Overseeing the stage, within the grand basilium, Kurael observed the carnage below with a deep, unreadable frown. His brown eyes devoid of emotion as he addressed Mnemoscopus beside him.
"Most would skip these unentertaining battles between creatures of lower status. I'm surprised you'd waste your time watching such."
Kureal couldn't care less about who died below. Strength and competence were absolute in this world; those who perished had only their own weakness to blame.
"There are nine statuses, each carrying its own distinct title," Mnemoscopus said, letting out a slow breath of turbid air.
"Status 1 is the lowest... The first step. Just as human infants are incapable of walking before they learn to crawl, Auramancers must start out vulnerable and gradually build their strength."
Mnemoscopus sighed, his eyes reflected the stark contrast of the white-bone stage surrounded by a crimson sea of blood.
He tilted his head slightly, adding softly, "Most great Auramancers started from that very unimpressive level... Such was also the case for my main body."
The status of an Auramancer is dependent on what category of things a soul body has permission to interact with, distort, create, or destroy. It sets what an Auramancer can affect.
The higher one's status is, the more influence and power they have to make said changes, 'Greater strength allows one to change their own cruel fate. Such is the way of the world.'
Kurael glanced at Mnemoscopus before scoffing. He turned his gaze back toward the remaining challenger, whose shrill screams nearly overpowered the thunderous roar of the cheering crowds.
"Heh heh. Human infants know nothing beyond superficial instincts," Kureal muttered, a cold chuckle escaping his lips.
"If something malicious, and much larger, approaches them, most flee, while others wail and scream for an adult's protection.
The foolish few ignore their instincts and approach the danger... "
Kurael's gaze remained fixed on the arena as he gestured toward the stage. "Just like those devoured Status 1 Sinnstrophs down there. They were neither strong enough to fight, nor smart enough to give in to instinct and flee.
Now they are nothing more than nourishment for those who overpower them."
Kurael looked bored. Below, the tantalizing face of the colossal arachnid finished its meal. As the beast consumed its prey, its aura burned visibly brighter, a clear testament to the law of power.
"Hmm. Strange, It seems far too crowded just to watch mere Status 1 matches," Kurael noted, looking across the packed stands. "Are these spectators truly that bored?"
"Strange indeed," Mnemoscopus remarked. "I'm curious why you have continued to watch their futile struggles?
Why do you feel the need to keep watching? Who knows... Perhaps that very same urge is what drew so many here today."
Kurael pondered the statement in silence. He could not deny it… He did in fact have a subtle pulling at his chest. His gaze fixated on the stage the entire time.
'Why was that? Why was it happening now?' Was Kurael's old nature expecting something new to take root?
He frowned his brows dismissing the thought. The sensation in his chest was familiar.
'No… This feeling is a premonition of fortune. It has been a while since I last experienced this.' Kurael inwardly contemplated the feeling.
Mnemoscopus smiled gently as if reading his thoughts. " Let us assume it is what you Earthling humans call a 'gut feeling'... Why not look forward to what comes next?"
Kurael's expression remained firm, he inwardly understood what Mnemoscopus meant. It was like he confirmed his suspicions.
Yet, a question still lingered in both their minds, 'How massive were the benefits for so many to receive a premonition of fortune at once?'
Neither spoke another word. Side by side, they shifted their focus back to the bloody battles that followed.
.
***
.
At the exact same time, a different story unfolded on Earth. Within Saitama district.
Inside the cramped, musty restroom of a local bar, Yugamu Tychi stood motionless before the sink. His figure was illuminated by dim overhead lights that cast long shadows across his frame.
Blood trickled down his bruised knuckles, dripping onto the silver basin below. The foggy mirror before him was shattered into a spiderweb of deep cracks, several of which held thin, crimson streaks of blood.
Drip. Drip.
The steady leak of the faucet echoed through the quiet restroom. a sharp contrast to the muffled chatter beyond the restroom doors.Tychi stared at his reflection with a complicated, hollow expression.
His gaze focused on the intricate black tattoo wrapped around his neck. It throbbed with a gnawing, agonizing heat.
'I should have minded my own business...' Tychi ground his teeth together, staring at his bruised hand. 'I shouldn't have helped that crazy old bastard. Argh, it hurts so bad.'
Tears streamed down his flushed face. Vein popped out. His chest heaved. His entire body felt heavy and broken.
'Was this how fate rewarded kindness? With pain and suffering?'
He twisted the handle of the tap, letting icy water rush over his palms before splashing it against his pale face. For a brief second, the water swirling in the silver basin flushed a faint, dull red before swirling down the drain.
Shutting off the water, he pushed through the heavy restroom door, making his way back toward the counter. He reached for his damp pocket, pulled out a crumpled wad of bills and slid them across the worn wood.
"This should cover the drink... and the mirror" He sighed, his tone strained. "Tell Mr. Sakamoto I'm sorry."
His voice was low and solemn, tinged with remorse, but he raised his volume just enough to carry across the room. Half the patrons in the tavern paused, casting sideways glances at him.
He didn't bother looking back at them. Eyes followed his slumped back all the way until the door clicked shut behind him.
Home was no longer an option. He could not bring himself to step foot in that place again.
Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz.
Against his thigh, his phone vibrated uselessly inside his pocket. It was completely waterlogged, its screen long dead. He didn't even bother reaching down to check it. He just kept walking.
Orange streetlight washed over his pale face as he trudged down the slick pavement. With every step, his soaked shoes and soggy socks gave off a miserable, squelching squeal.
The biting night air cut through his wet clothes, sending a violent shudder through his frame. He needed to find a cheap room for the night.
Drenched and aching, he stared blankly at the wet asphalt as his feet moved on autopilot.He knew this neighborhood like the back of his hand, but tonight, every block felt miles long.
Bam.
He walked straight into something solid.
"Ah... sorry," Tychi muttered softly, his dull eyes slowly lifting. "I wasn't looking where I was going..."
Standing directly in his path were two uniformed police officers who had maneuvered their bicycles onto the sidewalk to block him.Tychi instinctively took a step back and bowed deeply to a ninety-degree angle.
The abrupt, polite gesture caught the officers off guard, softening their initial annoyance. But as Tychi straightened up, their expressions instantly hardened again.
Under the sharp glare of the streetlamp, the intricate black ink sprawling across his neck was impossible to miss.
The officer with narrow, sharp eyes scanned Tychi from head to toe. "Good evening. Mind giving us a moment at this late hour? We'd like to inspect your belongings."
Tychi released a heavy, exhausted breath. "Is there a problem? I'm just trying to get home."
The second officer, a stockier man with a round face, took a deliberate step closer, fixing his gaze on Tychi's throat. "That pattern on your neck... that's a tattoo. Which syndicate are you affiliated with? Show us your photo ID. Individual Number Card or driver's license."
Tychi sighed, a cloud of cold air escaping his lips. "I don't belong to any group. I was just a regular office worker. I got laid off today."
"Hmph. An office worker? With a tattoo like that?" The narrow-eyed officer scoffed, gesturing toward his bag. "Let's see inside the bag as well. You're not carrying any dangerous items or controlled substances, are you?"
What followed was a thorough, unyielding pat-down right there on the sidewalk. They dumped his bag, cross-referencing his clean criminal record with their database. Finding no drugs, no weapons, and no active warrants, the stockier officer finally tossed his wallet and ID back to him.
Even so, their glares remained cold and icy.
"You shouldn't be wandering around residential areas with that tattoo exposed, day or night," the officer warned sternly. "It makes people uncomfortable. Go straight home."
Tychi abandoned the main boulevard, ducking instead into a narrow, unlit side alley. He had zero desire to run into any more authority figures.
He was running on empty. It was well past midnight, his body was screaming for sleep, and he simply didn't have the emotional energy to deal with people anymore.
He kept walking until the harsh smell of burning tobacco caught his nose.
Just ahead, a faint crimson cherry glowed between two fingers. Tychi, still walking with his head down, barely noticed the figure stepped right into his path until it was too late.
Standing near the alley exit was a man holding a heavy metal crowbar.
The thug turned toward him, his face twisted in a menacing sneer. But as Tychi drew closer under the dim alley light, the thug's eyes snapped directly to the black tattoo on Tychi's neck.
"Hey. You," the thug growled, dropping all pretense of subtlety. "Unfamiliar face. That ink on your neck... what group are you rolling with? Do you even know whose turf you're stepping on?"
Tychi stared back with hollow eyes. He was far beyond feeling fear or intimidation.
"I'm tired..." Tychi said, his voice flat. "I'm really not in the mood. I don't belong to any group. You're blocking my way."
The thug's sneer deepened into an ugly scowl. He took a heavy step forward, thrusting the cold tip of the iron crowbar directly against Tychi's chest.
"Ha! Don't play dumb with me! Are you looking down on me, huh?!" the thug barked. "Empty your damn pockets right now!"
Without blinking, Tychi reached into his jacket, pulled out the last remaining bills he had, and casually tossed them onto the wet asphalt between them.
"Take it," Tychi said quietly. "That's all I have left."
The thug froze. He had expected a fight or a terrified plea. Instead, he was staring into eyes that held absolutely nothing left to lose.
Scoffing, the thug snatched the bills off the ground. "Tch... creepy bastard,"
A sudden, sharp, violent throb shot through Tychi's neck, sending a fresh wave of agony down his spine.
Clank!
High above them, a heavy outdoor air conditioning unit snapped free from its rusted wall brackets. It snagged briefly on a tangle of electrical wiring, before snapping free and plummeting straight toward the thug's head.
Tychi lunged forward, tackling the man out of the way.
CRACK!
The heavy metal unit missed the thug completely, slamming onto the concrete… and right onto Tychi's lower half. An agonizing, white-hot shockwave flared through his right leg, easily overshadowing the pain at his neck.
THUD!
The bulky machine tipped over to its side, coming to a rest over the asphalt. Sticking out beneath its heavy base was Tychi's right foot, twisted into an unnatural, horrific angle.
The thug scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his eyes shrinking to tiny pinpricks as he stared with a mix of fear and shock.
"Damn it... you fool!"