Arena

Toma Enshin woke early, with the kind of confidence only delusion could sustain.

Sunlight filtered through paper-thin curtains as he stepped out of the inn with his two companions. The floating city of Mikana stretched before them like a painting—buildings perched on levitating platforms, clouds curling between alleyways, and bridges suspended between sky and sky.

“It’s like someone took a medieval village and modded it with sky physics,” Toma muttered, hands tucked in his sleeves. “Ten out of ten dream design.”

The streets bustled with activity. Merchants barked about fresh fruit, enchanted ink, or spirit-thread robes. Toma paused to watch a group of barefoot kids sword-sparring. A few older folks sat at a roadside teahouse, one of them spinning tales about a man who once punched through a mountain.

Kaien, as usual, said nothing. Shizuka stayed close, scanning their surroundings like a bodyguard who couldn’t decide if she was bored or deeply concerned.

As they walked past a small confectionery shop—wooden sign, old-fashioned shutters, slightly tilted like it had been dropped into the sky from a normal town—Toma caught a sound that made him stop in his tracks.

Cheers.

Roars, in fact. Chanting. Thunderous applause.

He glanced toward the noise, eyes narrowing.

From here, only the top of a massive stone dome was visible behind the next tier of buildings. Banners whipped in the wind. There was a rhythm to the noise—excitement punctuated by gasps, then more shouting.

He pushed open the door of the shop, and the scent of honey buns and caramel hit him hard. A short woman behind the counter looked up.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“The arena,” she said, voice casual as she pulled a tray from the oven.

“Arena?”

“Circle of Ascent,” she clarified. “Where fighters test their strength, earn coin, and put on a show. Locals wager on matches. Tourists try to make a name. You want to know who’s strong in this city? You go there.”

Toma’s pulse quickened.

A real arena. Not just text in a menu or a cutscene in a game. An honest-to-God gladiator pit floating in the sky.

“Is it open to anyone?” he asked.

“If you’ve got hands and a heartbeat, sure. Not all fights are to the death. Just most of the good ones.”

Toma chuckled nervously. “Right, of course. But, like… some are just regular duels?”

She shrugged. “Depends how far you go.”

He turned back to his crew, practically vibrating. “Okay, okay. Coliseum arc. I didn’t plan this, but I will be the main character today.”

...

..

.

They followed the sound of the crowd uphill, until the Circle of Ascent revealed itself in full.

It loomed high above the lower tiers of the city, a round, stone coliseum ringed by towers and golden statues. From the outside, you couldn’t see the fighting pit—only the massive walls, covered in carvings of what probably were legendary duels. The banners flapping above bore the symbol of a dragon curled around a spear.

A few warriors in training robes loitered near the entrance, adjusting armor or reading scrolls. Toma spotted what looked like a ticket booth and a second entrance guarded by two men with polearms.

They approached the latter. One guard stepped forward. “Fighters only.”

Toma stood tall. “That’s me.”

The guard eyed him, then stepped aside without a word. Shizuka and Kaien moved to follow, but the other guard blocked them.

“Spectators use the public stands.”

Toma looked back. “Go ahead. Watch me rise.”

“Yes, sir,” Kaien said calmly.

“Try not to die in the first round,” Shizuka added.

...

..

.

Inside, the arena felt older—colder. A narrow hallway stretched forward, the walls lit by crystals embedded in sconces. Faded murals decorated the stone: warriors clashing, dragons rising from broken swords, lightning splitting the sky. Footsteps echoed behind him—other contestants making their way in.

He turned left at the first fork and found a line forming behind a wooden desk. The woman seated there was young, professional, and entirely uninterested in the people standing before her.

When it was his turn, she didn’t look up. “Name?”

“Toma Enshin.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

Now she looked up. Her expression said *Seriously?*

“You sure about this?” she asked.

“Perfectly sure,” he replied, puffing his chest a little. “I’ve... trained.”

“Fine.” She scribbled something. “You’ll need a stage name for the roster.”

“Oh.” Toma blinked. “Uh… Sleeping Dragon.”

It slipped out before he could think about it. It was the name he used for basically everything online, games, forums, chats. Hearing it spoken aloud in this context felt ridiculous.

The receptionist raised a brow again. “Alright, Sleeping Dragon. Token sixty-seven.” She slid a carved wooden chip across the desk. “Wait down the corridor until your name’s called.”

Toma picked it up.

Before he could step away, he glanced over his shoulder. “Where do I place a bet?”

She pointed to a booth tucked into a nook behind him, where a bearded man in silver-trimmed robes was organizing stacks of coins into neat piles.

...

..

.

Toma approached the booth, slapped down two gold coins, and said, “All on me.”

The man blinked. “On...?"

"67, Sleeping Dragon."

The man scribbled something in his book, " You betting on yourself, then you must be pretty confident in your skills."

“Yup.”

“Not even gonna scout the competition first?”

Toma smiled. “What’s the point of having dreams if you don’t go all in?”

The man snorted but accepted the bet.

Still grinning like an idiot, he tucked the receipt into his sleeve and rejoined Shizuka and Kaien by the stairs. "Alright. Go grab seats. I’ll meet you after I win.”

“You do not know the rules,” Kaien pointed out.

Shizuka shook her head. “We’ll be watching.”

He raised a hand in farewell, then stepped into the waiting corridor.

...

..

.

It was darker here. Colder. The hallway sloped downward and eventually opened into a broad underground chamber, where other fighters waited in silence. Some sharpened blades. Others knelt in meditation or leaned against the walls, faces hidden by helmets or cloaks.

Toma took a bench near the edge, away from the rest.

The air smelled of sweat and metal. Somewhere above, the crowd roared again—someone had landed a blow. A big one.

He tightened his grip on the token.

Dreams weren’t supposed to feel this real.

The ground was rough. The bench was hard. His pulse was way too loud.

He leaned back, exhaled.

“You’re fine. It’s just your brain going for high realism.”

He said it like he believed it.

Almost did.

Then he looked down at his hands, and for a moment, just a second, he thought he saw the skin flicker. Like a shadow moving beneath it.

He blinked. Nothing.

“Sleeping Dragon,” he whispered. “Better wake up.”