
Neale walked toward the crawling boy. With every step, his fist tightened as if forcing himself to do what had to be done. When he reached him, he glanced sideways and saw Lira and the boy in black nearby.
"If you're going to chicken out, I'll do it," the boy in black said flatly.
"No… it's fine. This is still better than having to kill someone."
Neale grabbed the crawling boy by the collar, holding tight enough for the veins in his hand to bulge. His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fist—then he threw a single punch to the boy's nose. The sound was loud and dry, like striking a hollow wall covered in thick plaster.
The instructor raised his hand.
"Enough," the Leonidas instructor's voice thundered. "Group Twelve wins. Group Thirteen… out."
Side gates opened, and Order soldiers entered to drag the losers from the arena and the city. Some regained consciousness while being dragged and began screaming and begging.
Expulsion was immediate and cruel.
Neale exhaled deeply. Inside, he felt relief—gratitude even—for still being able to pursue his goal. But something bitter stuck in his throat. Sweat ran down his face. They had passed the first stage.
The instructor from the House of Plato made a note on his clipboard, glancing briefly at Neale and then at the boy in black.
"Interesting. One has leadership potential but is still weak. The other is a talent in close combat, though seemingly lazy—both in the same mediocre group."
"Attention!" the Leonidas instructor shouted again. "The second stage will take place in three days. Those who have completed the first stage may proceed to your dormitories near Room Zero. Dorms are assigned by group. During this period, train as a team. Grow stronger together. That is all."
Neale and the others who had finished their matches were escorted to their dorms to shower and rest until the next stage.
After cleaning up, they gathered for dinner as night fell. The mood at the table was terrible—heavy and awkward, as if no one knew what to say. The only ones Neale "knew" were Lira and the boy in black, and only because they had shared the same transport.
"Since we're all together now and things are calmer—and we'll be training together—why don't we introduce ourselves? I'm Lira. It's a pleasure to meet you all. I hope we can get along."
Silence lingered until the twins spoke up.
"I'm Luan, and this is my twin sister Luna."
"Nice to meet you," Luna said quietly, then added a minute later, "Hey, stop acting like you're older. I'm the older one here."
"I'm Neale. I hope we can work well together."
"My name's Vitel. I also hope we get along—so don't get in my way."
"I'm Troll. Anyone got snake venom? I'm in serious withdrawal here."
"I'm Nuke. I like cats and big explosions."
"I'm Fitty. Someone move that explosion freak away from me—I don't want my food blowing up before I eat it."
Finally, the boy in black spoke.
"Kilay."
And that was all he said.