"Let's see how it breaks when one stops kneeling."
The words still echoed in his mind as Leice Grape stepped through the gates of NightSun Arena.
Morning light spilled across the plaza—silver towers curved toward a sky of shifting holograms, banners rippling with the emblem of the Academy.
Crowds surged like a tide. Hundreds of young women in polished combat suits, each glowing with registration tags. Among them moved a handful of men—barely ten percent of the applicants—faces nervous, shoulders bowed.
Leice was the only one walking as if he owned the place.
Beside him, Yvonne strode forward, chin high, every motion precise. Cameras locked on her; reporters whispered her name.
"Yvonne Grape, heiress of the Grape Consortium!"
Cheers rose. Then eyes shifted to the silver-haired boy beside her.
Murmurs followed.
"That's her half-brother?"
"I heard he begged his mother for a slot."
"Why bring a male? He'll die in the first round."
Yvonne's smile didn't falter, but her voice was ice.
"Keep walking, Leice. The more they look, the smaller you'll feel."
He answered with an easy grin.
"Small? I'd say they just found someone more interesting."
She stopped for half a breath, irritation flashing across her face.
"You really think Mother's 'permission' makes you equal?"
"No," he said. "It makes me unpredictable."
They reached the registration platform—a wide circle guarded by luminous pillars.
At the center floated an androgynous hologram, skin translucent blue, eyes of pure data.
"Welcome, participants," the figure intoned. "I am EVA-9, your registration interface. Please present identification chips."
Yvonne pressed her wrist to the scanner. Golden light cascaded; her name appeared in bold:
[Yvonne Grape — City of Astraea — Rank Candidate]
Applause echoed from nearby onlookers.
Then Leice stepped forward. He placed his hand on the same console. The light pulsed once, then flared crimson.
EVA-9 paused, its tone shifting.
"Special entry detected. Authorization: Alicia Grape, Supreme Matron of Astraea. Note: Exception granted."
Gasps rippled through the hall. Yvonne's jaw tightened.
"So it's true," she hissed. "Mother actually forced your name onto the list."
Leice only tilted his head.
"Maybe she's curious how far her 'toy' can go."
EVA-9 continued, unbothered.
"Participant Leice Grape confirmed. Status: Independent Combatant. Interface link established."
A shimmer of blue traced across Leice's pupils—his private system overlay syncing with the arena network. The familiar menu re-formed in his vision:
[Stats — MAX]
[Skills — All Unlocked]
[Devotion Points — ∞]
[Shop — Active]
He smiled inwardly. The system hadn't vanished after all; it was adapting to the arena, merging with its data flow.
Yvonne noticed the faint glow in his eyes.
"Still playing with your imaginary toys?"
"Imaginary," he said softly, "isn't the same as useless."
EVA-9's voice rose above the murmurs.
"Participants, please proceed to preliminary briefing."
The floor beneath them shifted, forming a moving walkway toward the central dome. Screens unfolded along the path, displaying images of past tournaments: battles of light and fire, champions crowned every decade.
"NightSun Qualification occurs once every ten years," EVA-9 explained. "Today's intake marks the 8th generation. Five hundred will enter; only fifty will ascend to the Academy."
The air vibrated with excitement and fear. For many, this was a dream once in a lifetime. For Leice, it was simply the next game.
He studied the other contestants—their armor types, movement, posture. Every detail logged in his mind like a tactical file.
"They're strong," Yvonne said, glancing around.
"Stronger than you think."
"Maybe," he replied. "But strength without pattern is noise."
She shot him a puzzled look, but he was already scanning the crowd. A flicker of red caught his eye—a girl with fiery hair laughing arrogantly as she sparred with holographic targets near the dome entrance.
Her name tag shimmered: Kesha Billex — City of Velmaire.
She noticed Yvonne immediately, grin widening.
"Well, if it isn't the Grape princess. Still think money buys reflexes?"
Yvonne's smile turned brittle.
"Still think cheap bravado hides failure?"
The tension between them drew attention from the crowd. Even EVA-9 hesitated before continuing its script.
Leice stayed a step behind, eyes half-lidded, observing the invisible threads of rivalry forming. Kesha's presence radiated confidence—wild, chaotic, the kind that made a battlefield unpredictable.
Interesting, he thought. She'll be useful later.
EVA-9 raised its hand.
"Attention, applicants. Registration complete. The forging phase will now begin. Proceed to the Weapon Forge Room to create your personal armament. This device will define your combat identity."
A deep hum filled the hall as doors unfolded along the dome's inner wall. The glow from within was blinding—machines and light weaving together, forming platforms for creation.
Yvonne adjusted her gloves, already striding ahead.
"Try not to break anything, Leice. Those consoles weren't designed for children."
He smirked, stepping beside her.
"Don't worry. I've built empires with less."
Behind them, Kesha laughed under her breath, following into the forge corridor.
The air smelled of ozone and anticipation. Screens flickered with blueprints waiting to be claimed.
Somewhere deep inside his mind, the system whispered:
[Integration Stable. Forge Access Granted.]
Leice flexed his hand; sparks of data danced between his fingers.
"All right," he murmured. "Let's see what kind of world you've built, Jaigoria."
And with that, he stepped into the light of the Weapon Forge Room—
where every legend would begin its shape.