Kieran was already bored by the second period.
Classes dragged. The clock felt like it moved in reverse. Every teacher sounded like they were mumbling through a fog, and all he could think about was the fact that, somewhere out there, a fight was waiting for him. A real one.
Tanaka had gotten a fun match. Roy had… well, done whatever Roy does. But Kieran? Kieran was worried his opponent would end up being some random nobody who thought "having a Soul Art" automatically made you strong.
By lunch, he was pressing his cheek against the window, watching the clouds move faster than the hour hand on the classroom clock.
When the final bell finally rang, it felt more like a mercy than anything else.
They regrouped at the station — Brock, Tanaka, Roy, and Kieran — slumping down onto the benches as they waited for the train.
"You nervous?" Tanaka asked with his mouth half full of a convenience store croissant.
Kieran shook his head. "No. Just hoping I get someone actually worth the time."
"Careful," Brock muttered. "That's exactly what I said before almost getting skewered by a spear-throwing lunatic in the prelims last year."
Tanaka snorted. "Yeah — and he still brags about 'winning in the end' even though he had a concussion for two weeks."
Kieran kicked his foot lightly against the bench. "Still better than fighting someone I'll forget by tomorrow."
The train arrived with a low groan of brakes. They boarded, finding a corner near the back. The conversation turned into speculation — Kieran's opponent was listed as "Cyrus Valen", but there were no records beyond that.
"No Soul Art on file again," Brock said. "Might be another nobody."
"Or someone who knows how to hide their cards," Roy muttered.
Kieran glanced over but said nothing.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at the station near the venue… and realised it would take exactly twenty minutes to reach the arena. Which meant they were already late.
"Run", Roy said simply — and they did.
Through back streets and narrow alleys. Past street vendors shouting prices and tourists blocking walkways. Kieran led, with Brock yelling for him to slow down and Tanaka threatening to teleport ahead and leave them all behind.
Ten minutes of sprinting later, they reached the smaller venue — the combat hall built beside the colossal white-stone colosseum where the finals would be held in a few weeks.
Kieran bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. "We made it."
Roy, completely unfazed, looked around. "…I'm hungry."
Kieran stared at him. "Seriously?"
"I'll be back before it starts."
"Whatever. Just don't miss it."
Roy nodded and peeled off toward a line of food stalls set up along the outer plaza. The closer he got, the louder the smell of spices and sizzling oil hit him — and unfortunately, the prices too. Everything had been hiked. Basic economics, sure. A big crowd equals high demand. Still annoying as hell.
He stopped at a stall where an old man was cooking a fresh batch of aloo gobi in a red-orange sauce. Roy ordered two.
He didn't even really know why. He just never ate meat on Tuesdays. Someone had told him once — maybe long ago — that you shouldn't. He couldn't remember who. Just… the memory of a voice.
The food tasted good. Better than good. He thanked the vendor.
"Thanks, man. Really appreciate that," the old cook smiled.
Roy simply nodded, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his blazer as he headed back toward the venue.
Then he saw someone — by the old stone fountain in the centre of the plaza.
A massive, broad figure in a dark grey coat and old knight's helmet, one gauntleted hand flicking a small coin into the water.
Thatch.
No surname. No mask. Just the name itself — like a title.
Roy stopped.
Before he could call out, Thatch's helmeted head turned in his direction. He'd felt him — of course he had. The disease that warped his body had turned his prana recognition into something unnaturally sharp.
Thatch walked toward him with long, heavy steps. Not fast. Not rushed. Just inevitable — like a boulder deciding to move.
"You're here early," Roy said once he got close enough, keeping his voice low.
Thatch didn't answer right away. He just looked down at Roy — or rather, at Roy — then offered the smallest nod a man of his size could manage.
Roy glanced at the fountain. "Good luck coin?"
Another nod.
Roy tossed the empty food container in the nearby bin and wiped his fingers on his blazer. "Yeah. You're gonna need it. Kieran's in a mood today."
The knight's helmet tilted just slightly, as if amused.
Roy started walking toward the venue entrance, Thatch falling in step beside him. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Some people walk together and fill the air with words. Others understand that silence is a form of conversation.
Thatch stopped just before the venue entrance and held something out.
A folded slip of paper — thick, worn around the edges. Roy took it without thinking, unfolding it with one hand.
A single sentence written in Thatch's heavy, blocky handwriting:
"It's time for us to introduce ourselves."
Roy stared at it for a moment.
He didn't reply. Didn't nod. But Thatch seemed to understand all the same. The big man gave him one last look, then turned and headed toward the side entrance reserved for staff and "special guests" — his heavy footsteps fading into the crowd noise.
Roy remained where he was.
Introduce ourselves, huh…
He clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. As much as he hated to admit it, Thatch was right. Nova in Veil had stayed in the shadows long enough. Eventually, they had to step into the light — not as rumours, not as faceless ghosts — but as something real.
Something the world would have to acknowledge.
But an introduction had to be done properly.
The right timing.
The right place.
The right stage.
If you announced your name in the wrong crowd, no one would remember. Worse — they'd forget seconds later.
He folded the note again and slipped it into his pocket, watching the arena entrance like someone staring at a locked door.
Not yet.
He needed a stage that reached everyone. Nobles, soldiers, merchants, and outcasts. He needed something that would carve itself into memory.
For a long moment, Roy just stood there in the crowd, expression blank — until he heard the announcer's voice echo out from the arena speakers.
"And as the Grand Tournament draws closer, these minor brackets will decide who rises and who fades!
Champions may be forged today, but legends—legends are born in the Colosseum!"
The crowd roared.
Roy's expression didn't change… But a small, dangerous smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.
Found it.
That was the stage.
A place where nobles, aristocrats, military leaders and commoners would all be watching — where the whole world would have its eyes on the arena.
The smile widened just a little more.
So that's where we'll say hello.
He turned and headed inside — not to watch Kieran fight, not just for support…
… but to make sure the first stone in their introduction was placed exactly where it needed to be.