The battlefield was chaos.
Arcane energy pulsed through the shifting terrain, creating an ever-changing landscape of stone, fire, ice, and wind. Towering pillars of earth rose from the ground, only to crumble moments later. Patches of frost spread unpredictably, while streams of molten rock threatened to cut off escape routes. The sky above crackled with residual energy from the academy's enchantments, feeding the arena's instability.
The rules were brutally simple: Survive.
This was not a duel. It was an all-out battle royale, where every competitor fought alone. The last half standing would advance to the next round, while the rest would be eliminated. Strength, strategy, and endurance were all that mattered here.
From the Spectator Stands
High above the arena, Lyra Evernwood sat in the section reserved for nobles and influential figures. She wasn't alone—beside her, her father, Lord Mathias Evernwood, observed the field with an amused expression, flanked by his guards. Around them, lords, merchant magnates, archmages, and military leaders murmured among themselves, already speculating about which competitors had the greatest potential.
But Lyra wasn't interested in their discussions. Her gaze was fixed on the magical projections floating above the colosseum—each one displaying different perspectives of the battlefield below.
And she was watching Kalem.
Unlike the other competitors who had immediately launched into combat, he hadn't moved.
Her brows furrowed. The massive crate of weapons he had dragged in sat beside him, its heavy chain still wrapped around his arm. His expression was unreadable, his posture almost casual—as if he had all the time in the world.
"What's he doing?" she muttered, leaning forward.
Then the battle truly began.
The ground shook as an explosion erupted on the far side of the arena. Fighters clashed in violent exchanges, spells and steel colliding in bursts of light and fury. Lightning arced, firestorms raged, and brutal hand-to-hand combat broke out in every corner.
Yet, Kalem still stood there—watching.
What's your plan, Kalem?
The projection shifted, drawing her attention to Nara—and Lyra's eyes widened.
Back on the field
The orc-warrior was a walking inferno.
Barehanded, she threw herself into the fray, fists wreathed in flame. Every punch she landed sent shockwaves through the air, hurling opponents back as if they'd been struck by a battering ram.
A second-year wielding a massive greatsword charged at her. He swung with terrifying speed, his blade glowing with enchantments—
Only for Nara to catch it.
Her bare hands gripped the enchanted steel, steam hissing where her burning skin met the blade. For a moment, the second-year's expression twisted in shock—
Then she ripped the weapon from his grasp and shattered it over her knee.
Gasps and cheers erupted from the audience. Even some of the noble spectators murmured in appreciation.
Lyra scoffed. "She's going to burn through all her stamina at this rate."
Nara showed no signs of slowing down. She fought with reckless abandon, moving from opponent to opponent in an almost berserker-like fury. Her fiery aura flickered wildly, fueled by raw energy, each attack stronger than the last.
Lyra frowned. She's strong, but how long can she keep this up?
The next projection displayed Jhaeros.
Unlike Nara, he wasn't fighting head-on. Instead, he had disappeared into the shifting battlefield, moving like a ghost. His dire wolf, Velka, darted between fighters, tripping them up or drawing attention away from her master.
Jhaeros struck only when necessary.
One competitor—a nimble swordsman—never even saw him coming. A flash of silver, a twist of movement, and the swordsman crumpled, unconscious.
Another fighter attempted to track him but failed. By the time they realized where he was, Jhaeros had already moved, striking their exposed side before vanishing again.
"He's picking them off one by one," Lyra observed.
Unlike Nara's all-out aggression, Jhaeros fought with precision. He never lingered in one spot, never wasted an ounce of movement. He was eliminating threats while conserving his strength.
"Smart," Lyra admitted. "He's waiting for the chaos to thin out before engaging directly."
Her gaze snapped back to Kalem, still standing by his crate, still dragging the chain.
"What are you doing?" she murmured.
Even her father had noticed by now. Lord Mathias Evernwood chuckled, his tone amused.
"Your friend doesn't seem particularly eager to fight."
Lyra didn't look away. "You don't know him."
Her father tilted his head. "Then enlighten me."
She gritted her teeth. Kalem never did anything without a reason. He wasn't frozen. He wasn't hesitating. He was watching. Calculating.
And when he finally did move—
It wouldn't be random.
It would be decisive.