The city was louder than he remembered.
Not in sound, but in attention.
Ashen's boots thudded quietly against pale white pavement as he moved through Sector 7.
The wind carried scents both new and strange—hot oil, scorched stone, mana-spiced food, metal melted daily into form.
People didn't glance at him long, but when they did, they looked twice.
Not because he looked dangerous—he didn't.
Because he looked like he'd come from nowhere.
Above, the sky was fractured by towers and light panels.
Squared holographs flickered against building faces, advertising fighting schools, potion infusions, and names in flashing gold.
[Worldlayer Trials — Cindervault Bracket]
[Day One: 9,700 Competitors Across 9 Sectors]
[Placement Cycle: Top 10 Advance to Apex Arcanum Review]
[Watch Live. Vote Immediate. Legends Begin in the Box.]
A dozen different versions of that banner floated in the air above him, some stylized in blood-slicked kanji, others accompanied by exaggerated reenactments of "Famous Finishing Moves."
Ashen didn't pause. He kept walking.
Eventually, the towers gave way to a wide street of black marble tiles marbled with gold cracks—intentionally patterned, decorative. Ahead, the Arena appeared.
It wasn't ceremonial. It wasn't even symmetrical.
It was a giant, box-shaped structure, square as a coffin and flat as forgotten stone.
At its core: the Box.
Just a flat combat space fitted with dozens of manatech drone pylons, surrounded by scanner posts and wide open-air lanes where competitors walked, queued, or waited in long shadows.
Few wore armor or battle robes. Most sported casual urban wear marked by power-thread inserts and flashy faction crests.
All of them had intent in their eyes.
Ashen had none of that.
He stepped past a low fence separating the pedestrian flows from the arena access lines.
No one stopped him.
He moved with too little hesitation to appear wrong.
Near the primary registration column, a long crystalline monolith pulsed in faint blue.
People rotated through it with efficiency — one by one, presented ID crystals, scrolled through digital paperwork, and received short pings confirming their slot.
A staffer pointed at him.
"You. Unaffiliated?"
Ashen nodded once.
"Then left line—wildcard registrants. You'll need a sponsor code to process. Otherwise, you'll be listed as provisional and evaluated manually."
Ashen gave him a slow blink, then reached into his coat and pulled out a black chip, no seal except a faint S in a triangular script.
The staffer took it, scanned it, frowned slightly, and grunted.
"SNEIAS... Clearance Level 2. Manual override authorization."
There was a pause.
Then the system chimed, accepting the token.
> [Registrant Identified: ASHEN]
> – Affiliation: N/A
> – Pathtype: Undesignated
> – Cultivation Classification: Observer Flagged
> – Arena Class: Wildcard Slot 1611
> Entry Status: ACTIVE
> First Match: Undisclosed. Await Notice.
A small badge printed out on gleaming papersteel. Just his name. No rank. No faction color band.
"Take it," the staffer said, sliding it over. "Find a locker booth. Round One starts at noon."
Ashen took the badge without question.
"You don't want to read your bracket?" the staffer asked after a beat.
"No," Ashen replied. "It hasn't happened yet."
Then he walked.
Around him, competitors trained—some shadowboxed, others reviewed frame-capture recordings on tablets.
Ashen caught a glimpse as he passed: people rewatching their own reposted matches, edited with special effects, slow-motion energy trails, soundtrack layers.
He turned away from the screen.
The content screamed. The motion looped. But none of it felt… real.
Up ahead, a long hallway led beneath the arena field and branched into tens of narrow waiting chambers styled like prep cells.
Metallic benches, a table, rune-wall showing live match stats.
One such cell had his name floating above it in neutral font.
Ashen stepped inside.
It was sterile. Empty. Meant for those who looked inward.
He sat cross-legged on the bench and set Wayfarer beside him, wrapped in a black cloth.
No meditation. Just breath.
Outside, through the small sliver of one-way crystal panel, he could see a match in progress.
Two cultivators danced with colored flame and flickering feet—one paused midway through their strike to mug briefly toward the lens drone.
Then the crowd burst into emojis.
Ashen watched as the announcement ticker lit up:
> Combatant PENGRI – Style Feedback Score: 9.4 Visual / 8.6 Intent / 6.9 Flow
> Tier Differential Bonus Pending
> Star Count: 2 Adding…
> View Count: 783,000
He stared at the numbers.
Then turned away.
> "They count attention. Not action," he murmured.
A faint buzz echoed from his badge. The screen above the door lit up:
> [Arena Entry Slot: 38 Reserved – Ashen vs. ?]
> First Appearance Window: APPROVED
> Status: Live Coverage Slot Pending
Algorithm Placement.
No fanfare. No fancy frame. Just function.
Ashen exhaled through his nose.
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out the slip of paper Ryven had given him weeks ago—just that phone number.
Folded. Creased. Unchanged.
He smoothed the paper out with one hand.
Outside, a faraway drone bellowed the names of Sector finalists from last year.
Screams followed.
He folded the paper again, perfectly aligned, and slipped it away.
He hadn't come for that.
But for reasons still unclear… he was here.
And the Box waited.
Not loud.
Not expectant.
Just… still.
Like it hadn't seen something worth watching in a long time.
***
> ✦ END OF CHAPTER 24 ✦