"I love you."
A low tremor rolled through the air. My vision warped, bending around the blurry outline of a woman standing in front of me. Before I could reach her, a deafening explosion tore through the world. The sound cut off mid-roar.
I jolted awake, gasping, my body snapping forward. Sweat clung to my face, tears stinging my eyes. The dream's hazy warmth dissolved, replaced by the cold glow of a streetlight leaking into my messy room. The pounding of my heart echoed through the room.
I pushed myself off the bed, stumbling toward the kitchen for a cup of water. I downed it in one go, like my body had forgotten what drinking felt like.
My reflection stared back at me from the mirror on the wall—eyes red, sweat clinging to my skin.
"What… was that dream?"
I drifted back to my bed and flicked on the TV, letting myself fall onto the mattress. A boxing match filled the screen.
DING DING DING.
Crowds roared. An announcer's voice blasted through the speakers.
"HERE COMES JAE-MIN RYU WITH A KILLER KNOCKOUT! HIS EIGHTH OF THE SEASON IN THE JUNIOR LEAGUE—HE IS THE WINNER OF THIS TOURNAMENT!"
There he was.
Me.
A younger version of me, holding a massive trophy, lights flashing all around. Two figures—my parents—stepped into the ring, lifting me up as I cried with joy.
Someone off-camera pushed a mic toward me.
"This win belongs to the two people holding me up—my father and mother. I wouldn't be here without them. I love them so much."
"Daddy, mommy… I love you!"
The camera panned to them.
"Nothing can explain how proud we are of our boy," my dad said. "He's grown into such an amazing person."
The TV clicked off.
Only my reflection stared back from the dark screen—eyes trembling, face breaking.
"I miss you guys so much…"
My voice cracked.
"Why did you leave me…"
I keep replaying the video, over and over, until the tears finally drain me. My vision blurs, darkens, and then everything slips into black.
"I miss… you guys…"
The darkness shifts into white. Not a gentle white — a blinding, endless, impossible white stretching in every direction. I look down, but I'm not standing on anything. I'm floating. I try to move, but I can't go forward, back, left, or right. Only my arms are free.
"Where am I…?"
My voice echoes back at me, like the space is mocking me. I pinch myself, expecting to wake up, but the sting confirms I'm fully conscious. More awake than I want to be.
Then — a whisper.
"I love you… I know one day… we will see each other again… I'll make sure of it…"
A girl's voice. Right by my ear. It repeats. Then repeats again. Layered. Building. Stacking. Until it feels like someone is screaming inside my skull. My legs shake. My stomach churns. I clamp my hands over my ears and bow my head.
"STOP! MAKE IT STOP!"
And instantly, it does.
No voice. No echo. Just my shaking breath.
The white around me begins to darken, as if shadows are flooding in from nowhere. Shapes fade. Space dissolves. In the distance, I see her — a slim, pale girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen. She stares directly at me. No eyes. No nose. Only a mouth.
I should be terrified.
But I feel… calm.
She opens her mouth.
"Stay strong. Stay alive. You are the only way this world can live. Stay… strong."
I don't understand her, not even a little, but the weight of her words feels real.
Cracks suddenly splinter through the world around me — thin at first, then multiplying, webbing out until the entire dimension looks like fragile glass. Panic surges in my chest. I look toward her, reaching out.
She smiles.
Soft. Warm.
And fades.
The world shatters.
I drop into a void, falling through darkness with streaks of light plunging beside me like shooting stars. Below me — a growing opening of white light.
Am I about to die?
I don't fight it. I just let myself fall, thinking of the only good parts of my short life — my family, and the moments in the ring that made me feel alive.
I close my eyes and brace for whatever comes next.
I keep my eyes shut.
But I hear people.
At first, it's nothing but distant murmuring — then the voices sharpen, clearer, closer. A man and a woman speaking softly… then another woman joining them.
I open my eyes.
A beautiful woman, maybe in her late 20's, is holding me. Long, wavy black hair spills over her shoulders, sticking slightly from sweat. Her amber eyes stare down at me, glowing with awe and exhaustion. She looks like she just finished fighting for her life.
A man, in his mid 20's, steps into view. His hair is cropped short in that disciplined, warrior style, pitch-black and neat. His frame is broad, powerful — someone strong enough to break boulders but gentle enough to wrap his arms around the woman and kiss her forehead.
They're talking. But the language… I've never heard anything like it.
Across from them stands another woman. Dark green hair tied into a high ponytail, a jagged scar running across her right eye — which is tightly shut. Her left eye, sharp and focused, softens as she smiles at the two.
Foreign country?
Some hidden village?
Why is this woman holding me?
And… Why is everyone so big?
"Aaah…"
The sound leaks out of me before I even think.
I try speaking again — nothing.
I raise my hands toward them.
Small. Stubby. Wrinkled.
Red, newborn skin. Tiny fingers that barely curl.
They all look at me the same way:
Like I'm a baby.
Right.
Somehow… I am a baby.
Two months pass in a blur of naps, strange dreams, and nonstop confusion.
By now, one thing is clear: I've been reborn somewhere foreign. Europe, maybe? No clue. The first two people I saw — the ones who keep kissing my cheeks and lips like I'm a prize potato — are apparently my new "parents." I still don't fully accept that, but I don't exactly get a choice.
Most of my day is spent being carried from the living room to the tiny bedroom with my crib. Through the windows I've pieced together what little I can: rows of wooden houses, a dirt path, and absolutely zero signs of modern life. Our own home is just wood, cloth, and more wood. My mother cleans with nothing but a washcloth and determination. No vacuum, no AC, no phone chargers.
It's like I got dropped into the past.
Into a village.
A Mormon village? I pray not.
And every time I sleep, I see her.
The girl.
The same silhouette, the same waist-length golden hair. No face. No sound. Just that strange, unsettling comfort that makes my skin crawl and relax at the same time. I don't understand it — but she's always there.
Then one afternoon, the front door creaks open.
"Wooooh…"
A man's exhausted sigh fills the room.
My father steps in shirtless, sweat dripping down his muscular frame, brown slacks clinging to him, boots coated in dust. My mother rushes to him with a smile and they immediately melt into each other — hugging, kissing, whispering in a language I still can't make sense of. They're full-on lovebirds, flirtation radiating off them like heat.
Then he looks at me.
Oh no. I know that look.
He scoops me up and grins — and before I can mentally prepare, he launches me upward. To him, it's a couple harmless feet.
To me?
It's like getting yeeted into the stratosphere.
My stomach drops. My brain screams. My tiny baby lungs betray me.
I cry. A lot.
My father panics, trying to rock me back and forth with the most chaotic "please stop crying" face I've ever seen. My mother saves me, laughing as she takes me away and taps his head like he's a misbehaving puppy. She kisses his cheek before carrying me back to my room.
And then comes the truly cursed part of reincarnation:
Breastfeeding.
I… cope.
Barely.
Eyes shut, soul detached, pretending I'm anywhere else. I know she's just feeding her newborn son, but holy hell, whoever arranged this rebirth could've at least wiped my adult memories first.
So yeah.
Two months in, and this is my new life.
Five months pass, and I've officially become a tiny crawling menace. I can roam around the house now — under tables, behind barrels, into rooms I somehow never noticed before. Most of them are empty, just wooden walls and old air, but the freedom feels good.
I'm also picking up the language here.
Not fluently — just little phrases, simple words. Enough to start making guesses.
My parents' names are Reina Solis and Baleo Solis.
My name… apparently… is Aren Solis.
It sounds foreign, but I still keep telling myself this has to be some village in Europe or something.
It's the only explanation that makes sense.
Whenever both of them leave the house, the green-haired woman with the scar across her right eye shows up. I still can't figure out why she looks like a character from a fantasy game, but I learned that her name is Lira Voyen. She cleans the house with smooth movements, tends the garden outside, feeds me milk in a carved wooden cup, and reads me stories in the local language. I barely understand anything, but her voice is calming. Also, she seems surprisingly athletic, I'm really curious about her scar.
When my parents return, the whole place comes alive.
The three of them cook together, filling the wooden table with warm, hearty food. Candlelight flickers through the room, and laughter bounces off every wall. They tease each other, smile at each other, act like a small, close-knit family.
And sometimes… I cry.
They never know why — my father panics, my mother holds me close, the green-haired woman gives me that puzzled look again.
But the truth is simple:
This warmth reminds me of my real parents.
Our late-night celebrations after matches.
My mom cooking way too much food whenever I won.
My dad lifting me up like I was light as air.
I miss them.
God, I still miss them.
But watching these three… hearing them laugh around a simple wooden table… something inside my chest loosens.
This little home, lit by candles and filled with soft voices, gives me the warmth I've been starving for.
I don't know where I am.
I don't know why things feel so different here.
But for now… this warmth is enough.
The next morning, the sound of sweeping brushed through the kitchen.
The soft scrape of straw against wood kept a steady rhythm as my mother moved across the floor. I sat in my crib, watching her shoulders sway with each stroke. No phone, no vacuum. Just a broom, her arms, and patience.
I still don't know what I'm supposed to do here.
Five months of crawling around this house and I haven't seen anything beyond its walls. Maybe they're overprotective… or maybe this is just how people live here. No stroller, no car seat, no screens—just arms and effort. My father leaves before sunrise almost every day. He returns drenched in sweat, muscles trembling, rests two days, then repeats the same routine. I track time by his soreness.
Climate feels like autumn. Leaves outside the window are yellowing, light winds brushing against them like quiet fingers. So… maybe somewhere in Europe?
Or some isolated countryside?
The front door swung open.
My mother flinched so hard she nearly dropped the broom—ghosting herself into the corner like someone caught in a prank video. I almost laughed if I could.
My father stepped in, breath sharp, grin wide. He held a poster made of some kind of thick parchment—no gloss, no print, just ink and artistry. His excitement crackled in the air. He waved the paper toward her, speaking eagerly in their language. I could pick out maybe two words. Something about going somewhere… watching something.
My assumption was immediate:
They'd go.
I'd stay home with Lira again.
Routine.
But then—both of them looked at me.
My mother's face creased with worry.
My father's eyes sparkled like a kid asking for candy.
Baleo: "Let's bring him. Come on, it'll be fun!"
Reina: "I don't know… I'll think about it."
…Me? Going outside?
I should have been excited.
I wasn't.
A memory bubbled up uninvited:
The three of us walking through Seoul's neon-lit streets, my dad choking on street food while my mom teased him, me laughing at both of them. Real warmth, real laughter. Not this candle-lit imitation of family.
I got lost in those memories.
I didn't notice when my father crouched in front of me, making ridiculous faces—eyes bulging, cheeks puffed, lips wobbling.
The same silly expressions he used to distract me from crying.
But it hurt.
Not because of him.
Because I remembered who used to do that first.
Boxing gloves. Wrapping my wrists. The smell of sweat and resin floors. I was supposed to fight that night—a match that would've launched my pro career.
My parents promised they'd be in the front row.
I texted them between warm-ups, asking if they were almost here.
The phone call hit before the bell did.
A hospital.
A drunk driver.
An intersection.
Impact.
They died instantly, they said.
My phone slipped out of my hand. My coach kept shouting that it was time. I walked into the ring like a ghost wearing my body.
No strategy.
No footwork.
No will.
The first punch I took was the one that knocked me out.
I didn't land a single hit.
The internet ate me alive after that.
Saying I was a fraud.
Lucky.
Exposed.
They didn't know I lost the only people who ever believed in me.
Tears slid down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Baleo: "Am I doing something wrong?"
He looked genuinely upset.
Sorry.
I'm not doing this on purpose.
Reina: "You always make Aren cry."
She scooped me up, holding me against her shoulder.
Sorry.I'm such a burden aren't I. Ruining the cheery atmosphere that this house holds…
I wasn't crying because of them.
I was crying because I'm terrified I'll forget the people I came from.
I cried, because I don't want to lose the ones who make everything bright.
I've seen colors fade before, eaten away until nothing was left.
I can't go through that again.
Not ever.
The next morning, I was dragged back into consciousness by sunlight stabbing my eyelids.
I was right—my parents really were getting ready to go somewhere. Reina was wrestling with thick cloth wraps, trying to turn them into a baby carrier. Baleo was packing a bag like he was preparing for war.
And me?
I was not ready.
My trauma, my anxiety, my heart—none of it was ready to face the outside world.
The same world that gave me memories worth living for… and tore them apart.
One hour later, they were finally done.
My mom cooked a quick stew for Baleo.
And me?
…Yeah. I got breastfed.
Human dignity: 0. Meals: 1.
When we finally stepped outside, the sun punished me for existing.
I kept my eyes shut, which conveniently meant I didn't have to deal with reality.
Was it because of the light—
—or because I'm a coward?
Who knows.
Pick your favorite.
Footsteps.
Gravel crunching.
My heartbeat pounding louder than both.
The further we walked, the tighter my anxiety wrapped around me.
Every sound was a threat—
Footsteps.
Creaking wood.
Distant thuds.
And then I heard a sound that shattered every thought I had.
Neighs.
Wait.
Neighs??
My eyes snapped open.
A wooden carriage.
Two horses.
Leather reins.
No cars. No asphalt.
Just medieval cosplay levels of realism.
Have I actually traveled to the past?
A horse looked at me.
We made eye contact.
It blinked.
I blinked.
I swear it judged me.
The carriage jolted forward, each bump slamming my tiny baby organs around like ingredients in a blender. I was swaddled against Reina's chest with thick wraps, but no amount of fabric could hide the fact I was being transported like contraband produce.
Across from us, Baleo sat with his arms crossed over a leather bag. He looked like a gladiator forced to take public transportation—annoyed, brooding, and stupidly excited.
The parchment poster was rolled in his fist, unreasonably precious to him like it contained the recipe for immortality.
He tapped it twice and spoke in that unfamiliar language again,
deep voice full of pride.
Baleo: "Ashenfold… arena… glory… winner… cash prize."
Arena.
Even through that foreign soup of syllables, I heard that one word clearly.
Arena.
Ring.
Fight.
Blood.
Competition.
Something primal in my brain lit up like a match.
Meanwhile, Reina looked unimpressed.
The kind of unimpressed that only mothers who have healed their husbands multiple times can achieve.
She lifted a hand and pointed a lazy finger at him.
Reina: "If you break any more bones, I'm not healing you again."
She said it so casually—
not like a threat,
but like someone refusing to clean your cereal bowl for the hundredth time.
Healing.
Bones.
I was about to laugh it off until she flicked her wrist.
Just a tiny gesture.
A gentle, familiar motion—
like a pianist warming her fingers.
And then it happened.
A soft green light ignited around her palm.
It wasn't harsh or blinding—
it was warm,
like moonlight filtered through leaves.
The air around her hand wavered,
heat mirage and rippling silk.
I froze.
That…
That wasn't sunlight.
That wasn't a reflection.
There was light coming from her hand.
Her flesh.
Her skin.
As if her body wasn't obeying the laws I grew up with.
My brain went silent.
No thoughts.
Just static.
How?
Where was the battery pack?
The projector?
The LED?
I couldn't even breathe.
I've seen tricks.
I've seen illusions.
I've watched YouTubers pretend to shoot fireballs with editing and green screens.
But this?
This was alive.
The green glow pulsed softly,
like a heartbeat.
Like something ancient was breathing through her veins.
Baleo didn't even flinch.
He just waved his hand dismissively like she'd nagged him about laundry.
Baleo: "It was only once. The rib wasn't even—"
She snapped him a sharp glare.
Reina: "It was shattered."
He visibly shrank.
A literal 6'3 wall of muscle folded like a scolded teenager.
I stared at both of them.
Them.
My… parents.
And reality hit me like a truck.
Humans don't fix shattered ribs in a night.
Humans don't glow like enchanted USB cables.
Humans don't heal with their hands.
This wasn't a trick.
This wasn't stage magic.
This wasn't some weird hospital alternative they taught in the countryside.
It was magic.
Real.
Undeniable.
Right in front of me.
The carriage wheels hit stone, and the world outside shifted.
We passed beneath towering gates carved from pale wood and veined with veins of faint blue light—like a tree had decided it was done being a tree and turned itself into architecture.
The road widened into paved stone.
Merchants shouted in unfamiliar tongues.
People in robes drifted by, their steps leaving ripples in the air.
A hulking man carried a sword taller than I used to be.
A woman floated above the cobblestone, feet never touching it.
Two children chased glowing wisps as casually as if they were butterflies.
My heart crawled up my throat.
This wasn't Europe.
This wasn't a poor village.
This wasn't some cosplay festival.
I wasn't even on Earth.
A shock drilled down my spine—
sharp, cold, absolute.
I have been reborn in another world.
No dream.
No hallucination.
No metaphor.
The realization settled like a stone at the bottom of my chest.
And this wasn't reincarnation like in manhwa or anime—
where the protagonist smiles and goes,
"Oh sweet, I get powers and cute elf girls."
No.
This was terrifying.
Raw.
Chaotic.
Everything I knew was gone.
Everything I understood was wrong.
I pressed my little hands against the cloth wrapping my body.
They trembled.
I wasn't just lost.
I was not human in a human world.
I was a baby in a place where magic was real.
And everyone around me could use it—
except me.
I didn't understand how loud an arena could be until we walked into one.
The stone bowl swallowed me whole—tiers of seats stacked like the ribs of a giant beast, all facing the pit at its heart. My mother led me through the crowd, slipping past people who looked like they were carved out of paintings, myths, video games. I felt like someone had ripped open the sky and shoved me through.
We found a spot three rows up. The stone was cold under my legs.
I couldn't stop staring.
To our right, a woman leaned forward, silver hair braided neatly down her back. Her ears—long, sharp, elegant—pointed out through her hair like they belonged there. Not elf cosplay. Not prosthetics. Skin pale but with a faint blue or purple tint, like frost was living under it. She laughed at something her friend said, and the sound was soft, musical.
Elari. I didn't know the word, but the shape of her made it exist in my head.
Below her, a short man sat with his arms folded over a chest like a boulder. Stocky. Beard braided with metal rings, armor plates strapped to his shoulders, hands scarred in neat patterns. A real-life medieval warrior, only… denser. Like muscle packed into more muscle. Druumen. My brain just… named him, like it had been waiting to.
And then there were the beastkin.
Two seats to our left, lounging like they were royalty. Furred ears twitched atop their heads—actual ears, attached to their skulls. One of them yawned, tail flicking lazily behind the bench. Slitted pupils in golden eyes. Not cats. Not people in fake ears. Not anything that made sense.
My heartbeat started to get weird—too fast, too loud. I tried to breathe quietly so no one would hear.
Magic.
That word had been stalking me since the carriage.
I thought of Dad's arm—broken a day ago—just… fine. No sling, no cast, no pain. I'd held his hand when it happened. I remembered his body hitting the ground.
And then Mom.
Her hand glowed green.
A real glow, not a reflection, not a trick of sunlight.
I saw it again in my head, the way it wrapped around her palm like fog made of light. I didn't know how to process that. People don't glow. Humans don't heal bones with hand gestures. Medicine is hospitals and specialists and recovery time.
Here? It was… whatever she did.
I gripped my cup so tightly my fingers hurt.
"Relax, Aren," Mom said casually, like she didn't just unravel my entire understanding of reality. "The matches will be good for your father. He needs to remember who he is."
Who he is.
As if Dad being a warrior was normal.
My whole body felt out of sync. Everyone around me talked and laughed in a language I couldn't understand. Earlier, Dad had spoken in it—fluid, confident, every syllable sharp. I'd tried to pick out pieces, make sense of it.
Only one word stuck.
Arena.
I understood that one.
Everything else might as well have been static.
A low rumble passed through the stadium, so deep it vibrated in my chest. The platform in the center lit up—runes carved into the stone glowed like neon veins. They pulsed, humming like power lines.
The crowd roared in response.
That was the moment I finally let it hit me.
This wasn't a foreign country.
It wasn't the past.
It wasn't Earth.
There were no phones here.
No subway.
No air conditioners humming behind thin walls.
No ambulance sirens.
There was magic. There were beast people. There were warriors with weapons. There were runes carved into stadiums that carried currents of light like blood through arteries.
I swallowed.
This was a different world.
And I was stuck inside it.
A shadow crossed over us.
Not like a bird overhead—like a comet. Fast, sharp, deliberate. The air rippled as something streaked above the arena, cutting a circle in the sky. The crowd's cheer swelled, then snapped into silence as the figure descended.
He hovered—hovered—above the sand, cloak whipping as if caught in its own private storm. No wires. No wings. Just… floating. My brain tried to flag that as "normal," but Earth-facts were dying tonight.
He spoke.
I couldn't understand a single word, but every syllable vibrated through my ribs like a bass drop. The announcer's voice reached us crystal-clear despite the screaming crowd, like he wasn't speaking to us, but inside us. No microphone, no speakers—just raw sound carved into reality and delivered straight into my head.
Each time he paused, the arena exploded into cheers—stomping, howling, clapping. My bones shook. I didn't know if the speech was a welcome, a warning, or a threat, but the crowd was eating it up like it was the best news they'd ever heard.
When the announcer flew back up—yes, flew—the gates on both ends of the arena groaned open.
Warriors poured in.
Not just physically strong—pressure strong. People whose posture alone made the air heavier. Weapons glinted, armor clacked, spells shimmered faintly like heat-haze around them. Some walked like they'd killed gods; others like they planned to.
I spotted Dad.
My stomach dropped.
He stood in the lineup, relaxed, loose shoulders, casual as if he'd just walked out for some groceries. Meanwhile, next to him was a man easily eight feet tall—a beast of a being with arms like tree trunks and fur running up his jawline. He looked like he could fold my father in half like a bad poker hand.
I couldn't blink.
I couldn't breathe.
Why would he bring me here?
I am literally a baby. I can't even burp on my own without supervision.
I could barely form more than an "Aahhh," and even that came out sounding like I was discovering the alphabet for the first time.
Everyone down there looked like the kind of characters people spend hundreds of hours grinding towards in an RPG. And my dad just… lined up beside them like it was a festival pie-eating competition.
This was way more intense than any comic-con photos I'd seen online. Those had goofy costumes and awkward poses. Here? No foam swords. No plastic armor. No cosplay.
These people would kill you without breaking a sweat just to warm up for the main event.
I turned my head slowly, terrified of everything and everyone, and found my mother's gaze waiting for me.
Amber eyes, calm as still water.
She had a smile on her face—soft, proud, entertained. The expression said everything she didn't bother putting into words:
Oh? You're enjoying this, aren't you?
She knew. She totally knew. She could probably hear how fast my heart was beating.
And I hated it.
Because she was right.
Under all the fear, the shock, the screaming confusion—
I was excited.
Reina Solis' POV
I have spent many years in the arenas of Ashenfold, and still… every lineup makes my heart tighten.
Eight competitors. Always eight. Never fewer—never more.
Balance, the elders say. I do not know if that is true, but the number breeds legends.
The announcer's cloak flared as he descended again, voice booming through the arena.
"—BEAR WARDEN OF THE FROSTHELM RANGE: GORAKK IRONMANE!"
The eight-foot titan beside Baleo raised a single arm.
The crowd answered with a wave of roars—deep, guttural, primal.
His fur rippled with every breath, claws like obsidian blades at the ends of his fingers.
The helmet hanging at his waist looked big enough to swallow a child whole.
He did not bask in their praise.
He simply stood there, steady as a mountain, as if the world itself weighed less than his patience.
A hush fell before the next name.
"—THE SCORCHED BLADESWORN: VESPERA DRA'KHEN!"
Fire danced around the Elari woman's arms—controlled, quiet, dangerous.
Not bright flames: embers, banked coals waiting for wind.
Her eyes were molten gold, hair the color of bleached bone braided tight to the scalp.
Her armor was thin, almost ceremonial. Only fools think she is fragile.
She has killed whole bands of brigands alone.
I once saw her heal a man with the same hand that burned him.
The crowd treated her like they were afraid to love her too loudly.
Then, a thunderous cheer—this one younger, rowdier.
"—RISING STAR OF THE DUELIST ACADEMY: JAXTEL BRENN!"
The boy was barely older than twenty summers.
Human, lean, cocky, carrying two curved blades like they were extensions of his grin.
He winked at the audience—several young fans screamed his name back with embarrassing enthusiasm.
I glanced at my son in the sling.
Aren blinked, wide-eyed, trying to absorb it all.
He would hate Jax. I already knew it.
The announcer spun mid-air, cloak trailing bright blue sparks.
"—THE SHATTERFAITH: PRIEST–EXECUTOR INNIS MAAL."
From the opposite end of the ring stepped a figure wrapped in bone-white vestments.
Their staff was thicker than a spear, capped with a crystal that pulsed like a heartbeat.
They moved slowly, each step deliberate, like the ground owed them respect.
The crowd fell silent—fear, reverence, or both.
I tightened my grip on Aren.
You never cheer for the Shatterfaith.
You simply watch and pray they do not look at you.
Then the air vibrated—laughter, thunderous and alive.
"—EARTHSPLIT CHAMPION OF THE DEEP FORGES: DROVUN STONECASTER!"
The Druumen warrior smashed a hammer into the ground as he walked, sending dust rolling.
Bare arms thicker than Baleo's entire torso.
Beard braided with metal bands, every step shaking the arena floor like a drum.
He waved at the children in the stands.
They waved back with sticky hands and grins.
I've always liked the Druumen.
From the far gate came a breeze—sharp, clean.
Wind magic.
"—SILVERSCREECH OF THE HIGH AERIEL: CAELA VYRHN!"
A pair of pale wings swept open as the avian warrior glided forward.
Her feathers shimmered with metallic iridescence, hollow bone armor light as sunlight.
She landed without a sound, eyes cutting across the sands like twin silver blades.
No one cheered.
The crowd didn't know whether to clap or duck.
Then finally—
"—THE STORM BREAKER OF ASHENFOLD… BALEO SOLIS!"
My husband stepped forward.
No flashy magic, no trembling ground, no smoldering aura.
Just Baleo—grinning like a fool who had forgotten every reason to be afraid.
The crowd erupted, but not for reputation.
They cheered because they adored him.
Some mocked him, some praised him, some just laughed when he arrived—
but everyone yelled his name.
My heart clenched in a way I would never admit aloud.
He looked up at us.
His eyes skipped past me and found Aren—
our son, tiny, confused, chewing on his fist.
Baleo lifted a hand.
Not to wave.
To promise.
The eighth competitor was announced, but I barely heard it.
Because I remembered something Aren could not yet understand:
He was not just here to fight.
He was here to prove—to this entire world, and to himself—
that he was still worth cheering for.
A blinding flare lit the sky above the arena.
For a second I thought it was magic—but then the light reshaped itself into a massive projection.
A floating screen, hanging over tens of thousands of people, humming like a beehive.
Two halves.
Two silhouettes cycling through each other on both ends.
One silhouette stopped.
Broad shoulders. Familiar posture.
Baleo.
The other stopped on the opposite side.
A shape that barely looked human.
A mountain of fur, claws, and muscle.
The hologram solidified, and the announcer's voice split the air like a blade:
"BALEO, WITH A BRIGHT CORE—VERSUS—GORAKK, WITH A DENSE CORE!"
The crowd erupted.
Not cheering—screaming.
Aren clung to the wrap around me, like that could stop the chaos from swallowing me.
Down in the arena, Baleo walked toward the announcer, hands calm, shoulders loose.
Gorakk lumbered toward him—each step leaving a crater in the sand.
They met in the center.
My husband reached out first.
Gorakk clasped Baleo's forearm.
Two predators acknowledging each other.
The strangest thing was the gentleness of it.
Even without words, I understood:
It wasn't hatred.
It was respect coated in anticipation.
Beastkin strength isn't fair.
It's something they're born with—something carved into them by nature itself.
I glanced at Aren.
His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed, rapid breathing in excitement.
I've seen Baleo fight before.
I've fought beside him.
But fear still leaked through me.
They separated, heading to opposite ends of the arena.
Baleo rolled his shoulders back.
No armor. No weapons.
Just a wooden claymore and stubborn confidence.
Gorakk cracked his knuckles.
Each crack sounded like trees snapping in a storm.
The announcer hovered above them, cloak fluttering in wind that wasn't there.
The stadium lights dimmed until the only thing visible was the ring—two shapes, two lives, two destinies colliding.
I whispered under my breath, barely audible:
"Be careful, idiot…"
I don't know if I meant it as a prayer, or a warning.
Maybe both.