The Coliseum trembled—not from the fights alone, but from the collective breath of thousands holding still.
The upper halls surrounding the stone-ringed arena were packed.
Wall to wall, ledge to ledge, shoulder to shoulder.
Second- and third-year students pressed against the iron railings, eyes wide, mouths ajar.
Teachers stood in clusters, some with arms crossed in clinical silence, others leaning forward in open disbelief.
Staff with clipboards and crystal-recording devices moved between pillars, tracking scores, timers, and broken orbs in real time.
Every inch of space had been claimed.
Not because they had to be there.
Because they couldn't look away.
The first-years—the fresh blood, the barely-trained, wide-eyed initiates—were tearing each other apart with ferocity that hadn't been seen in years.
Near the observation deck reserved for upperclassmen, a tall third-year named Corvan leaned over the railing, silver hair falling into his eyes.
"That wolf kid just shattered an orb with his mouth," he muttered, stunned.
Beside him, Reina—a second-year who was rumored to have ranked in the top ten last year—let out a slow whistle.
Elsewhere in the ring, different storms raged.
Near the southern trench, two girls battled in a blinding display of light and water magic.
The arena stone was soaked, mist rising off the floor as steam hissed through the air.
One of them—a pale, sharp-eyed girl with six silver orbs tucked in a sash—moved like a specter.
Her blades didn't touch her enemy. Her reflections did.
"That's Elira," murmured a wide-eyed boy near the east wall.
"From House Vaylan. She's using mirror phantoms. I thought that was graduate-level magic…"
Someone behind him scoffed. "You're thinking too small. She invented that technique."
Further north, a brute of a boy—at least twice the size of anyone nearby—ripped a chunk of the earth from the ground and hurled it like a comet toward his opponent, who countered by turning it to sand mid-air.
The arena adapted, healed itself, but slowly. Cracks stretched across the battlefield like a spider's web—scorched in some places, frozen in others, cratered in the rest.
The arena breathed like a furnace of war.
Magic flared from every quadrant. Stone splintered beneath enchanted boots.
Bodies blurred through the haze—dancing, lunging, collapsing.
Each clash felt like the opening of a new saga.
Above it all, the audience throbbed with heat and noise.
Upperclassmen leaned forward, eyes scanning for promising names.
Some called out bets. Others scribbled notes or whispered quietly to squadmates.
Amid the storm of color and chaos, one figure sat still.
At the reserved observation desk lined with violet banners and high-backed chairs, Luna Prairie watched with a gaze carved from marble.
She didn't fidget. She didn't speak.
She simply watched.
She had the signature look of the Prairie bloodline—snow-white hair falling straight to her waist, cut with military precision, not vanity.
Her face was sharp and cool, the sort of expressionless beauty that made her seem older than she was.
Her eyes were silver—not the polished silver of ornamental rings, but cold, weathered steel.
Where most upperclassmen reclined in velvet-cushioned seats or stood dramatically over the balcony rails, Luna sat perfectly upright.
A steaming porcelain cup of lavender tea remained untouched on the table beside her.
She'd been like that for most of the Battle Royale.
Silent.
Immovable.
Then— One student a few seats over leaned toward her, gesturing at one of the rune-screens.
"Oi, wait—zoom in on that screen—!"
"Hey… isn't that your sister?"
Luna didn't respond at first.
She merely lifted her eyes, tracked the screen, and gave the faintest nod.
Right there on the screen a girl was displayed, with white hair, pulled up into twin rings above her head.
She wore no armor, only a cropped jacket over a reinforced combat leotard, and her boots were runed for silent acceleration.
Glory Prairie.
Her baby sister.
She was currently locked in battle with a brute of a spell breaker.
He towered over her, war staff pulsing with crystal-bound anti-magic, each swing sending ripples through the air like bass notes from a cathedral bell.
But she didn't flinch.
She moved like water—and her boots didn't even crunch gravel as she glided past him.
No armor, no weapons—just reinforced gloves with whisper-thin runes, and a combat leotard designed for maximum flex and precision.
Her opponent growled, staff igniting with a full-body ward.
He lunged forward with a thundering strike.
She slipped under it.
"Did she just—"
"—go under the spell breaker's shoulder plate?"
"That's suicide—!"
CRACK.
A wind-forged needle strike to the back of his knee. His first orb blinked red and cracked.
He roared, spinning around to catch her in a full arc sweep—but she was gone again.
CRACK.
A rib shot, mid-air twist.
Second orb: gone.
"Shit, she's not even warming up."
A third-year boy leaned forward in his chair, clutching his coat like he needed something to hold him down.
"What spell is she using?"
"She's not using any at the moment," said a girl beside him—eyes wide.
"That's raw training.
Down in the arena, Glory flicked a wrist.
A pulse of compressed force ignited the air between them.
CRACK.
His final orb fractured—and burst.
In less than a second, his body glowed faint blue.
Fzzzzzz—WHUP.
He vanished in a blink of white light, teleported from the field.
A silence fell over that section of the crowd—followed by a wave of reactions.
"Yo, did you see that counter?!"
"Gone?"
"Just like that?"
"He didn't even scratch her."
"She's a dancer," someone whispered. "A ghost with fangs."
"Makes sense, though," another student muttered, trying to act like they weren't just blown away.
"She's a Prairie. That family breeds monsters."
Another voice added with a chuckle, "Yeah, three monsters and a mystery case."
"You mean Eden?"
"Yep. Mr. Disappearing Act. Mr. Used-To-Be-A-Genius."
A ripple of laughter followed.
"Didn't he test top of the academy three years ago?"
"Before they found out he was classless, yeah."
"Oh right—classless. Man, that's the worst stat line you can roll.
Poor guy was probably born with a defective soul crystal."
"You know what's worse? After that, he started breaking rules, skipping ceremonies, picking fights in streets.
And his father still covered it up like nothing happened."
"Lord Stark must've paid half the council to keep him intact."
They started flipping through the screens, looking.
"You think he's even still in the match? Maybe he was disqualified off-screen."
"What's the betting pool say?"
someone asked with a smirk
"You mean Eden? Oh, he's not even on the charts. People think he got knocked out in the first five minutes."
"He probably punched himself by accident."
That drew laughter.
Until..
Luna turned—slowly.
Her silver eyes, pale as moonlit glass, settled on the boy who had laughed the loudest.
She didn't raise her voice. Didn't even lift her chin.
But the space between them seemed to freeze over, as though time itself paused to listen.
"Say his name again."
Her tone was soft—curious, almost gentle.
"I want to remember how you sound before you stop having a tongue."
The boy blinked, confused for a moment—then his expression tightened. "Wha—"
She didn't wait.
In one motion, Luna raised a single finger.
The silver ring on her hand glinted with dormant runes—runes she didn't activate. She didn't need to.
A thin line of invisible force zipped past his cheek.
There was a snap, a buzz, and a strand of his hair drifted to the floor, cleaved clean in two.
He froze.
Another second passed.
Then he reached up and realized that not only was his hair cut—but the sleeve of his robe was sliced open from shoulder to wrist.
He hadn't felt a thing.
Luna was already turning back to the rune-screen.
"He was a genius before he ever discovered he was classless," she said, eyes forward again.
"And unlike you, he doesn't need to open his mouth to be dangerous."
No one laughed after that.
Even one of the teachers that was few seats away subtly moved his drink to the other side, as though worried her next gesture might boil it.
The observation hall went frozen from Luna's sharp rebuke.
Her threat, veiled in silk and delivered with surgical precision, had hung in the air like a blade mid-swing.
But then—something else froze the room.
One of the rune-screens—one that had remained dark and unreadable since the match began—flared to life with a loud bzzt and a sudden burst of static.
It pulsed. Stabilized. Then cleared.
And in that instant, the entire observation deck collectively turned.
The noise died.
And every eye widened.
A brutal, dust-choked clearing.
Three figures—bloodied, battered, and ferocious—locked in a deadly triangle of movement.
One, a hulking werewolf who crouched and growling was
Fenrir Maverick.
A known menace from the Wulfgan tribes of the northern peaks—famous among werewolves for breaking boulders with his fists and ripping apart armored mechs during training evaluations.
He held the brutal nickname
"The Mountain's Maw."
But right now, he was barely standing.
His chest heaved with every breath, blood matting the white fur along his forearms.
Claw marks laced across his chest and back—some self-inflicted from missed swipes, others clearly someone's doing.
His last remaining orb blinked red. One clean hit, and he was out.
To his right—fluid and calm, twin blades spinning in his fingers like silver leaves—was Valois Laurent, the vampire prince himself.
They called him "The Demon Prince".
A prodigy not seen in generations.
Wielding two classes: Pyropex, a high-order fire specialization, and Aeromancer, master of wind manipulation.
Valois, by contrast, still carried a dignified air.
His clothes, though marred with burn-marks and cuts, still clung to him like tailored pride.
His dark red hair was only slightly disheveled, and his blades—though scorched and dull at the edges—were still in hand.
But his breathing told the truth. Shallow. Rapid.
Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
His belt still held two orbs, but one of them flickered dangerously, the surface lined with a delicate fracture like frozen lightning.
And
There he was...
between them—like a man daring the reaper to pick a side—stood A boy once hailed as a prodigy, a golden heir who burned too fast and fell too hard.
Classless. Reckless.
A fallen genius wrapped in scandal and silence.
To the world, he was a warning—what happens when brilliance turns bitter..
Eden Prairie.
Bare-handed. Bleeding. Shirt torn at the ribs and hanging like a banner in the wind.
He looked like a nightmare stitched together by sheer will.
His body was marked with deep gashes and layered bruises—but he stood.
Breathing. Moving. Fighting.
Against two of the deadliest opponents on the field.
Unarmed.
Classless.
Alone.
Just bruises, blood, and rage wrapped around bone.
He was breathing like a beast—but his posture was
unbowed.
His belt held two orbs.
One still intact.
The other? Minutes from breaking if not seconds.
Someone near the front seat pointed, voice stammering.
"Wait—is that…?"
"...Eden?" someone whispered.
"No. That's not possible," another student breathed.
"He's classless. He's supposed to be—"
"Disqualified," muttered someone else. "Or dead."
But the screen told no lies.
The overlay flickered:
Participants: Eden Prairie. Orbs Remaining – 2 (One Critically Damaged).
Valois Laurent (2 Orbs),
Fenrir Maverick (1 Orb - Critical).
Silence hit the room like a slap.
Then chaos.
"Holy shit, he's fighting them both—barehanded?!" a third-year blurted, practically climbing over their seat.
"Who the hell fights Fenrir Maverick without a weapon? That freak has crushed ogre bones with his bare fists!"
"And that's Valois! Valois Laurent! He has two classes—Pyropex and Aeromancer!
He's not just elite, he's one of the dangerous and deadliest vampire of his Age in imperial history!"
"He's fighting the Demon Prince—without a class?!"
The boy from earlier—the one who had laughed about Eden being
"probably already disqualified"—shrank so far into his seat it was like he wanted the floor to swallow him. His face had gone pale.
Luna hadn't spoken.
But now—she smiled.
Not the cold expression she often wore. Not the mask of noble grace.
This was something else.
Pride.
It was soft. Quiet. But fierce enough to break the chill around her eyes.
She whispered, almost to herself,
"That's my little brother."
Back to the arena
The clash of three titans unfolded beneath the glaring sun, each breath laced with blood, grit, and fury.
Fenrir Maverick—towering, feral, a Wulfgan bred for war—lunged forward with a thunderous snarl, his claws raking the air, aiming straight for Valois's chest.
The strike would've torn through steel—but Valois was already in motion, body coiling like a dancer as he twisted low, his twin blades flashing like liquid fire.
The first blade caught Fenrir across the ribs—a brutal horizontal slash.
The second struck lower, shearing across his thigh. Fenrir roared and stumbled, but didn't fall.
Eden seized the opening like a predator.
He darted in from behind, spun mid-stride, and sent a crushing heel-kick toward Fenrir's exposed back.
The Wulfgan grunted, staggered forward—and right into the path of Valois's final attack.
"Ignite."
With a whisper of command, Valois's right blade burst into white-gold flame.
The strike wasn't elegant. It didn't need to be.
It was fast.
A burning slash arced across Fenrir's chest like a comet.
His last orb—already glowing with critical damage—flared violently.
A burst of red light cracked from his belt as the orb shattered into a cloud of glittering fragments, blinking out of existence with a sonic snap.
The Wulfgan's legs gave out.
He collapsed to one knee, claws digging into the ground.
Blood dripped from his mouth.
His chest heaved.
His body trembled from blood loss and shock—but for a second, he looked up at the other two boys and... smiled.
"A damn good fight," he rasped.
And then he was gone—teleported away in a flash of light, leaving only a burned imprint on the earth where he fell.
---
In the Viewing Hall
The crowd that had once whispered about Eden now fell into an uneasy hush.
Some students rose to their feet, murmuring with surprise.
Gasps tore through the coliseum like a wave of oxygen-deprived panic.
One second Fenrir Maverick—the infamous "Beast of Northern Fangs"—was still on his feet, bleeding and growling, the next…
Thud.
The mighty Wulfgan fell to his knees, claws limp, fur singed, chest rising in short, ragged heaves.
His last orb—cracked, flickering—finally burst into a soft plink of shattered crystal.
Gone.
A red shimmer surrounded his body.
And then—poof.
Teleported.
For a second, silence reigned in the viewing hall.
Then—
"HE'S DEAD!" a student screamed from the back like a horror movie extra. "THEY KILLED HIM!"
"Someone call the infirmary!"
"What infirmary?! Call the forest druids! That guy needs a resurrection circle!"
A student with war paint and a dramatic cape threw himself onto the floor.
"NOT FENRIR! NOT MY FURRY KING!"
"Dude…" another girl sighed.
"He's not dead. It's a teleport spell. You literally watched three other people poof out before him."
"No! You don't understand!" the caped one sobbed.
"He was my emotional support werewolf!"
"That's it... that's Fenrir Maverick.
The Alpha Fang of the Wulfgan tribe.
They said he once survived a full minute alone against an Ironhide Troll..."
"He's going to need weeks in recovery... That slash—Valois went for the vitals."
A few heads bowed in quiet respect.
The girl from earlier, sighed again. "Idiots!"
"He didn't die," a third-year muttered, "but... he lost. That has to sting for someone like him."
Even some of the staff looked grim.
A healer from the infirmary turned to her colleague.
"Prep the wards. That boy's going to need immediate care the moment he materializes."
A nearby screen replayed the moment in slow motion—Fenrir's last stand, the flick of Valois's flaming blade, the way Eden's fist shoved his shoulder sideways in the final beat-down.
The audience groaned as the slow-mo showed Fenrir crashing to the dirt, limbs splayed like he had just faceplanted into the worst Monday morning of his life.
"I mean... that looked painful," someone muttered, wincing.
Another boy whispered, "I heard Wulfgans can survive falling off cliffs. Maybe this is just a nap for them?"
"Okay but did anyone else see how he flopped?" another chimed in.
"He just went full dramatic death pose. Like, one arm outstretched like he was reaching for the heavens."
"Ohhh!" A red-haired girl gasped. "They should've played sad violin music over it."
Someone actually whipped out a phone-crystal and played a somber melody. The crowd broke into chuckles.
---
Back in the Arena
Now it was just two.
The Demon Prince and The Fallen Genius.
Valois stood in the circle of scorched dirt, one blade dim, the other still flickering with dying embers.
His clothes was torn in places, the regal black of House Laurent streaked with soot and blood.
His face remained calm—serene, even—but the way his chest rose and fell betrayed the truth:
He was tired.
Eden didn't look calm. He looked like a disaster.
His chest was heaving, arms trembling with residual strain.
Blood ran down his side, sticky against the waistband where two battered orbs still hung from his belt.
One of them blinked rapidly, the glowing core flickering with unstable energy—seconds from shattering.
Yet Eden grinned.
Sweat rolled into his eyes. His hands clenched again, fists raw and red.
Valois stepped forward, blades raised again.
"You're persistent," he murmured. "I'll give you that."
Eden coughed, spitting blood, but didn't stop smiling.
"You talk too much."
And then they collided again.
Valois was faster, more precise—his strikes refined, the result of years of elite training.
But Eden was pure chaos. Unscripted. Brutal.
He slipped inside Valois's guard again and again, forcing the vampire to block with the flat of his blades, retreating in half-steps.
A fist to the ribs.
A shoulder slam to the chest.
A knee to the thigh that nearly knocked Valois off-balance.
And then—
BOOM.
The earth beneath them shuddered.
A deep, grinding tremor rolled through the battlefield like the roar of some ancient god awakening beneath the stone.
Both boys froze.
A pulse of runes surged across the arena floor.
The landscape around them began to shift—trees pulled out from the ground, cliffs rising where there was once flatland.
The terrain was changing.
New obstacles. New hazards.
And they were right in the epicenter.
Eden's smile faded. Valois's eyes narrowed.
The real fight hadn't ended.
It had only evolved.