Morning arrived quietly,
A pale sun crept over the rim of the horizon, its light spilling into the colossal stadium in slow, deliberate waves. The stone seats—scarred from yesterday's battles, chipped and darkened by scorch marks and dried blood—absorbed the glow without warmth. Mist lingered low to the ground, thin threads of it weaving between shattered pillars and cracked platforms like breath escaping from the earth itself.
The arena smelled different now.
Not of dust and fire alone, but of iron. Of sweat soaked into stone. Of something final.
Servitors moved across the battlefield in silence, repairing what they could and sealing what they could not. Cracks were filled with quick-setting resin, blood scrubbed away with alchemical solvents that hissed faintly as they worked. Here and there, scorch marks remained untouched—left deliberately, like scars meant to be remembered.
High above, the banners of the Academy fluttered lazily in the morning breeze.
Phase Two had ended at dawn.
Forty-eight had entered.
Now only sixteen remained.
Solace sat on a stone bench beneath the eastern colonnade, shoulders wrapped in a clean academy cloak. His sword rested across his knees, cleaned but visibly nicked along the edge—each imperfection a reminder that yesterday hadn't been some distant dream.
His body ached in a deep, persistent way.
Not the sharp pain of fresh injury, but the heavy soreness of muscles that had been pushed beyond reason and dragged back by stubborn will alone. His ribs protested every breath. His wrists felt stiff. There was dried blood in his hair; he hadn't bothered washing it out completely.
Around him, the other survivors gathered in loose clusters.
Across the staging area, medics finished their last checks. Bracelets glowed faintly as they recalibrated rankings, essence levels, and eliminations.
Above them all, the tower loomed.
The same tower.
Five stacked terraces of stone and glass, rising like a monolith over the stadium. From below, the silhouettes of seated figures were visible—still, watchful, unchanged. Wealth and power gathered behind reinforced glass, untouched by blood or exhaustion.
The King sat at the center, posture rigid, golden insignia catching the morning light. His wives stood behind him, composed and distant, while his children leaned forward just enough to betray curiosity. Nearby, corporate magnates spoke in hushed tones, eyes flicking between contestants with calculating interest.
And beside them—
The Pope.
Francis Sanguivar sat with his hands folded, expression serene, eyes half-lidded as if in prayer. White robes immaculate. Not a single crease out of place. His presence felt… heavy. Not oppressive, not overtly threatening—just inescapable, like gravity itself.
A low chime rang out across the stadium.
Once.
Twice.
The murmurs faded.
The servitors cleared the field completely, retreating behind reinforced barriers. The arena floor now stood bare and whole once more, deceptively pristine beneath the morning sun.
Then the host appeared.
He stood at the center platform, immaculate as ever in his tailored suit, voice amplified and warm as it carried across the stadium.
"Good morning," he said cheerfully. "I hope you all slept well."
A ripple of laughter moved through the stands. Some genuine. Some bitter.
"Yesterday," the host continued, pacing slowly, "we saw ambition and individuals rise."
He paused, spreading his arms wide.
"Out of one hundred contestants… only sixteen remain."
The crowd roared.
Sixteen figures were highlighted as their bracelets pulsed, soft light tracing their outlines. Solace felt the familiar warmth at his wrist, subtle but unmistakable.
"Those of you still standing," the host said, voice turning sharper, "have proven that you possess more than talent. You have proven endurance. Adaptability. Instinct."
He smiled.
"Now, we test something else."
The air shifted.
A massive holographic structure unfolded above the arena, panels of light sliding into place until a familiar shape emerged—
Names appeared, sixteen of them, arranged vertically.
"Phase Three," the host announced,
The murmurs returned, louder this time.
"Will conduct One-on-one combat," he continued.
"Each victory advances you upward. Each loss… ends your tournament."
The word ends echoed.
"There will be no time limits," the host said. "No point farming. No hiding."
He glanced toward the tower.
"Only strength. Skill. And resolve."
"The final five," he added, voice dropping just enough to command attention, "will be recognized as elite candidates."
A pause.
"And the one who stands at the very top—"
The host smiled wider.
"—will earn the title of Ace."
The stadium erupted.
Solace exhaled slowly.
So this was it.
Just him.
Above them all, the sun climbed higher, burning away the last traces of mist.
The arena stood ready.
And Phase Three had begun.