The Lotus didn't pretend to be fair. It pretended to be unforgettable.
Steel petals arced around the huge bowl, not neon, not gaudy. For the first time in too long, Raizen could see the sky. Cloud-thick and layered, but real sky all the same, a soft wash of white and gray that let sun through in sheets. Sunlight slid between the petals and laid long bars across the stands and floor.
There were a lot of people.
Tiers of seats climbed in neat rings. Every level was full - families squeezed together, students in matching jackets, old-timers with thermoses, vendors weaving with trays, bettors waving slates. Conversations stacked: gossip, odds, warnings, tiny arguments that ended in laughter because it was morning and the show hadn't given anyone a reason to be angry yet. Drones drifted like patient birds, their lenses blinking as they threw faces up onto the big screens that hung under the petals.
Raizen stood in the line of candidates and let it all move through him. The ground hummed under his boots. Past the bars, the arena spread like a curated disaster: buildings leaning at difficult angles, their guts open; a tram car hung midair in a soft blue field; stairs that climbed into nothing; cables and narrow bridges strung between broken roofs like stitches - lift frozen halfway in a shaft, doorframes set sideways just to be rude. It looked like the Tangle had been messed up by someone with very specific ideas about stress.
His Lotus suit hugged like a second decision, electric, this time. Think cables ran the length of the fabric, converging at a node near his spine. He brushed two fingers along his hilt. Habit. Promise.
He tipped his chin up and watched the clouds slide in slow herds across the bright. He hadn't realized how much he missed a sky until it was above him again. The Underworks supposedly had a ceiling, but it was too far and too dark for you to see. This was a lid he could see through. Sunlight washed his face. The warmth was polite, like a friend who knocks before coming in. The warmth didn't really need to knock before coming in but you get the idea.
To his left, a boy tried to look taller by planting his feet too wide and only looked shorter. To his right, a girl checked the clasp on her glowing luminite mace for the fourth time and then grinned at herself for doing it. Intricating design indeed, but no need to check it like it's your baby. Farther down, two friends whispered about splitting to cover more ground, then changed their minds at the exact same moment without admitting it. Somewhere to the ends of the row, Hikari was there, too. Waiting.
Hair tied clean. Face quiet in the way that pays attention. A drone drifted toward her, caught one look at those eyes, and politely changed its mind. She flexed both hands once. Stillness returned like something well trained.
The speakers coughed, squealed, then found their throat.
"GOOD MORNING, NEOSHIMAA!" the voice boomed, joyful and entirely too loud. "And an EVEN LOUDER good morning to our favorite collection of optimism, bad decisions, and surprise talent!"
The bowl roared back. A grandmother in the second tier whooped so hard she scared her own family. A drone zoomed in to catch her and she blew the lens a kiss.
"I am your host," the voice went on, grinning in every word, "your favorite uncle, your least favorite reality check, and the reason legal told me to speak slowly. If I mispronounce your name today, use it as fuel. If I butcher it, you're welcome! Free character development, if you ask me..."
Laughter ran around the petals. Even the staffer walking the line tried not to smile.
"Now! Ground rules," the host said, words snapping like drumbeats. "You are wearing Lotus suits. They monitor everything that matters and a few things that make our technicians feel important. If your vitals cross the red line, the suit locks, flashes, and yanks you out. Disqualified, not dead. Don't argue with the suit. It has a better lawyer than you."
The big boards flashed a slick graphic: red bands pulsing over joints, the spine node flaring once, then a quick montage of past pulls - someone freezing mid-fall as the suit stiffened, sliding to a safe stop while medics poured through a door that hadn't existed a second before. A caption: YOU MAY FAIL GLORIOUSLY AND STILL GO HOME.
"In the arena today," the host rolled on, delighted, "you will meet Class 1 and 2 Nyxes. Some spicy Class 3 if it gets too boring. Humanoid frames, fast hands, bad manners. This is NOT a Grade day. Other high-grades are doing cursed paperwork. Please do not summon them."
Booing, cheering, a shouted request for a Grade 6 immediately answered by, "Put your money where your ghost is!" A vendor yelled, "Hot tea, cold shame!" and sold out in a heartbeat.
"Scoring is simple," the voice said, cheerfully cruel. "Destroy or kill as many Nyxes as you can. We track individual contribution down to decimal dust. If your friend takes the leg and you take the head, we know which of you did the math. Support earns points too - real support, not clapping. Combat aid. Space control. Clean set-ups that let someone else finish without dying. You may work together. Wouldn't really reccomdnt it, for the show? You may try to be the hero. But you know how they always say: there's always going to be a six year old neoshiman kid better than you. And remember: the arena loves receipts."
Raizen placed his palm on the bar when the staffer told him to. Cool metal. A faint buzz moved through the suit and settled at his spine. He studied the first block inside and marked three lines into the same alley: a straight sprint under a low arch, a careful glide along a knee-high wall, a climb and drop over a broken fire escape. His feet voted. He listened.
High in the stands, a group of students in matching jackets started a chant that sounded like a committee had written it. Two old men argued about whether the Lotus had gotten softer or smarter. A woman with a heavy pen took notes without looking up even once. Neoshima heals itself by arguing, betting, and buying snacks.
"Before we open the doors to controlled chaos," the host boomed, "remember what this is and what it is not. This is not a war. This is not a joke. This is a DOOR. We promised a fair door if you did the work. That door is ahead of you. Please do not sprint into the frame face-first. The floor is new."
A horn tested itself - one clean note that lifted the tiny hairs on arms - then cut. The gates waited like patient animals.
"Zones!" the host barked, thrilled to be useful. "To your left - low ceilings, tight corners, the kind of angles that either make bad decisions, or crazy plays. Straight ahead, in the center - open lanes, stacked cover, run or get swallowed. To your right - bridges, drops, more vertical. A lift with commitment issues, and a line of window holes shaped like eyes judging your life choices. Choose wisely. Or boldly. Preferably both."
"Neoshima," the host sang, "are you ready to place your legally inadvisable bets on young people with fragile bones?"
The bowl howled. Somewhere a teenager stood up and screamed, "I LOVE YOU, RANDOM CANDIDATE," then sat as his friends yanked him down. A little kid waved a hand-drawn sign with a misspelled name and bounced so hard he almost toppled into the row below.
The staffer shuffled past with a tablet, eyes flat as bolts. "Palms on the bar. If your hand isn't here when it opens, it doesn't open for you. Last chance to cry."
The boy at the end of the row whispered, "Do we get points for style? What if I blow the entire thing up with my staff?" His friend elbowed him hard enough to make his suit lights blink.
"Quick safety reminders," the host added with cheerful menace. "Don't pet the Nyxes. Don't play with them. Do not attempt to collect them. Come on, they're not souvenirs! Yes, I have to say this because it happened before..."
The boards split into grids - names up top, numbers below, empty now but hungry. A caption scrolled: SCORES ARE LIVE. YOUR GRANDMOTHER IS WATCHING.
A drone floated uncomfortably close to Raizen's cheek. He gave it a small, honest smile. Not for the crowd. For himself. The kind that belonged to him unless you pushed him too far.
Clouds slid, the light shifted; the bowl brightened. Raizen lifted his face to the warmth and let it be what it was. The Underworks had taught him to live without a sky and without applause. This place had both and neither mattered to his feet.
On the other side, Hikari lifted her chin the smallest degree. She didn't look for him. She knew where he was. He didn't look for her. Same reason. The suit lights at her spine brightened and smoothed. Her thumb touched the guard of her weapon once. It was like telling a horse you were ready to move.
"Little administrative note," the host said, unhelpfully helpful. "If you attempt to bribe a Nyx mid-exam, that technically counts as communication. You will lose points for creativity. Yes, I'm reading the chat. No, you cannot bring snacks inside. Just joking, chill!"
Laughter stacked again. A vendor jogged along the top tier with a kettle hissing like a pet dragon.
Raizen breathed in, found the pace that wouldn't lie to him when the noise dropped away, and mapped the alley again in his head. He wasn't carrying revenge into this room. He was carrying a different weight - protect first, win honestly, don't let the test make you cruel to feel strong. It had sounded soft when it first arrived in him. Under the sky, it felt like steel.
A long, clean note filled the bowl and, just for a breath, all the small sounds ducked under it. The bars under Raizen's palm clicked - the particular surrender of a lock that had been asked nicely. The gate began to rise, inch by inch. Cold air spilled out from the arena's lungs, tasting like dust, oil, and old rain.
Inside, movement flickered - humanoid shadows shifting in gaps, hands testing stone, heads turning too far. Class 1s clustered under the tram rail like pests trying to act brave. Class 2s paced the open, learning the room with a predator's patience. They didn't look smart. Teeth don't need plans.
"Candidates," the host said, and for one breath the show left his voice entirely, "you are seen."
The gates rose past shoulders, past heads. The first lanes snapped into focus. The clouds parted enough to lay a bright bar across the nearest bridge. The bowl inhaled as one.
"Be worth the seeing," he finished softly, then immediately ruined his own sentiment, delighted. "Okay! Enough poetry! PLEASE DON'T DIE ON MY WATCH. THE PAPERWORK IS AWFUL!"
Laughter blew the lid off the tension again.
Raizen's hand tightened around the hilt. The Luminite in his blade pulsed once - a little agreement. He rolled his shoulders once and let his weight drop into the floor.
The horn cut. Silence stretched, thin as a wire.
The host leaned into a hundred microphones and screamed like he'd been waiting all year to do it.
"WELCOME TO THE LOTUS!"