Even after several hours had passed, Tristan couldn't shake the thought of the fake Amelia. He ran a hand through his hair, deep in thought, wrestling with a single, impossible question—how could someone so perfectly assume the identity and appearance of another?
"Darren… how would someone go about taking on another person's appearance?"
"You're still on about that, huh? There is one method I know of—but it's supposed to be illegal," Darren replied.
Tristan turned to him, confusion etched across his face like a question left unanswered.
"What are you talking about?"
"Mimicry Fake," Darren said grimly. "It was a tool used a while back to replicate someone's appearance. By bending and reflecting the sun's rays, the suit would shift and morph to mimic the image you desired. But it required extraordinary skill to wield properly." His voice drifted as his attention flicked between Tristan and the competitors arriving at the Colosseum.
Tristan's thoughts spiraled further. It was obvious now—someone had used Mimicry Fake to get close to him.
But why?
Then, he remembered the single peculiar encounter he'd had with the imposter—the moment she handed him a mysterious bottle of liquid that somehow restored his strength.
"Is there a liquid that can help someone regain their energy?" Tristan asked.
"There is one. Silhs. Warriors use it to restore their vitality… but it also acts as an aphrodis—" Darren stopped short, biting his tongue mid-sentence.
An aphrodisiac, huh. That's interesting, I guess… but that can't be the reason she gave it to me, Tristan thought, suspicion and doubt colliding in his mind.
As his thoughts swirled, Sylvia arrived at the Colosseum in a flash of dazzling light—always one for spectacle. She relished making an entrance, and today was no different.
With commanding presence, she began to address the crowd, her voice cutting through the stadium with clear authority.
"As I stated yesterday, this stage will be an all-out battle royale between the remaining examinees. The only way one can be eliminated is by being rendered unconscious. Killing is strictly forbidden—any examinee who attempts such an act will be disqualified and immediately expelled."
As she spoke, she scanned the field of contenders, ensuring everyone was accounted for. She was aware of Tristan's injuries and his absence, but one other combatant remained missing.
"I assumed Victor will not be participating today. What a shame… I would have loved to witness his power," she muttered to herself, a note of disappointment lacing her voice.
The combatants readied themselves—polishing weapons, stretching limbs, and materializing their STAR uniforms.
Only nine examinees had passed the previous stage: six from the High District, two from the Middle, and one from the Low District. And now, two of the three competitors from the lower districts were absent. This meant Garfield, the sole remaining fighter from the Middle District, was now at a distinct disadvantage.
"This doesn't seem fair," Darren muttered, eyes narrowing as a cluster of High District nobles began to form, already setting the tone for dominance.
But Garfield remained unfazed. He stayed focused, stretching his limbs, swinging his axe with precise control, and finishing his warm-up with a few deliberate squats.
"He's going to be overwhelmed," came a familiar, feminine voice.
A cloaked figure had appeared beside Darren, her face veiled beneath a tattered brown cloak nearly identical to Tristan's. But her identity was clear to one man.
"Lady Amelia… what are you doing here?" Darren asked, his voice tight with unease.
Tristan's eyes widened. As far as he knew, members of the Five Great Families weren't allowed to attend the examination—so why was she here?
"I thought you weren't allowed to be here," Tristan whispered, leaning across Darren to speak to her.
"Yes, but I truly wanted to see the final stage. I rarely get to witness it firsthand. There was one time Darren snuck me in… though, of course, my father scolded him afterwards," she replied, a subtle smile forming on her lips.
Tristan smirked, then glanced at Darren, who now looked flustered and embarrassed.
"So… you're not always the rule-abiding knight, huh?"
Darren sighed, eyes lifting to the endless blue sky overhead.
"I was young. I just wanted my Lady to be happy."
Tristan's smirk widened, but his attention was drawn back to the arena.
In the center of the Colosseum, one noble from the High District was already making a grand, self-important display.
"All of you lower bloods—listen and listen well!" he shouted, sweeping his fingers through his shimmering blue hair. "You are all beneath us. Just because a few of your riffraff made it through doesn't mean anything. Trash will always be trash!"
He paused dramatically, bathing in the attention before continuing.
"For those who don't know—my name is Yaron Rivers, and that over there is my brother, Francis Rivers. Among all these combatants, we are the superior! Even my fellow nobles know the truth of my words. My family stands just below the Five Great Families—perhaps even above them in some ways!"
His arrogance radiated like poison, and Tristan's expression darkened. Fury brewed beneath his calm exterior.
'People like him… they exist even in this world. Brats who think they're better than everyone else… I can't stand people like that,' He thought bitterly, biting his lip so hard that blood trickled down his chin.
Amelia and Darren noticed the subtle act of self-inflicted pain, but they said nothing.
While the Middle and Low Districts remained silent in the face of Yaron's vitriol, the High District spectators erupted in applause.
"They actually think they're on the same level as us," some sneered arrogantly.
But their mockery was cut short—by Garfield.
With a thunderous slam, he drove his axe into the ground, summoned a stone platform, and rose above the others. All eyes turned to him.
With a wide grin, arms folded confidently, and his voice booming with defiance, he declared:
"I am Garfield Frutia. I am a citizen of the Middle District—and let me say this: that nobleman's words do not wound me—not in the slightest. I know the strength of our people. I know the courage, the perseverance, the heart that flows through every one of you. You are not trash! You are newly discovered diamonds—overlooked, but never worthless!"
He pounded his chest, then placed his right fist solemnly over his heart.
"I will win. And through that victory, I will show them all the strength of our people!"
The crowd roared in response, their cheers a resounding cry of unity and hope. To the High District, they may have been mere words—but to those listening from the Middle and Low Districts, Garfield's voice was a rallying flame.
Tristan's scowl softened, replaced by a genuine smile.
"Leave it to him to lift the spirits," he murmured.