Preliminaries

Morning in Korvath felt different. The road to the main arena overflowed with people. Vendors waved cloth banners bearing the names of fighters, bakers beat trays like makeshift gongs, and above it all—the Colosseum hummed, like a giant chest about to take a deep breath.

The main arena lay open. Along the edges of the stands, ward pillars lined up; their crystals pulsed faintly, forming a transparent veil that would later deflect any stray attacks from the gladiators.

Ayato stood in the line of participants. The rune bracelet on his wrist was cool and calm. At the center of the sandy ground, the organizers had placed a short black obelisk, blue runes glowing softly along its sides.

“Consciousness transfer ceremony,” someone whispered behind him.

Wumm—

A thin light sparked as each bracelet lit up in turn. A faint blue glow leapt from the participants’ chests to the obelisk, then returned like a thread being pulled taut. The announcer explained swiftly, his voice magnified by magic:

“If you faint from physical injuries, your magic stone—your core—will emerge from your chest. Whoever forces it out has the right to absorb it. Sleep spells don’t count. Defeat means collapse, not slumber. Battle Royale requires five cores to advance. Duels & Team will be straight elimination. At the end of each round, winners receive a recovery stone.”

Gong. DUUUM!

The crowd roared, then melted into a low hum as the first wave of battle royale contestants was ushered into the arena.

Battle Royale — Collect five cores to advance.

The sand was still cold under the first set of feet. Hundreds spread out—some huddled in groups, some alone, one wielding a shield the size of a door, another bare-chested with only a white ribbon around his arm.

Ayato took a breath. His plan, refined overnight: pick off weaker targets first, secure two cores quickly, then vanish from the center melee. The rest would depend on opportunity.

“Begin!”

The banner fell. The arena erupted.

CLANG! THWACK! SWOOSH!

Ayato didn’t dive into the front lines. He cut along the edge, waiting for one or two overzealous fighters to slip. An opening appeared: a small contestant lingered too long at the line—Ayato moved—no need for flourish, just one clean cut to end his breath and—shiiing!—a small stone shot from the chest. Clink. One.

He didn’t stop. On the right, two brutes grappled, forgetting their backs—Ayato swept in low, striking at the ankles just shy of lethal—shiiing!—second stone.

Two stones. Withdraw. Ayato melted into the shadows under the stands, scanning the chaos. Large groups fractured. Cautious fighters held back. Stubborn ones were mobbed and toppled quickly. A third chance—an archer, out of arrows. Ayato slipped in, a tap of his hilt—enough. Third stone.

The fourth and fifth were harder. Korvath learned fast: with half the arena down, only hardened ones remained. Some wielded wind magic to stall, others excelled at grappling. Ayato played with ice in his palm, locking joints for a fraction of a second—just long enough to shove, not slice. Clink. Clink. Five.

“Vin—qualified,” the announcer called. A white banner rose.

Ayato left the arena counting his breaths. No serious injuries—the rune bracelet remained calm—but his shoulders grew heavy. His stamina was deep, but the day would be long.

In the corridor, an attendant handed him a recovery stone. “Bite it. Shatter it in your mouth.”

Crack. Warmth spread from his throat, stitching the muscles that had protested. Fresh again.

Duels — The Road to the Final

The duel rounds began after a short rest. The bracket glowed on a magic board. The name “Vin” slipped among Korvath’s veterans. Ayato glanced, then descended.

His character shifted once he entered the arena: silent, sharp, movements pared to necessity. First opponent feinted high too often—Ayato ignored shadows, ate a small strike, broke the stance, then cut clean. KO.

Second opponent wielded a long weapon. The key was rhythm. Ayato worked the distance like a tide, forcing the spear to stab air. When the rhythm cracked—tek—he closed in. KO.

Semifinal—this one knew how to read. They circled, baiting, neither moving first. Ayato called ice to his heels—just a flicker—braking precisely when the opponent expected a charge. Rhythm cracked. KO.

“Vin—into the duel final!”

The crowd roared higher. Ayato exhaled.

Aurellia, thank you. For drilling my mind as much as my muscle.

The final duel was postponed until evening—the organizers granted rest so finalists from three modes could prepare for the cross-match.

Cross Match — Duelist vs Team Finalist

Afternoon stretched. The arena bathed in slanting sun, stone seats warm. First bout: duel finalist versus one of the team finalists.

Ayato’s opponent was famed for pairs combat—one locking, one striking. Alone, that habit betrayed him. Ayato refused to provide an “imaginary partner” to rely on.

Three exchanges sufficed. Ayato herded him into waiting for a partner that never came. The gap was naked. KO. Easier than the duel semifinal.

Cross Match — Duelist vs Battle Royale Champion

Cheers swelled again as the battle royale victor strode in. Half-mask, bandages across the arm. His steps were light, blending magic with close-quarters skill.

Gong.

A tremor hummed from the ground—earth magic. Ayato’s footing wavered as his foe pressed with short hooks. Ayato countered by clinging close, denying him time to “build” spells.

CLANG. WHUD. SWISH.

Push and pull. Once, dense air scraped Ayato’s sleeve—swoosh!—stinging his arm. This one excelled at short combos: small spell, quick strike. Ayato lengthened the round, bleeding stamina.

When the rhythm faltered—the shoulder failed to close after a hook—Ayato pressed ice into his palm, biting ribs, twisting at the waist. The pressure broke rhythm. KO

The mask tilted, fell. That face—Ayato recognized it.

The burly man who’d guided his registration chuckled, holding his ribs. “Finally meet on stage, Vin. Name’s Gahar.”

Ayato sighed, half relief, half amused. “You held back your name on purpose?”

“For drama.” Gahar offered his fist. Bump. “You fought with your whole heart. I’m satisfied.”

The announcer raised Ayato’s hand. “Vin, into the grand final!”

Toward the Grand Final — The Black Box

Dusk bled violet. Oil lamps flared one by one along the arena walls. In the honor seats, Ragna leaned forward on the railing, chuckling each time a replay caught a fine moment. Her eyes shone—part audience, part gladiator herself.

By the podium, a prize chest rested on black velvet. Magic locks sealed three sides. At the climax’s announcement, attendants whisked the cover away—in an instant, dark haze seeped through the cracks, tugging faintly toward Ragna’s stage.

Swish… swish…

Ragna turned slowly, as if sensing the pull. Instead of recoiling, her smile widened—as though she’d finally glimpsed the mountain she’d been climbing from a new side.

A small gong chimed backstage. Organizers signaled: the final was moments away.

Ayato rolled his wrists, checking for grip. The crowd’s roar fused into surf.

He looked to the sand, then lifted his gaze. Ragna across, the black box beside her, and all of Korvath holding its breath.