The arena shuddered beneath the pressure of nobility.
Five heirs advanced like a noose — suffocating, constricting.
Serika led with her emberflow blade, its edge trailing heat that corroded the very air.
Raen circled wide, bow already half-drawn.
Lysara's ashen mist slithered in behind them, shadows eating light.
Theryn stepped with calm inevitability, his whiteflame humming like a hymn.
And Vessia — ever the blunt hammer — readied a firestorm that didn't distinguish between friend and foe.
In Caelith's opinion she was the best of the competitors in the arena, her scroll art which hailed from the central continent was hypnotizing.
It created fire type mana from numerus mana based inversions which generated friction. Even being able to see it didn't help Caelith figure it out.
One thing to note was a strange idea that had flowed in Caelith's mind.
If Rejection always pulled mana toward it, because of the mana pressure difference, then with more control, could he replicate the principles that her mana art operated on?
The thought was both terrifying and exciting, sadly he had no time for them.
He was entranced by the battle in front of him.
The world did not look the same to Caelith as it did to others. He saw mana with his own eyes. Mana - the lifeblood of the gods. The energy of life itself, and Caelith could watch its every move.
Therefore, the sight before him was even more chaotic than what the spectators could see. But, at the same time it was clearer. The mass of energy that followed each of the four heirs and the control of it that Vessia displayed were intimidating, but Caelith could understand it all.
What kept Caelith's eyes glued to the battle was Farren's ability. No, Caelith shouldn't say it was Farren's. It was the qualities of the jellyfish that entranced him.
Those qualities that vaguely reminded him of Aurex. The way mana was almost worshipping the creature. Caelith couldn't discern why or how, but it felt as if the world was bending to the creature's will. It was alive, it was a mana beast, but it felt greater than.
Wherever it had come from, it had to be exceptional.
The fight in front of him raged on.
Their movements were practiced, unified.
Born from power, prestige, bloodline.
Farren stood in the middle of it all — swaying slightly.
His breathing ragged.
His jacket scorched and torn.
Blood ran down the side of his face, but the grin carved across his lips hadn't faded.
Helly hovered close, its tendrils twitching, sparking weaker than before.
One tendril curled protectively across Farren's shoulder, a flicker of warning in its pulse.
They were cornered.
And the royals knew it.
Farren coughed, then looked up with gleaming, defiant eyes.
"Just say when," he said, "and I'll start pretending I'm afraid."
Serika didn't answer. She advanced.
Vessia's fire reared up behind her—
—and the arena cracked.
A sound like a tree snapping in half echoed across the coliseum.
Then a second impact.
A pressure shift.
The heirs halted.
From the opposite side of the ring, Braegor stepped forward.
He didn't leap or flare his aura. He walked — each step sending dust spiraling upward from the sheer weight of him.
The obsidian spear in his grip trailed across the stone like a black scar.
His expression?
Tired.
Not with the battle — but with the charade.
"Five against one," Braegor said flatly. "Takes guts."
He stopped a few paces away from Farren, planting his spear hard enough that the ground trembled again.
"You stood and fought valiantly. Didn't flinch. Can't say the same for most of them."
Braegor, a three-star veteran and one of the oldest in the arena, had chosen his fate. He would entrust his future to the dark horse and this… strange boy.
Farren blinked. "Wait—are you helping me?"
"Not helping you," Braegor muttered. "Just sick of watching royalty act like gods."
Braegors thoughts moved.
'If one could beat the prince and the other could hold down five future heralds of Igaria, then this should be the best gamble of my life. Who cares that they're commoners? Vykrall is backing them, and I was born a commoner too!'
Then the heat shifted.
A line of molten cracks spiderwebbed from the far corner.
Jorun rose from it like a phantom, his body rimmed with soft orange glow.
His face was calm — not serene, but focused. Purposeful.
He didn't announce his presence.
He just walked until he stood on Farren's other side.
"I'm tired of being ignored," Jorun said, voice like slow thunder. "Tired of being told my talent doesn't count without a family name to wear with it."
Farren's grin widened, blood in his teeth.
"I think I'm in love with you both."
Neither answered.
But together, the three now stood at the center of the ring.
Opposite them: five heirs, burning with bloodline pride.
Opposite them: every sneer, every dismissal, every whispered certainty that this is how it must be.
Braegor rolled his shoulders, lifting his massive spear.
Jorun's fingertips glowed — and molten stone rippled beneath his feet.
Farren cracked his knuckles, Helly's tendrils twitching brighter again.
They knew time was on their side; when Caelith got up, the battle would be over.
And across the coliseum, Serika's lips curled. Raen's brow lowered slightly. Even Vessia hesitated — not in fear, but in calculation.
The rules had changed.
No more isolated duels. No more culling of the weak.
Now it was three against five.
And not one of the three had anything left to lose.
There was no signal. No trumpet. No fanfare.
Just motion.
Serika lunged first, her emberflow blade cleaving downward in a sharp arc toward Braegor's neck — not to maim, but to remove.
He met her with a grunt and a half-turn, obsidian spear slamming sideways. The sheer weight of it shattered the air, redirecting her blade and sending cracks skittering through the arena floor.
Before Serika could recover, Theryn was already there, whiteflame scything forward in a clean line. Braegor's gauntlet flared dark as he intercepted the blow, but the heat clung to him, burning into his armor, searing through layers with every second of contact.
He didn't retreat.
He roared, spinning and sweeping the spear in a low, brutal arc that forced both heirs to leap back or risk losing legs.
Farren took the opening like a spark catching dry oil.
He darted in from the left, no longer the center of pressure — now the blade cutting from the side.
"Let's see how you like being flanked," he said, breathless, as he ducked under Theryn's arm and fired a bolt of lightning straight at Serika's exposed side.
She twisted away, barely blocking in time. Her blade hissed against the charge, but her foot skidded across loose gravel.
Farren didn't press — he veered away, back into the shifting fog that Jorun was shaping like a god beneath the earth.
Magma pulsed beneath the cracked stone. The arena floor glowed in uneven patterns, creating channels of molten red that forced the heirs to move deliberately.
Jorun moved like a tectonic rhythm — slow steps, each one reshaping the battlefield.
Lysara's smoke spiraled toward him, wrapping around his shoulders like a creeping serpent, but he lifted his hand and let a pillar of heat blast upward.
The ash ignited instantly.
Her snarl echoed faintly, then vanished into the smoke.
Raen, ever distant, perched near a jagged outcropping, loosing arrow after arrow. Each one froze the air in its wake, trailing ribbons of icy death.
"Helly, pattern delta," Farren muttered, and the jellyfish wisp spun high, flaring brighter. Threads of electricity curved up and then dropped like tripwires, catching one arrow midflight and detonating it.
The next arrow struck his shoulder.
Farren hissed, twisting, and fired a burst back in Raen's direction — not to hit, but to warn.
Raen didn't flinch. He was already drawing again.
Across the battlefield, Braegor and Jorun stood back-to-back now, surrounded on three sides.
Vessia's flames coiled again, licking toward the center, hungry and chaotic. She roared and hurled a spiraling column of fire at Braegor.
He didn't dodge.
He charged through it.
The obsidian spear glowed briefly red as it passed through the heat, then slammed into the ground like a meteor, shattering stone at Vessia's feet and forcing her to tumble away with a shocked cry.
Her confidence faltered — just for a moment.
Enough for Farren to rush in and slash a lightning-coated arc past her ribs. Sparks and blood danced in the air.
Serika cut in fast, forcing him away, her blade nicking across his thigh as he retreated.
The heirs were bruised — but not broken.
They regrouped with terrifying coordination, covering for one another without a word. Theryn's whiteflame lashed out toward Braegor's spear; Serika slipped around his left. Raen fired a shot that pinned Jorun near the magma vents. Lysara's smoke spiraled upward again, this time denser, layered with corrosive motes.
Farren skidded beside Jorun, panting.
An insane smile crept onto his face.
"It's a lot more fun with three!"
Jorun didn't look at him.
"Insane bastard," he said.
Lightning sparked. Magma surged.
And across the arena, five heirs narrowed their eyes and closed in again.