The classroom was bleak, its walls drained of color, drowning in black and white. Leonhardt slumped at his desk, alone in a sea of empty seats, his crimson eyes hollow, lifeless.
He stared at the desk—bastard, weakling, freak, worm—the words carved deep into the wood, each letter a fresh wound. He didn't move, didn't blink, his face frozen in numb resignation.
The scene shifted, dragging him into Garrik's hideout—a pit of shadows and grime.
Leonhardt was on his hands and knees, crawling through filth, his body bruised and battered. The world was a gray nightmare in his vision, except for the red of his blood dripping from a busted lip onto the cracked floor. His arms trembled as he tried to rise.
Garrik towered above him, a hulking figure of menace, his voice low and mocking. "What'd I tell you? Kiss my boots every morning."
Leonhardt's lips quivered, a faint "S-sorry" slipping out as he clawed at the ground. Tears mixed with blood on his chin as his head hung low.
Mori sauntered over, his grin sharp and cruel. He dropped to one knee beside Leonhardt, his tone mockingly gentle. "Hey, boss, go easy on the kid. He's fragile." He draped an arm around Leonhardt's neck, then squeezed, his grip tightening.
Leonhardt gasped, choking on a sob. "See? We're buddies, right, Leo?" Mori hissed, his voice venomous as he crushed harder. Leonhardt writhed, his broken pleas spilling out in whimpers. The room erupted in laughter, Garrik's pack jeering.
The memory dissolved, and the present Reo sat on a stone bench in the arena's preparation area. His duel with Garrik was minutes away.
He leaned back, eyes closed, a slow sigh escaping his lips as he rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension. In his hand, he clutched a silver chain, a ring swaying gently from it, an wedding ring he kept asChloe's memory. He opened his eyes, staring at it.
Leonhardt, he thought, his mind sinking into the memories of that broken boy. You weren't perfect—hell, you were a mess. But the vultures around you? They picked you apart 'til there was nothing left. His grip tightened on the chain, the metal digging into his palm until it stung.
I've got my own game to play, my own goals to chase. I can't promise I'll burn it all down just for your revenge. But if it lines up with what I'm after? I'll make damn sure they suffer—worse than you ever did.
"Young Master Leo," Liana said softly, stepping into the dim light. She walked toward him, holding a small, polished box close to her chest. Her usual calm seemed shaken, her hands trembling slightly as she offered him the box.
"Only one is ready for now," she said quietly.
Reo took the box and opened it. Inside was a fingerless combat glove made from sleek black leather, shining faintly in the torchlight. The knuckles were reinforced with jagged metal ridges, sharp and strong, made to crush anything they struck.
He raised his other hand, holding out a silver chain with a ring. "Keep this safe," he said, with calm tone.
Liana carefully took the chain, cradling it in her hands as if it were priceless. "Of course, Young Master," she said softly.
Reo slipped on the glove, flexing his fingers to test the fit. The leather fit perfectly, molding to his hand like a second skin. The metal knuckles caught the light as he tightened the strap around his wrist. Satisfied, he shut the box with a sharp click and stood, his movements deliberate.
"You know what I told you yesterday," he said, his voice low but steady. "Make sure it's done."
Liana hesitated for just a moment before nodding. "Be careful," she said, her voice quiet but firm.
His smirk deepened, his crimson eyes gleaming with confidence. "Always."
Her lips pressed together briefly, but then her voice grew stronger, filled with steel. "Then go out there and bury him, Young Master. Make him regret every moment."
"I'll do worse than that," he said, turning toward the arena entrance.
Meanwhile in the corridors beneath the arena. Students crowded around a makeshift betting stall, coins clinking and voices overlapping in a fevered hum. Garrik vs. Leonhardt had ignited a frenzy, though the odds were overwhelmingly stacked in one direction.
"Leonhardt's done for," one said.
"Garrik's gonna snap him like a dry twig."
"He's been weird lately, I'll give him that, but against Garrik? That's a mountain he can't climb."
"Archery stunt was cute," a quieter voice muttered, barely audible over the din, "but this ain't bows and targets. Garrik's a damn Silver Class monster stuck in Bronze for kicks."
"Leonhardt will be crying for mercy in five minutes,"
"If he lasts that long."
The noise faded when a girl stepped forward. She placed fifty gold crowns on the counter, the heavy clink silencing the crowd. Heads turned toward her, and the stall manager froze, his quill hovering mid-air.
Her silver hair shone like moonlight, cascading down her back in soft waves. Her violet eyes, bright and piercing, swept over the room with quiet confidence. She stood tall, her striking features framed by long lashes, her beauty both graceful and commanding. Her serene expression didn't falter under the weight of the stares.
"Name?" the stall manager asked, his voice stumbling slightly.
"Erin Dranemount," she replied, her tone calm and even.
"On Garrik?" he assumed, already beginning to write.
"No," she said, her voice steady. "Leonhardt Caulem."
The room froze. The crowd stared in shock, murmurs rippling as disbelief spread. The stall manager stared up at her, wide-eyed.
"You're betting fifty crowns on Leonhardt?" he asked, incredulous.
Erin tilted her head slightly, her silver hair falling over one shoulder. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Write it down."
The manager hesitated for a moment before scribbling her name into the ledger, his hand shaking slightly. Erin turned gracefully, her violet eyes glancing over the stunned crowd before she walked away, her steps silent.
The silence broke into frantic whispers as soon as she disappeared.
"She's crazy," one voice hissed. "Fifty crowns on him?"
"She might as well throw her gold into the fire," another said.
"Maybe she gone crazy."
"She's wrong. Garrik's going to destroy him."
In the spectator stands Princess Thalina sat in the royal box as she watched the arena below. Beside her, Adrin leaned lazily against his armrest, his silver hair tousled, his smirk light but condescending. To Thalina's other side sat Selene.
Adrin glanced up from the arena floor and spotted a familiar figure descending the stone steps toward the royal box. "Where have you been?" he asked Erin lazily.
"Taking care of something," she replied with a faint smile, brushing off his question as she greeted the group with a subtle nod.
She sank gracefully into her seat, her posture unwavering as her gaze shifted to the arena below.
Selene broke the silence. "Let's hope this doesn't end like last year," she said coolly.
Thalina's grip tightened briefly on the armrest, her thoughts veiled but restless as she kept her eyes fixed on the arena. Why is Leonhardt doing this? she wondered.