Chapter 8: The First Trial

Torches blazed along the path as the crowd streamed through the opened rockvine gate, moving toward the center of the north village where the colosseum waited — a vast structure of natural stone and vine, a river running around its base like a moat. People crossed the broad rock bridge and began filling the tiered stone seats, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by something larger.

Drums. Multiple of them, beaten in perfect unison by the muscle men lining the arena below, each strike landing together with the weight of a single heartbeat. Some viewers clapped in time. The rhythm built and built until it felt less like music and more like something the stone itself was producing.

In the night sky above, cloud and moonlight traded ground. On the upper platform overlooking the arena floor, two cloaked figures stood side by side — one broad and red, one smaller and blue — looking down at the space below.

The blue-masked figure raised one palm. The red figure watched, then raised his own.

Blue spirit fire rose from her hand. Pure red energy drifted from his. Both streaks climbed upward, vanishing beyond the cloud cover — and then a beam of golden light broke through and fell in a perfect circle onto the arena floor, turning night into a warm, temporary afternoon.

“For thousands of years, we have sought those worthy to become more than mere humans. To transcend the realm of the living. Every ten years, we hold this trial — to bring prosperity to the land of the worthy! To seek out those who has potential to become a GOD!”

"HURRAYYY!!!"

The crowd erupted. The sound rolled outward across the surrounding forest, sending birds scattering from their perches in every direction.

Far beyond the reach of the golden light, a pair of golden eyes narrowed.

"Today, eight have been found worthy enough to stand on this ground." She lowered her hand, folding it near her chest. "Only one can pass. Therefore — the first trial: free for all combat."

"YAHHHHHHH!!!!"

"We begin now. First to the arena—"

Her raised hand turned toward one side of the stands. The golden light stretched to find its target — landing on a broad-shouldered figure with orange hair seated beside an elderly white-bearded man. The orange-haired man flinched, then stood.

"The man who returned from beyond — master of close combat, the wind incarnate: Laxius!"

The crowd roared. Laxius stood there for a moment, one hand behind his back, and bowed once in each direction with measured dignity. Then, apparently forgetting the measured dignity entirely, he turned to the crowd and flexed.

Myra's eyes narrowed behind her mask.

"Stop flexing. Come down."

Three words. No volume. The crowd went silent immediately. Laxius dropped his arms and jogged down to take his position in one corner of the arena's golden circle.

"Second — arms like siege weapons, throws with the force of a battering ram, Lupini!"

Golden light found a ponytailed man whose arms were comically oversized relative to the rest of him. He stood, flexed briefly — clearly inspired by the previous example — and headed down to his spot.

"Third — Iron-like body that transcend the damage: Hashband!"

"Fourth — legs that do not stop, power that does not tire: Gurupa!"

Three rows away, a brown-haired boy in a red scarf had been sweating since the second name was called. His eyes had gone somewhere between focused and about to give up entirely. Then a hand came down hard on his back.

"YOUCH!"

His mother sat beside him with the posture of someone who had raised this boy specifically for a moment like this.

"Man up. You want to show off to Nuriar, don't you?"

"D-Definitely, Mom!"

She pressed her palm flat against his back, straightening his spine. "Then you know what to do. I believe in you."

"...Mom."

"Sixth — the youngest participant on this ground, skilled with the spear, and — I am told — rather notorious in his own village." The blue-masked figure paused. "Let us hope he keeps it appropriate. Foomy!"

His mother's hand shoved him upright the instant the golden light landed on him.

"Eeeekkk! I am not notorious at all!"

"Liar."

Several voices from the crowd. Foomy's head drooped slightly as he made his way down to the arena.

In the stands, the dark green-haired woman watched Foomy reach his position with a worried expression, and murmured downward: "I did not expect Foomy to actually get selected."

The crow's head lifted slightly from between her breasts. "They want a body that suits them. One compatible with their own nature."

"So they really do intend to possess the winner. Just like you said."

"...Yes. That is why I refused them. And why they tried to kill me."

A brief silence. Nuriar glanced down at the small shape tucked against her, and offered a smile that was trying very hard to be cheerful.

"But because you are death itself, you cannot die that easily, right?"

"Partially." The crow looked up. "I faked my own death."

The image arrived without warning — a rush of magical force converging from every direction, impossible to outrun. His soul slipping free of his body a half-second before impact. The body torn apart and hurled through a rift in the clouds while the soul followed quietly after, sliding back into the ruined form as it fell toward the tree line below.

"The damage was severe enough that I needed this form to recover." The crow looked up at the night sky, then back at her. "But because of that — I found you."

"Awww." Her voice went soft and warm. "Then... marry?"

"No time to joke around, it is your turn."

The crow lowered itself back between her breasts as the announcement reached them.

"Lastly — the eighth participant. The only woman on this ground tonight. Some have questioned whether she belongs here at all." The blue-masked figure's voice did not waver. "With blunt weapons only, with no actual sharp bow and arrows, how does she overcome what stands before her? The pride of the south rockvine: Nuriar!"

She was already moving before the golden light found her — standing, walking down the stairway at a steady pace, face set with the particular expression of someone who has decided.

She stepped into her corner of the circle and stood ready.

From far above, the golden eyes fixed on her without blinking.

"This one feels different. Not because she is the only woman." The gaze moved slowly across her. "Perhaps she is the one…”

On the arena floor, the eight participants stood at their positions, eyes moving across each other.

Foomy raised a thumb toward Nuriar. She returned a dry smile.

Laxius rolled his neck once, staring outward at nothing, his skin alive with something that felt like dread and excitement pressed together into one thing he could not separate.

"I am going to get hurt so badly. I do not want to get hurt. I am going to get hurt so badly. Someone help me. I cannot help myself!"

Above the arena, Myra spread her palm wide. Blue spirit fire dispersed across the space — and resolved into weapons scattered across the arena floor: blunt swords, padded spears, wooden cubes, a bow with unsharpened arrows, hammers, and more. None of them capable of killing. All of them capable of making you wish they had.

The bow landed near the center. Nuriar's eyes went straight to it.

Foomy had already clocked the nearest spear — almost equidistant from his starting position as the bow was from Nuriar's. Laxius clocked them both.

"The rules are as follows — no killing. Knock your opponent until they can no longer fight, or until they surrender. Prove your worth until the last one is standing."

Torus snorted quietly beside her. "A mercy rule — from death itself. The irony."

"Every domain uses the same rules. You know this."

"I know. I just enjoy saying it."

Myra did not look at him. She raised her hand.

The golden circle on the floor brightened, its edge solidifying into a visible boundary.

"Once the boundary is set, you cannot leave until you surrender or can no longer fight."

Her hand began to lower. Every fighter's eyes sharpened.

Nuriar fixed her gaze on the bow and calculated the path.

Laxius exhaled once, sharp and quiet.

"I will not experience that shame again."

"Without further ado — let the worthy be proven."

"To end that worry — I will end it first!!!"

While every other fighter had barely begun to move, Laxius was already there. Nuriar registered him in the same instant he crossed half the distance, her body turning before her mind caught up.

"Whaaaa!?"

His arm swept back — and before he could drive it forward, something large came barreling up behind him. A fighter with enormous arms, teeth bared, already mid-swing.

"I know you are the top dog, Laxius — so I'm taking you out first!"

Within Laxius's chest, something went "Eeeekkkk!!!"

The wind punch he had been loading for Nuriar redirected in one sharp pivot — straight into the charging man's face. The shockwave caught him full and sent him spinning off his feet into the far wall. He hit the stone hard, left a dent, slid down. He tried to rise. Two more wind punches put that idea to rest permanently.

The crowd went quiet.

Myra raised one hand toward the collapsed figure.

"The second fighter cannot continue. He is out."

"That was fast—!?"

Nuriar's thought cut off as wind pressure rushed at her from the side. She threw herself sideways and felt it pass through the space her head had just occupied.

"He really is a wind incarnate. That is completely unfair."

"Nuriar!"

Foomy's voice came from her left as he sprinted for the spear. He saw Laxius's other fist swing around — aimed at him — and dropped flat. The pressurized wave passed inches above his back and took a clean strip from the ends of his hair. He stared at the arena floor for exactly one second.

"Is this going to kill me!? What is the point of blunt weapons against someone like him!?"

The shockwave that missed him caught the muscle man standing behind him squarely in the chest. The man slammed into the colosseum wall hard enough to crack the stone, left a dent, and slid face-first to the ground. He attempted to get up.

Foomy was already there. He scooped up the spear mid-stride and came down with a rapid, methodical series of padded strikes — efficient, relentless, giving the man no window to recover.

"Sorry pal, go to sleep!!!"

The fifth fighter went still. Myra appeared beside him in a flicker of blue light, looked down, and raised one hand.

"The fifth fighter cannot continue. He is out."

From across the arena, Nuriar caught the flash of Foomy's quick work at the corner of her eye — even as she kept the rest of her attention on the six-foot wall of muscle and wind that was Laxius, circling just outside her range.

"Getting hit even once would be very, very bad."