The Equinox Tournament was the most prestigious event at Arcanum Bellator.
The stands of The Great Crucible were packed to bursting. Giant banners bearing the colors of The Five Pillars billowed in the spring wind: red for Ignis, blue for Aether, purple for Umbra, green for Terra, and black for Caelum.
The upper tiers were occupied by the high nobility of Valoria, draped in their finest silks, and by rugged military scouts who evaluated the cadets with calculating eyes, searching for the future commanders of their armies.
The noise was deafening—a constant roar from thousands of throats thirsty for a spectacle.
But in the shadows of the waiting tunnels, Rikka paced in tight circles.
The wolf-girl didn't look like a student ready to compete. Her ears were flattened completely against her skull. Her tail was tucked tightly between her legs. Her breathing was erratic, and her bandaged hands trembled.
"Rikka, look at me," Phantsin said, gently grasping her shoulders.
She flinched, her golden pupils dilated with panic.
"It smells wrong, Alpha. It smells of sour sweat and gold tossed in the sand. The screaming... the people staring from above... It's the pit. It's the Meat Market. They're going to lock the gates. They're going to make us fight until only one is left standing."
The trauma of her years as a slave gladiator in the underworld was suffocating her. The grandeur of the tournament, to her, was just a larger cage with more expensive bars.
"No one is locking any gates," Phantsin assured her, using his calmest, deepest voice—the same one he used with his little sister, Flower. "You are at the Academy. You're free here. This is just a tournament."
Rikka swallowed hard, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against Phantsin's chest. She focused on her Alpha's scent, searching for the familiar trace of smoke and warm bread, but there was something else underneath. The smell of cold iron and something ancient made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Even so, she didn't pull away.
"Next bout in the main arena!" boomed the magically amplified voice of the announcer. "Representing the Overwhelming Force of Ignis: Phantsin Dawnfire! Representing the Resilience of Terra: Grok Stonehide!"
"Stay with the others," Phantsin said, letting go of Rikka. "I'll be right back."
He stepped out into the sunlight. The Great Crucible was a coliseum of dirt and sand.
Waiting for him in the center was Grok Stonehide.
The half-ogre looked like a mountain, wielding a blunt steel mace. Grok grinned upon seeing Phantsin, remembering the beating he had given him in the locker rooms the year before.
"Did you bring your bandages, glass boy?" Grok roared, loud enough for the front rows to hear. "Everyone knows your master's leash took away your fire! Today, you're nothing but kindling!"
Phantsin didn't reply; he simply drew his practice sword.
Up in the cadet stands, Eliana, Lyla, Korbin, and Zephyr watched nervously. Rikka slipped in among them, hugging herself as she stared intently at the arena.
"Begin!" the referee ordered.
Grok stomped the ground, and Terra magic surged, coating his greenish-gray skin in a thick layer of metamorphic rock. He charged like a rhinoceros.
Phantsin tried to dodge, using what little speed he had left, but the limiter ring slowed his arcane reflexes, and Grok's mace grazed his side.
The impact, even as a mere graze, lifted him off his feet and hurled him into the sand.
The nobility in the stands booed. They had expected an Ignis spectacle, not a cadet being trampled in the first second.
Phantsin rolled to evade a second strike that shattered the ground where his head had been an instant before. He scrambled to his feet, panting, and tried to summon his fire. The magic surged through his body, hit the iron ring, and dissipated into a pathetic wisp of smoke.
"You're weak!" bellowed Grok, delivering a brutal backhand that connected squarely with Phantsin's chest.
A rib cracked sickeningly. Phantsin was sent flying, tumbling through the dust until he crashed against the perimeter's magical barrier, coughing up blood. The pain was blinding.
[ALERT: CRITICAL PHYSICAL TRAUMA]
[STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED]
[RELEASE AEGIS PROTOCOL?]
The white letters flashed across Phantsin's retinas.
He looked toward the stands. He saw Lyla with her hands clamped over her mouth. He saw Eliana clenching her fists, frustrated by her teammate's weakness. He saw Rikka, trembling, reliving her worst nightmares as she watched the person who had saved her being massacred for the amusement of the rich.
I'm a dead weight, Phantsin thought, tasting his own blood. If I'm weak, I can't protect them.
Grok approached slowly, raising his mace for the final coup de grâce that would end the match.
"No more weakness," Phantsin whispered.
He issued a direct mental command.
[COMMAND ACCEPTED]
[DEPLOYING AEGIS OF THE VOID]
[POWER SOURCE: SUPPRESSED IGNIS CORE / ABYSSAL ENERGY]
Phantsin pressed his hands into the sand, making no move to stand.
Suddenly, the temperature in The Great Crucible plummeted thirty degrees. A freezing, unnatural wind swept across the arena, causing the banners to stop fluttering and fall limp.
Grok paused, feeling a chill run across his rocky skin.
From the base of Phantsin's neck, dark, purplish metal began to sprout, tearing through the fabric of his gray shirt. The symbiotic armor expanded like a metallic plague. Hexagonal plates assembled themselves over his chest, his arms, and his legs with a wet, mechanical sound.
The armor clashed against the Star Iron ring. The ring tried to suppress it, but the Aegis didn't use the red magic of Ignis; it devoured the darkness of the Void that Phantsin had kept locked away. The ring cracked, but didn't break, acting as a funnel that forced the armor to stabilize.
Finally, the metal crept up his face. A featureless helmet sealed over his head, leaving only a Y-shaped visor that ignited with a blinding purple glow—cold and entirely devoid of humanity.
The "Purple Knight" stood up.
The armor exhaled dark smoke. Like the freezing mist of a tomb.
The entire stadium plunged into a deathly silence. The Magisters in the private boxes stood up, confusion and alarm painted across their faces. This was not the Illusion or Subterfuge magic of Umbra. This was something much older. Something forbidden.
Grok took a step back, his Terra instincts screaming at him that the thing standing before him was the absolute antithesis of life. But the ogre was proud. He roared and brought his mace down with all his brute strength, aiming straight for the armored head.
Phantsin didn't dodge. He simply raised his left hand, catching Grok's steel mace mid-air.
The impact didn't move him a single millimeter. With a mere twist of his wrist, Phantsin shattered the solid steel handle as if it were rotten wood.
[PHYSICAL THREAT DETECTED]
[INITIATING NEUTRALIZATION]
Phantsin moved at a speed that defied physics. He materialized in front of Grok before the half-ogre could even blink and drove his fist into the giant's rocky breastplate.
Grok's earthen armor imploded from the sheer kinetic force and the corruptive energy of the Void. Grok let out an agonizing shriek, spitting blood as he was launched fifty feet backward, crashing brutally against the stadium wall.
Grok fell unconscious instantly, the magic fading from his skin.
[THREAT NEUTRALIZED]
[COMBAT MODE: STANDBY]
Phantsin lowered his fist. He felt a divine—or rather, a demonic—power coursing through his veins.
The pain in his ribs had vanished. He was invincible. He was Overwhelming Force in its purest, most flawless state.
He turned slowly toward the stands where his squad sat, expecting to see awe and relief on their faces. Expecting them to see that he was no longer the weak link.
But what he saw through the purple visor froze his blood.
Zephyr was pale, his wings tense, ready to flee. Korbin had backed away, his hand instinctively gripping his hammer. Eliana's eyes were wide with horror; the Aether princess knew a corrupted artifact when she saw one, and she understood that her teammate had just crossed an unforgivable line.
Lyla Moonshadow, the girl who had taught him how to root his life, looked down at him with tears in her eyes. She wasn't crying over his victory; she was crying because she could feel the overwhelming radiation of death emanating from the armor.
And then he saw Rikka.
The wolf-girl was not celebrating her Alpha's victory over the ogre.
Rikka was cowering on the floor of the stands, trembling uncontrollably. Her ears were pinned flat. Her golden eyes were locked onto the Purple Knight.
In her life in the alleys, Rikka had learned how to identify true monsters. Nobles were cruel, thugs were brutal, but what stood in the arena was an unnatural predator.
Rikka looked at Phantsin. But instead of seeing a human boy, she saw a walking tomb. She let out a soft whimper of pure terror, scrambling away from him. That whimper broke Phantsin far more than any blow from Grok ever could.
No... Phantsin thought, panic flooding his chest. I did this for you. I did it to protect you.
[ALERT: HOST RETRACTION ATTEMPT]
[RESISTANCE DETECTED. FORCING BOND...]
Phantsin fought a mental war against the armor. The Aegis didn't want to let go, ravenous for violence and attention, but Phantsin used Rikka's fear as his anchor.
With an agonizing scream, he forced the metal to retreat.
The purple armor retracted violently, piercing his skin in reverse, burying itself once again in the depths of his flesh.
Phantsin fell to his knees in the center of the arena, gasping for air, returning to being nothing more than a gray-clad cadet covered in dust and blood.
But the damage was already done. The silence in the stands was broken by the sound of dozens of metallic boots.
The Inquisitors of Arcanum Bellator, dressed in gray robes and bearing runic staves, dropped into the arena, surrounding him in a perfect circle. Their weapons glowed with Aether-suppressing magic.
Commander Brynja and Magister Selena pushed their way through the Inquisitors. Selena's eyes were pools of furious ice.
"Unregistered artifact. Magic of unknown and highly corrupt origin," Selena declared, her voice echoing throughout the stadium. "Cadet Phantsin Dawnfire. You are under arrest on suspicion of practicing Abyssal Arts."
Phantsin didn't resist. He didn't try to explain. He just let the magical suppression cuffs clamp shut over his wrists.
As the Inquisitors dragged him out of the arena, beneath the terrified gazes of the nobility and his friends, Phantsin could only stare at the ground.
He had found his armor. He had won the duel. But now, he had just lost absolutely everything.