Arena 2

Toma sat on the edge of the bench, flipping the wooden token between his fingers like it was a coin that might decide his fate.

The underground chamber was cold. Uneven stone. Walls lit by faint crystal sconces. The air smelled like rust and dried sweat, thick enough to chew.

Fighters dotted the space like statues. Some meditated. Some stared into nothing. One guy in the far corner looked like he’d pissed himself and didn’t care anymore.

Toma was doing his best not to shake.

That was when he noticed her.

A girl sat alone near one of the carved pillars, curled around a longsword nearly as tall as she was. Her hair was matted. Her tunic threadbare. The blade had chips along the edge, like it had survived one too many wars without a whetstone in sight.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just whispered to herself, over and over.

Toma frowned. Some instinct told him to speak—to ask if she was okay. But before he could even open his mouth—

BOOM.

A voice thundered from above, crashing down through the stone ceiling like a divine game show host.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! PREPARE YOUR EYES AND EARS—AND IF YOU’RE FAINT OF HEART, LOOK AWAY."

The entire chamber seemed to flinch, but none of the fighters reacted.

"Next up is the girl who’s rewritten the record books—fifteen wins! No losses! No survivors! Your undefeated, unrelenting angel of annihilation—SHIVERGLASS!”

Toma blinked.

The girl stood slowly. Like a wind-up toy someone had just activated. She didn’t look proud. Didn’t look ready. Just resigned.

She dragged the sword behind her with a metallic screech and walked toward a stone arch now glowing with dull red runes. No one told her where to go. No one clapped. Everyone just watched.

She passed Toma without a glance and vanished into the portal.

Then the noise began.

CLANG.

Steel meeting steel. Or bone. It was impossible to tell.

CLANG. CLANG.

A cheer from above. Wild. Violent. Hungry.

"She’s moving fast—OH! Did you SEE that swing!?"

Toma’s hands started to sweat. He squeezed the token harder.

The girl hadn’t looked strong. She looked broken.

And they were cheering.

The fight went on for another minute. Maybe two.

Then—

Silence.

“AND THAT’S THE MATCH! One contender leaves. One doesn’t! That’s how we do it in Mikana, folks!" 

"Up next… another brave soul willing to bet his life for a chance at glory! Don’t go anywhere!”

...

..

.

"Up next… another brave soul willing to bet his life for a chance at glory! Don’t go anywhere!”

Toma’s stomach turned.

He told himself it was nerves. Dream-nerves. Lucid-simulation butterflies. Nothing serious. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.

Then the voice boomed again—cheerful, smug, and way too excited for someone about to host a public execution.

"Now this one’s got people talking, folks. A mysterious entry—no affiliation, no sponsor, zero background data. He just walked into the Circle like he owned it and dropped a bet on himself without scouting anyone!”

“Give it up for the enigma, the underdog, the absolute maniac... the SLEEPING DRAGON!”

The chamber shook with applause.

Toma blinked. “Oh no,” he whispered.

Because now the crowd was chanting it. “SLEEP-ING DRA-GON! SLEEP-ING DRA-GON!”

He didn't know it though. No one was really supporting him, they were just giving him false hope, so that he could jump into his death.

His feet moved before he realized it.

The archway that had taken Shiverglass now glowed a soft gold, carved runes spinning slowly in the air like clockwork gears. He stepped toward it, hands sweating, token clenched so tight it might snap.

He swallowed. He told himself it was still a dream. Had to be. Any second now, he’d wake up in the back of homeroom, the drool still warm on his desk.

"Don’t think. Just walk. You’re the protagonist. This is the arc."

The portal swallowed him whole.
...

..

.

Light exploded.

The roar of the crowd hit him like a slap. He stumbled out into the open air, blinking hard.

The arena was vast—circular, tiered, carved from some ancient dark stone that shimmered under the late-morning sun. Banners fluttered above. Thousands of people packed the stands, faces blurred by distance but loud enough to shake the sky.

His legs didn’t want to move. His fingers trembled.

Stage fright hit like a spear to the chest.

He wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t a showman. He was the guy who skipped oral presentations in school and mentally rehearsed restaurant orders three times before speaking.

But the announcer wasn’t done.

“And in the opposite corner—our reigning whirlwind of steel and sorrow, the undefeated storm with eyes like dying stars... SHIVERGLASS!”

A second portal opened across the coliseum floor.

She stepped through, dragging that battered longsword behind her. Same hunched posture. Same dead eyes. Her expression didn’t change when she saw him.

Toma’s breath caught in his throat.

Shiverglass.

He was fighting her.

The girl he’d almost said something to in the waiting room.

The one who shouldn’t have survived sixteen fights but did anyway.

Now she was looking at him like he was just another body she’d have to cut through to get to seventeen.

Toma took a step back. Then caught himself.

"It’s a dream,” he whispered. “I’m the Sleeping Dragon. I—this is my story.”