The Uninvited Guest

Korvath blazed with ceremonial torches. Rows of ward pillars along the stands reflected orange light, holding back the roar of thousands. The arena lay open: wide sand, the night sky above.

Even before tonight’s chaos, bitter whispers had always circled this city: no matter how high the safety protocols, deaths could still happen. The reasons, sadly, were simple—

Too severe. Wounds ran too deep—vital organs failed before the synchronization obelisk or healing stone could react.

Too fragile. If a blow exceeded the body’s limits (even if “safe” on paper), the body shut down first; the protection mechanisms couldn’t catch up.

Unlucky. The obelisk and stones restored much, but not one hundred percent; sometimes fatal flaws remained—tiny cracks inside—that slowly grew into the end.

In Korvath, everyone knew this. And strangely, they still took pride in the stage.

The tournament had ended that evening. The name “Vin” was recorded. The grand prize awaited. Tonight should have been nothing more than ritual flame—a celebration.

Instead, came a hijacking.

Viscount Korvath appeared on his balcony, eyes blank, lips speaking with a voice not his own. In a blink, hundreds of gladiator rune-bands rang—a discordant screech like metal dragged. Shoulders stiffened; some eyes turned pale. Invisible strings tethered them to a single will.

“Kill Ragna.”

That creeping cold aura—trained, slippery—its source still unseen. Which was why the first strike came without warning: a flood of bodies surged, wild magic arced; ward pillars that should’ve lit instead died—locked down.

No protective veil; stray projectiles nearly pierced the stands until Ragna cleaved them aside and Ayato raised a thin ice wall as cover. The central obelisk croaked—sabotaged.

Some went down clean, some staggered up, some fell before the obelisk and stones could save them—the three reasons gathered into one cruel reality.

Ragna met what came. She flipped force, hurled bodies—hard—but kept within safe bounds. Amid the clash, she tilted her head up. Her gaze locked on a single black point in the sky—just a flicker, like silent lightning.

Above it all floated the source: a tall silhouette cloaked like wings. Torchlight revealed pale skin that could pass for human and red eyes that flared on and off at will—a camouflage unique to their kind.

Not the elder. His movements lighter, smile crooked, aura slick—not crushing like an old ember, but slippery—a young vampire once mocked as a “copy.”

This plan is flawless! Ragna burned out in the earlier fight. I rewired their synchronization bands into antennas broadcasting my control. Hundreds of bodies, enough to grind her down. After that… I’ll pluck her head.

The first wave struck. She should’ve been buried under bodies and wild magic.

Instead: Ragna struck each one down like warming up. And the gladiators “possessed”… slipped free, one by one. Laughter, shouts, and fighting spirit barked through their eyes, snapping the fine strings he had just tied.

Why…? Damn mongrels—

A place where the body remembers battle better than the mind. The will of hundreds disrupted one mind trying to steer hundreds of bodies. His wires tore like threads dragged by waves.

Heh, so be it. I’ll use this failure to refine my plan.

The vampire’s grip now slipped—gladiators’ fighting wills beyond his leash. He chose instead to rise higher, using the chaos as cover to flee.

But Ragna’s eyes never lost him. She had sensed the vampire from the start. She didn’t shout. She only raised her chin, faintly, in one direction—what others mistook as stage flair.

Ayato was still busy putting two gladiators down. Only when the night air cooled unnaturally did he follow her gaze—spotting the faint silhouette atop a ward crystal.

That’s…!

Ragna smirked. Until now, she hadn’t touched a weapon. She rolled her right wrist—click—the glove’s disguise shed. A deep red crystal gleamed on the back of her hand; from it, a shaft stretched, a blade unfurled—in one breath, a halberd bloomed in her grip.

She turned, eyes meeting Ayato’s. A signal.

He understood. He lowered his palm—wumm—a sheet of ice grew from the sand, stretching into a ramp. He dashed, sliding upward, stacking layers of slick ice like stairs; his body shot skyward toward the vampire.

Ragna hurled the halberd—normally a laughable throw… except flames burst from her palm, forging a corridor—a tunnel of heat sealing the target’s escape path. Ayato’s ice + Ragna’s fire corridor braced each other; mist trailed along the path.

The young vampire was caught off guard. He dashed, trying to accelerate through the blazing tunnel, but it still wasn’t enough.

Ayato caught the halberd midair. Cold crawled his grip; he skimmed the blade in ice—not to freeze, but to smooth its course, boost its speed. Ragna’s fire corridor held its aim; Ayato’s ice lining gave it acceleration. They understood each other without words.

“Fall!” Ayato hissed at the black star above.

TZZZ—WHOOOM!

The halberd streaked through the fire tunnel, like a meteor in a pipe of light. The young vampire spun his magic—too late. The blade pierced his chest; night blossomed in icy crystal: a silent bloom, blue petals flashing, then fading—and his strings snapped.

One by one, gladiators’ eyes cleared. Some staggered, some collapsed, some sat clutching their chests laughing in relief. The arena hushed—an odd silence for a stage built on noise.

Ayato lost footing at the leap’s peak. His body fell free; wind battered his ears. Ragna had leapt the moment the halberd left her hand—“Got you!”

She caught him fully, cradled in her arms—the stands gasped as one. Ragna landed smooth, setting him down gently.

“Good work,” she said, a short laugh shaking her voice.

Ayato breathed deep, fighting dizziness. Ragna raised her palm—high five.

Smack.

“Our coordination… badass,” Ragna slung an arm around his neck, half-hugging—not for show. “Next time, don’t wait for some idiot in the sky before doing it.”

Ayato—rarely one to laugh—exhaled like rain eased, lips tugging faintly. “You’re right.”

I don’t know why, but… just now, somehow I understood Ragna’s intent from the slightest signal… never mind, I’ll think on it later.

Around them, medics rushed: healing stones, stretchers, checks. With the strings cut, ward pillars finally lit again; barriers flickered as stray magic brushed, sliced into blue sparks. Torches still circled the Colosseum, flames linked like a living ring.

On a side stage, a black chest gleamed once, as if appraising the nearly quieted ground.

On a far roof, a pair of blue eyes—a small, scythe-bearing figure who once aided Ayato—narrowed once. Then vanished into the night.