Registration and Sparring

Morning in Korvath was always noisy. From the Colosseum came the pounding of wood and the shouts of trainers, echoing all the way to the streets. Ayato returned to the training hall from yesterday.

His intention was simple: find the man he’d spoken with before, and ask about the registration process.

BANG!

The side hall door burst open. A well-built man stormed out, shoulders broad, around twenty-five years old.

“This can’t be allowed! That damn landlord needs to be taught a lesson!” he growled, still jabbing a finger back into the room.

When he turned, he came face-to-face with Ayato. Silence for a beat. Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice

“What you just heard… keep it to yourself, yeah?”

Ayato stared for a moment. “...Sure. But I’ll need something in return.”

A vein twitched at the man’s temple—like he wanted to get angry—but it faded. He raised both hands in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine. What do you want?”

“I want to register as a participant.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” His grin turned friendly. “But this isn’t the place. Official registration’s at the Colosseum administration, not here.”

“There’s one more thing. Yesterday I spoke with a big guy here—I thought he was an instructor.”

“Instructor, huh… there are a lot around, so I can’t say for sure. Forget that. I’m one of the gladiators here. How about I take you straight to register first?”

“That works.”

It doesn’t have to be that exact person, anyway.

They walked down the corridor. The sounds of training outside faded, replaced by the echo of boots on stone.

“In the end, all newcomers ask about one name.” The man glanced sideways. “Ragna, right?”

Ayato gave a small nod. “I’ve heard as much. She’s the one who changed the Colosseum.”

“Yeah. Back then it was a slaughterhouse. Ragna came, fought without killing—and the crowds went insane. The city guards that once hated her? They all lost to her, then started showing up every week as fans.”

Ayato imagined the cheers from the previous night, the lingering fire of admiration.

“After that, the townsfolk pitched in,” the man continued. “They bought the Colosseum from the viscount. Ragna became the symbolic owner. The viscount held a grudge, jacked up taxes. Even with full houses, the money had to cover operations… and buying slaves to free them. Some chose to work at the Colosseum, some became gladiators.”

“I see.”

“The point is, Korvath now lives off battles that aren’t reckless. People fall, get back up the next week. Pride intact.”

They turned again. At the end stood a low iron door. The man shoved it open—KREK!—and the scent of ink and parchment wafted out.

The administration room was small. Record racks, notice boards, and several slim rune-etched bands lay on the desk.

Behind it, a bespectacled girl watched them. Hair tied neat, gaze clear.

She is the same girl I met yesterday.

“Participant registration?” Her voice was calm.

“Yes,” the man answered, pointing at Ayato. “Third batch.”

She picked up a quill. “Name?”

“Vin.”

“One silver deposit. Returned after the competition ends, unless you flee before schedule. Rune band must be worn inside the Colosseum, including training. Weapons inspected at the next post.” She slid a thin band across. Preliminaries are five days from now, at 8 o’clock. Free training starts this afternoon.

Ayato set a silver coin on the desk. Clink.

The girl studied him a fraction longer than needed. Not sharp, but precise. Then a faint professional smile.

“Welcome. Korvath doesn’t hate outsiders… as long as they don’t run from the arena.”

“I understand.”

They left. Once the iron door shut, the din of the Colosseum seeped back in.

“She’s the manager,” the man said casually. “Knows all the new rules. Has inside connections, too. If you need tricky access, talk to her. And hey—keep this between us—she’s a die-hard Ragna fan. Not many know.”

Ayato frowned. Why was this guy’s mouth so loose?

The next corridor was darker. Oil lamps spaced wide left patches of shadow across the stone floor.

Ayato stopped. At the far end, a figure stood. Black cloak, hood down. When the figure turned, Ayato caught blue eyes that seemed to reflect light.

“...”

A whisper slipped into his head without sound.

—Do not approach.

A pat on his shoulder made him flinch.

“Hey, what are you staring at?” the man asked.

“There was someone—”

But when Ayato looked again, the corridor was empty. Only faint ash remained, scattering as if blown away.

“What the…” he muttered.

“Korvath’s been weird ever since the Colosseum changed,” the man remarked lightly. “If it’s not tower brats fooling around, it’s people with business. Anyway, wanna see the underground ring? People chat there… with fists.”

Ayato thought a moment. “Sure.”

The underground ring was cooler. Sand floor, iron rails, oil lamps lining the walls. Two gladiators just finished sparring, clapping each other’s shoulders, laughing tiredly.

“Your turn?” The man waved. “Ring’s free.”

Ayato stepped in, testing his grip on the sword.

They faced each other. No need for many words.

THUD.

The man lunged first, a straight punch. Ayato lifted his blade—CLANG—caught it, and slid sideways

“Good reflexes,” the man noted.

Ayato stayed silent. Low slash—SWISH—baited upward, forcing his opponent back a step. Sand shifted underfoot.

They traded a few more moves. Quick, tight, neither gaining ground. The man pressed close, testing Ayato’s breathing. Ayato answered with cut-and-shift, holding angles.

Enough to read each other’s intent.

He may not be a gladiator, but Korvath’s style isn’t unfamiliar.

They both stopped. The man lowered his hands, chuckling.

“Any further and your rune band’ll scream.”

Ayato sheathed his sword.

“My name…” The man paused, then smirked. “Save it for later. Just know I’ll be standing at the final gate. If you’re strong, we’ll meet there.”

“Pretty ambitious, huh.”

“Gotta be.” He clapped Ayato’s shoulder—firm. “I’ve got business with Ragna. And the ring is the only language everyone here understands.”

Ayato nodded. “Understood.”

They climbed back up. The Colosseum’s roar filled the air again: shouts, heavy steps, clashing steel.

At the training board, Ayato scrawled “Vin” into an empty slot. His handwriting was ugly as ever; he exhaled shortly.

I used to hate this handwriting. Now… it doesn’t matter. What matters is keeping my head clear.

He glanced at the rune band on his wrist. A faint pulse throbbed in sync with his heart. Wumm… wumm… cool and steady.

Looking up, Ayato saw Korvath’s sky—clear blue, sunlight glinting off the Colosseum’s towering walls. His thoughts returned to that black figure with blue eyes in the corridor.

“Was that really just a hallucination?” he muttered.

He drew a breath, tightened his grip on his cloak, and stepped into the flow of people. Afternoon training awaited. In five days, the preliminaries. Somewhere among the crowds, maybe in some corridor, those blue eyes might be waiting again.

And above all—there was one name lodged in his mind.

Ragna.