The dawn sun hung low in the sky, casting a crimson hue over the sprawling tournament grounds of the Skysunder Clan. It was a day of prestige, a day where lineage and power would be put on full display.
For Derick, it felt like walking into the maw of a beast.
The tournament platform—carved from obsidian stone and surrounded by tiered coliseum seating—loomed ahead, its sheer size swallowing the figures gathered below. Dozens of demon youths paced about with calm confidence, their robes embroidered with their clan symbols, their auras sharp and suffocating.
Derick walked behind Cael Dren, feeling the crushing presence in the air long before any fighting began.
They entered through the participant gates, where a demon guard sneered but said nothing, merely marking Derick's name on the roster with a curled lip. Derick took a long breath as they stepped onto the gathering ground, his eyes darting to the many figures already present.
It didn't take long for him to notice something strange.
"Master," Derick whispered, his eyes narrowing, "Where are the humans?"
Among the sea of demon youths, only a handful of humans stood apart—barely five in number, and most looked too stiff, too rehearsed in their movements.
Cael glanced toward them, his expression unreadable.
"They're here," he replied. "But not like you."
Derick frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They're not participants," Cael said quietly. "They're tools."
Derick turned sharply. "Tools?"
Cael's gaze settled on the few human contestants. "These are slaves—trained from childhood by their demon masters to fight, to win, and to do their dirty work in exchange for the illusion of freedom. Some are strong. But none are free."
Derick clenched his fists. "Is this… what it takes to earn freedom here?"
Cael was silent for a moment.
Then he said, without looking at him, "It is the path I once walked."
Derick stared at him, stunned.
The man who had saved him, taught him, guided him through the hellish world they lived in—had once walked the same twisted road, under the foot of a demon master?
"I earned my place through blood," Cael continued. "Not for glory. For survival. That's what this tournament is."
Derick didn't respond, his heart pounding as he looked again at the few human participants. Their eyes were vacant, their posture mechanical. He saw no ambition in them—only submission.
A chill ran down his spine.
Suddenly, the air grew heavier.
A rush of cold power swept over the grounds as more figures began to appear—demon youths, one after another, stepping onto the field like kings returning to their courts.
They came from the inner mountains, wearing shimmering battle-robes and arrogant smirks. Some had claws, others fangs, and more still had mutations—horns, tails, scaled limbs. Their bloodlines marked them as elite.
Each one radiated strength—some just barely in the Qi Awakening Realm, others at the middle, and a few at the peak level.
Derick's chest tightened.
His own cultivation had only recently broken into the low level of the Qi Awakening Realm, and already he felt like a candle placed among roaring bonfires.
He took a step back. Then another.
His breathing grew shallow as the combined pressure of the dozens of demon cultivators weighed down on him like a collapsing mountain.
He didn't realize when he fell to one knee.
"Derick," Cael's voice snapped like a whip through his ears. "Focus."
Derick gasped, his head snapping up. Cael's hand was on his shoulder, eyes burning with intensity.
"Calm your mind," Cael said. "Don't let their presence crush you before you even step into the ring."
"I… I can't breathe," Derick whispered.
"You must," Cael said firmly. "This is their trick. Intimidation. If you let their auras suppress you now, you've already lost. You're not here to match them in power. Not yet. You're here to grow, to endure, and to survive."
Derick gritted his teeth. Slowly, he forced himself upright.
The pressure still bore down on him, but now—he resisted it.
One breath. Two. Three.
The fire in his chest slowly settled, and his vision cleared.
The demons were powerful, yes. But not invincible.
Not forever.
On the far side of the coliseum, atop a raised balcony carved into the rock face, a group of high-ranking demon elders had begun to gather.
At their center sat Elder Krazik of the Blackhorn Bloodline, a wiry demon with violet skin, burning yellow eyes, and an ever-present sneer. His gaze swept across the tournament platform with disinterest—until it landed on Derick.
A slow smirk curved his lips.
"Is that the little pet Cael is so obsessed with?" Krazik asked aloud, his voice loud enough for the surrounding demon youths to hear.
Several chuckled. One of them stepped forward. A tall youth with bronze skin and a jagged pair of obsidian horns.
"He doesn't look like much," the youth said.
"He won't be, for long," Krazik replied, swirling a cup of dark wine in his clawed hand. "If any of you get the chance, break him. Kill him, even."
The youths stiffened slightly. One frowned.
"But Elder Krazik," another said, "what if Cael Dren interferes?"
Krazik laughed. It was a dry, echoing sound.
"Cael Dren is a slave with a longer leash. That's all," he said, baring sharp teeth. "Let him bark. But if his dog dies in the ring, what can he do? Challenge the clan? Rise against the Skysunder bloodline? Please."
He took a slow sip from his cup.
"Besides… if he makes a move, I'll personally remind him what happens when a slave forgets his place."
Back in the waiting circle, Derick sat on a stone bench with Vixen beside him, the little fox curled protectively at his feet. Though many glanced in their direction, none approached.
They could all feel something about Derick was different.
Not power, perhaps.
But will.
He could endure the weight of their auras. That was enough to make them curious.
Still, none took him seriously.
And that was a mistake they would soon regret.
Cael remained nearby, arms folded as he watched the demon youths preen and posture.
He leaned slightly toward Derick.
"Remember what I told you. Don't reveal your full strength yet. Let them show theirs first. Learn. Observe."
Derick nodded.
Then his eyes drifted across the courtyard—landing on the few human participants standing stiffly at the far end.
One of them turned briefly.
Their eyes met.
There was no spark of kinship. No recognition of shared struggle.
Just cold obedience.
Derick turned away.
"I won't end up like them," he said quietly.
Cael's lips thinned, but he said nothing.
The horn signaling the start of the tournament ceremony echoed moments later.
But the real war had already begun.
The war of pressure.
Of expectations.
Of hidden schemes and suppressed fury.
And Derick… was in the very heart of it.