The coliseum trembled under the roar of its crowd. Banners whipped in the dry wind, sunlight gleaming off every spear and helmet. Today was the quarterfinals, and the people of Velaris City packed the stone benches tighter than sardines. Excitement rippled through the air like fire about to catch.
The announcer's voice thundered across the sand. "Ladies and gentlemen, brace yourselves! From the burning dunes of the Sunfire Desert, the man they call the Desert Flame—Rashid al-Dahar!"
The gate groaned open. Out stepped a lean warrior wrapped in flowing robes stitched with gold. Twin curved blades rested in his hands, their edges glinting. He didn't simply walk; his steps beat a rhythm into the ground, hips swaying, blades moving like extensions of a dance. A trail of fire followed each swing, leaving glowing ribbons in the air.
Gasps spread through the stands. "It's true—his blades burn with every strike!"
From the opposite side, Orin burst through the gate, hair sticking up from sleep, a chunk of bread still clamped in his teeth. He chewed, waved to the crowd with one hand, and yelled through a mouthful, "H'llo! Don't blink, or you'll miss my… cool stuff!"
The crowd erupted with laughter.
Rashid tilted his head, amber eyes narrowing. "A child? This will not last long."
Orin swallowed his bread. "Hey! Nice outfit. You look like a roasted chicken that escaped the fire pit!"
The crowd howled again. Rashid only smirked and raised his blades.
CLANG! The bell rang.
Rashid moved with the rhythm of a song only he heard. His feet tapped dum-tak-tak, and his blades swept arcs of fire across the air. The flames lingered, weaving patterns like glowing snakes. Heat washed over the crowd, and several women fanned themselves.
Orin ran in swinging his staff wildly, sparks spitting from the old runes. CRACK! Staff met scimitar, flames exploding as sparks burst against them. Orin yelped when the second blade nicked his shirt—FWOOSH! It caught fire.
"HOT! HOT HOT HOT!" He hopped on one leg, beating his sleeve until the flames died.
The audience howled. Rashid smirked. "The desert always consumes fools."
"Yeah?" Orin spat into the sand. "Then watch a fool dance better than you!"
He slammed his staff into the ground and began stomping in a nonsense rhythm. STOMP-CLACK-BOING. The staff spun like a baton, arcs jerky and chaotic. It wasn't elegant, but it was loud. The crowd started clapping to his off-beat rhythm, roaring with laughter and cheers.
For the first time, Rashid faltered. His rhythm stumbled as the arena itself echoed with Orin's off-beat madness.
Orin lunged, staff sweeping low. CRACK! Rashid's leg buckled.
The Desert Flame roared, leaping into a spin. His blades crossed in an X, flames surging upward. Fire twisted into the shape of a dragon, its body of roaring flame, maw wide with molten teeth.
The crowd screamed as heat scorched the front rows.
Orin's eyes went wide. Then he grinned. "OHHHH! A fire dragon? NICE! Time for mine!"
His staff spun, the ancient runes flashing with black-blue sparks. Aura snapped across his skin, hair lifting in the static. Lightning twisted, chaotic and jagged, condensing into a dragon-shaped beast of sparks and thunder.
The two dragons roared.
And they collided.
BOOOOOOOM!
Half the arena lit in orange fire, the other half in blue lightning. Shockwaves erupted outward, ripping banners from poles, shaking the stone seats. Sand blasted across the stands. The crowd screamed and ducked as heat and static flooded the air.
When the dust cleared, Rashid lay crumpled, scimitars broken, robes scorched. Orin stood panting, hair smoking, shirt half gone, but grin wide. He leaned his staff across his shoulders and shouted, "Did you see that? That was my pet lightning lizard! Pretty, right?!"
The arena erupted in thunderous cheers.
The next fight was nothing like it.
"From the Royal Martial Academy… Elyas Veynar!"
The crowd hushed, almost reverent. A tall youth stepped into the sun, black hair neatly cropped, eyes crystalline blue. He wore no armor, carried no weapon. His steps were calm, his face serene, his aura perfectly contained.
Orin leaned over the railing, gnawing on a chicken leg. "He looks boring. Bet he can't even juggle."
His opponent, a massive gladiator, roared and charged with a broadsword. Elyas simply inhaled. When the blade came down, he slid one foot sideways and delivered a short, crisp punch.
CRACK.
The sword shattered. The gladiator flew backward into the wall, unconscious.
The fight was over in three moves.
Silence filled the stands before respectful applause broke out.
"Elegant."
"Perfection!"
"That's the prodigy of the Academy!"
On the balcony, Yullan's eyes gleamed. "Flawless," she whispered.
Orin licked grease from his fingers. "Eh. He's neat. But he didn't even dance."
The audience burst into laughter, though many glares turned his way. Elyas only glanced at Orin, expression unreadable, before bowing to the crowd.
Then came the fight that silenced the coliseum.
"And now… Draven!"
The gate creaked. Out walked a giant. Over two meters tall, shoulders wide as an ox's yoke, carrying a cleaver taller than most men. His skin was pale, crisscrossed with black-red veins that pulsed faintly. His eyes glowed crimson under tangled black hair.
Every step cracked the stone beneath his boots. Black haze rolled off his body like smoke, crawling across the ground. The audience fell quiet, whispers spreading.
The challenger, a shield-bearer veteran, swallowed hard but raised his guard.
CLANG. The bell.
Draven didn't roar. Didn't posture. He simply swung.
BOOOOM. The cleaver smashed through the shield, splitting it in two. The man screamed as he flew across the sand, landing limp. Draven followed, boot pressing into his chest. Ribs popped audibly.
"Stop him!" someone screamed.
The announcer leapt to his feet. "Victory! Victory for Draven!" Guards rushed in, forcing him back.
Draven only smiled—slow, cruel—as if savoring the crowd's fear.
Children wept. Women clutched their shawls. The coliseum wasn't cheering. It was silent, heavy, suffocating.
On the balcony, Mayor Veyra muttered, "That is no man. That's devil blood."
Yullan's lips tightened, her calm cracking for the first time.
Code's eyes narrowed. So… Hell's seed walks among us.
Orin leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "WOOOO! He's terrifying! I WANNA FIGHT HIM!"
The crowd jolted, half laughing in disbelief, half gasping.
Draven turned his crimson eyes toward Orin and smiled.
The arena still trembled with unease after Draven's brutal display. The sand where his cleaver had struck was blackened, cracked like cooling lava. Even as guards hauled the injured fighter away, silence held the coliseum in a strangling grip. Children whimpered against their mothers, and hardened men kept their mouths shut.
The announcer—sweat dripping down his brow—forced himself to step forward, raising a trembling hand. His voice cracked at first, then steadied as he pushed air from his lungs.
"Q… Quarterfinals are complete!"
The silence broke into cautious murmurs.
"Now… the four champions who will march into the semifinals of the Velaris Grand Tournament!"
The crowd slowly rumbled into cheers again. Flags whipped in the wind.
"First—our wild lightning beast from the countryside! The boy who shocked the Desert Flame! Orin of Riverbend!"
The crowd erupted, half-laughing, half-cheering. Orin leapt up onto the railing, waving both arms like a maniac. "THANK YOU! PLEASE THROW ME FOOD NEXT TIME!"
Laughter broke the tension, people tossing scraps of bread and fruit down. Orin caught an apple, bit into it, juice dripping down his chin as he grinned wide.
"Second—Velaris's pride, the prodigy of the Royal Academy—Elyas Veynar!"
The stands thundered with respectful applause. Elyas stepped forward, bowing elegantly, his aura calm.
"Third—emerging from the shadows of fire and blood… the Devil of the Northlands… Draven!"
The reaction was mixed. A wave of boos, screams, gasps, and a few scattered cheers. The aura he gave off smothered everything else. He only tilted his head back, crimson eyes glimmering with cruel amusement.
"And fourth—knight of the northern highlands, bearer of the Ironcrest name, veteran of twenty battles—Sir Galven Ironcrest!"
The opposite gate clanged open, and a tall warrior stepped through. He wore chainmail over scarred arms, a long spear resting in his hand. His face was steady, lined from years of war, and when he lifted the lance, the crowd surged with pride. "Ironcrest! Ironcrest!"
Orin blinked. "Whoa. A real knight? He looks like he could eat Code for breakfast!"
"Shut up," Code muttered.
The announcer spread both arms wide. His voice carried above the storm of the people.
"But these semifinals… will not be fought here!"
The crowd fell into confused silence. Then he pointed east, toward the rising sun.
"In two days' time, the battles will be held in the Grand Coliseum! Bigger! Stronger! Built to withstand gods themselves! There, Velaris will witness the true clash of our champions!"
The coliseum exploded. Horns blared, flags tore loose and waved madly. Voices boomed like thunder. The promise of an even greater stage electrified the city.
On the arena floor, the four semifinalists stood:
Orin, grinning like a lunatic, apple in hand.
Elyas, poised with calm dignity.
Draven, smiling with his teeth bared, crimson eyes locked on Orin.
Galven Ironcrest, lance raised in salute to the people.
From the balcony, Yullan's emerald eyes shifted between them. But when they settled on Orin—hair wild, shirt half-burned, grinning with apple juice on his chin—her blush deepened despite herself.
Mayor Veyra leaned forward, voice grim. This isn't entertainment anymore. This is war paraded as sport.
The crowd's chant rose: "FOUR CHAMPIONS! GRAND COLOSSEUM!"
Orin munched loudly on his apple and yelled, "CAN I FIGHT EVERYONE AT ONCE?!"
The arena shook with laughter. Even in dread, the boy's madness carried them.