The Colosseum was not filled to the brim, but the crowd was still immense. At least four thousand students had gathered, their voices rising in waves of chatter and speculation. For most, it might not have been much—after all, it was only a first-year going against a third-year. But this wasn't just any first-year. This was Edward von Zenithara, the one many whispered might become the next Sword Saint. That alone was enough to pull such a crowd.
Salena and Charlotte stood at the very front row, their eyes fixed on the wide arena below. Salena's arms were crossed, her brows slightly furrowed as she scanned the Colosseum with a sharp gaze, though the faint curl at her lips betrayed her excitement. Beside her, Charlotte leaned forward against the stone railing, her hands clasped tightly together as if to contain her nerves. The buzzing whispers around them seemed to blend into a single humming note, every word revolving around the same question: who would win?
Students leaned toward each other, some pointing at Edward with admiration, others scoffing at his chances against an experienced third-year. A few even shouted bets across the rows, their voices carrying over the murmur of the crowd. The air was thick with anticipation, the atmosphere electric, like the moment just before a storm breaks.
Meanwhile, in the waiting area reserved for participants, Vern sat in silence. His back rested against the cold wall, his arms folded loosely across his chest. His expression was calm, almost unreadable, though his sharp eyes followed the faintest movements in the arena. He wasn't one to waste energy on nerves, but his stillness carried its own weight. With every cheer that erupted above, his focus only sharpened, his thoughts narrowing to the match that awaited him.
For Vern, the Colosseum's roar faded into the background. He could almost feel the heat of battle already, the clash of steel, the raw pressure of severance clashing against severance. His gaze flickered briefly toward the names pinned on the board outside, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Soon, it would be his turn.
But where is he? Vern thought, his eyes sweeping across the waiting area with practiced sharpness.
Jakob Rake was easy enough to spot—sitting a short distance away with his greatsword resting sheathed across his lap. One thick, veined hand rested firmly on the hilt, his posture straight and unmoving. His short black hair framed a face marked with focus, and the taut muscles under his training garb gave him the look of a battle-hardened fighter. He looked every bit the warrior Vern expected… but Edward was nowhere in sight.
Where is he? Vern's brows furrowed as he searched the arena again, scanning row after row of students, corners, and shadows. For someone like Edward, it wasn't unusual to draw attention—yet he remained unseen.
Then Vern noticed a hooded figure lounging casually at a small table set off to the side. Instantly, his presence drew attention. Students swarmed around him like ants to sugar, their voices buzzing with excitement and greed. Hands waved coins, stones, and slips of parchment—bets being thrown recklessly with youthful fervor.
"So, who are you betting against?" a boy's voice rang out above the din. His grin was sharp as he leaned forward eagerly. "The odds are three to seven. Personally, I'll put my coin on Edward von Zenithara. My guess? He'll be the winner."
Laughter erupted around the hooded figure, some agreeing, others scoffing, the chatter swelling like a tide. "Tch, don't underestimate a third-year," another barked. "Jakob Rake won't go down that easy. If you're smart, you'll put your money where the real fight is!"
But through it all, the hooded figure remained still, a faint smirk barely visible beneath the shadow of the cloak.
Vern's eyes narrowed. He didn't need confirmation—he already knew who it was.
"Haa…" Vern let out a long sigh, his lips tightening in exasperation as he pinched the bridge of his nose. That shameless bastard… betting on himself and even setting up a stall.
He shook his head, half amused, half annoyed. If the instructors catch him, he'll get punished for sure. With that thought, Vern began making his way toward the noisy stall.
The hooded figure—obviously Edward—noticed immediately. His shoulders stiffened, and he drew in a sharp breath as if bracing for impact. Then, in one smooth motion, he shot up from his seat and barked out, "Okay! Betting time is over! You'll get your winnings after the match, so buzz off!"
Before anyone could argue, he swept the coins and slips of parchment into his arms in one greedy swoop. Then, without warning, he bolted.
In the blink of an eye, Edward was gone, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed, his cloak fluttering behind him like a banner of mischief.
Vern stopped dead in his tracks, blinking once in disbelief. He hadn't even gotten close before Edward disappeared, leaving only confused students grumbling and pointing in his wake.
Edward's luck was good—Salena hadn't spotted him. She was seated on the opposite side of the Colosseum, too far to notice his antics. If she had seen him, Vern thought dryly, he would've been beaten half to death before even stepping into the arena.
Shaking his head, Vern returned to the waiting area, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background hum of anticipation.
It wasn't long before Edward strolled in, his hood gone, his blonde hair catching the breeze as if the wind itself wanted to draw attention to him. His blue eyes gleamed with unrestrained amusement, as though the entire betting farce had been nothing more than a clever joke at everyone else's expense.
He dropped into his seat with a careless ease, stretching his arms behind his head. Not a single trace of worry touched his expression. In truth, Edward didn't even consider the upcoming match a challenge—if anything, it was entertainment. To him, this was just another stage to flaunt his skills, another chance to remind the world why people whispered his name as the next Sword Saint.
The roar of the Colosseum only seemed to fuel that confidence, and for a moment, Vern simply studied his friend in silence. Calm, unbothered, and utterly certain—Edward's presence was the complete opposite of the pressure Jakob Rake carried.
One was like a mountain waiting to strike with brute force.
The other, a blade that gleamed brighter the more eyes rested on it.
"Hey, you idiot. What were you doing just now?" Vern asked as he dropped into the seat beside Edward, his tone flat but edged with annoyance.
"Nothing," Edward replied casually, leaning back as if he didn't have a care in the world. A lazy grin tugged at his lips. "I was just earning some money."
"Haa…" Vern exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn't even want to imagine how Edward managed to get away with it. "Fine. Then tell me—how many strikes do you think it'll take you to win?"
Edward tilted his head, pretending to give it some thought. Then his grin widened. "Hmm… if I had to make a guess? Two strikes."
The words weren't loud, but in the tense silence of the waiting area, they might as well have been shouted. Heads turned. Every participant nearby shifted their gaze toward Edward, their expressions ranging from disbelief to irritation.
Jakob's reaction was the sharpest. His jaw tightened, and his grip around the greatsword's hilt trembled with rage. Blood rushed to his face, his eyes reddening as if veins were about to burst.
"Hey, what are you staring at?" Edward asked, his lips curling into an amused grin as he met Jakob's murderous glare head-on. His tone was light, almost playful, but every word carried deliberate provocation. "If you don't want to get your ass beat up, then you'd better give it your all."
Jakob's jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might crack. He didn't reply, not a single word leaving his lips. Instead, a harsh tsk slipped out as he ground his teeth, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his greatsword. His bloodshot eyes flickered with barely restrained fury.
I'll deal with you in the arena, he seethed inwardly. I'll make you pay for daring to put your eyes on my Eliza. A sharp snort escaped him, his nostrils flaring before he turned his head away, though his body still trembled with rage.
Edward leaned back lazily, clearly unbothered. If anything, the corner of his mouth pulled higher, as though Jakob's silence was its own kind of victory. He already knew why that guy was glaring holes through him. Jakob had warned him before—stay away from Eliza.
But Edward was Edward—free-spirited, reckless, and utterly unwilling to bend for anyone's demands. If Jakob wanted to fight over it, then so be it. Edward would just beat him into the ground and settle things his way.
As Edward and Jakob's silent clash of wills simmered in the waiting area, a sudden hush began to ripple through the Colosseum.
Instructor Vikel Robert, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped into the very center of the arena. His boots struck the stone floor with steady weight, and his long cloak swayed faintly with each movement. Drawing in a sharp breath, he projected his voice with practiced authority—his words cutting cleanly through the buzzing crowd.
"Today, you all know why we have gathered!" His voice rang across the Colosseum, echoing against the stone walls and drawing every pair of eyes toward him.
Murmurs stilled. Thousands of students leaned forward in anticipation.
"It is for the grand competition," Vikel continued, his tone deep and commanding, "to determine the three who will earn the right to enter the Room of Nature—and cultivate there for two years."
The crowd stirred at his words, excitement flaring like sparks. Some students clenched their fists in determination, while others whispered nervously about their chances.
Vikel's gaze swept across the rows of stone seats, then toward the participants gathered in the waiting area. "From year one to year four, every student of the Combat Department may participate. Rank, age, and status will not shield you here. Only strength, skill, and resolve will decide who rises."
The words struck like hammer blows, the weight of the announcement hanging thick in the air.
Above, the Colosseum thundered with cheers, shouts, and applause, the ground itself seeming to vibrate with the noise.
"This competition will be concluded within three days!" Instructor Vikel's voice boomed across the Colosseum, his words carrying the weight of finality.
"Today marks the beginning—the first step toward seizing glory. Remember well: this is a knockout tournament. One defeat, and your path ends here. The loser will not be granted another chance, so fight with everything you have. Hold nothing back!"
The crowd erupted in cheers and tense murmurs. The thunder of thousands of voices shook the arena, but Vikel's piercing gaze silenced the air once more.
"Now," he declared, his hand cutting sharply through the air, "for the opening match—Edward von Zenithara versus Jakob Rake!"
Gasps and shouts rose instantly. The very mention of Edward's name sent a ripple of excitement through the spectators. All eyes turned toward the first-year as the center of the colossal stage cleared, anticipation mounting like a storm about to break.
"Edward von Zenithara! Jakob Rake! Step forward!" Vikel's command echoed like a war drum, setting the stage for the clash to come.
Edward leaned back with a playful grin, then shot Vern a wink. "I'll be back."
With that, he rose to his feet and strode toward the arena, his blonde hair catching the sunlight as if even the wind itself made way for him. Confidence radiated from his every step.
On the opposite side, Jakob pushed himself up, his jaw clenched tight. Each heavy footfall echoed his simmering anger, his eyes locked on Edward's back with burning hostility.
The Colosseum held its breath as the two figures moved steadily toward the center stage—one calm and smiling, the other seething and rigid.