Beside him, Vesper moved with liquid grace that was somehow more unsettling than Dante's obvious aggression.
His high-collared trench coat was a study in contradictions—pristine white exterior that gleamed like fresh snow, blood-maroon lining that flashed like a predator's grin with every calculated step.
The stiff collar framed the twin puncture scars on his throat like a macabre piece of jewelry, while silver rings along the belt loops clinked softly with each movement, each holding a vial of something dark and swirling that made her think of nightmares and forbidden experiments.
When he smiled—and he was always smiling—his fangs caught the light like polished ivory.
Xeari's asymmetric cape-coat flared as he turned to survey the crowd, one side draping elegantly to his knee while the other cropped sharply at the hip to reveal gilded greaves that caught the light like captured sunlight.
The fabric shimmered with golden claw marks, as if some great beast had tried—and failed—to tear free from his very essence.
When the wind caught it just right, the underside revealed constellations woven in silver thread, a celestial map only his lineage could decipher. It wasn't just clothing—it was a declaration, a challenge to any who doubted his right to rule.
He carried himself like a king who had never known doubt.
Kaelric followed, his longcoat sweeping the ground with glacial precision that left frost in his wake. Ice-blue circuits pulsed along the fabric like frozen veins, the dormant runes humming with barely restrained power that made the air itself crystallize around him.
The temperature dropped noticeably as he passed, his every step leaving a fleeting trail of frost that melted within seconds.
No frayed edges, no imperfections—just an impenetrable, impersonal chill that matched the arctic emptiness in his pale eyes. He looked like winter given human form, beautiful and deadly in equal measure.
And then there was Ryuzaki, his military trench coat tailored to razor-sharp perfection that spoke of discipline and deadly precision.
Violet foxfire embroidery glowed faintly at the cuffs like captured spirits, while an amethyst sash fluttered at his waist like a living shadow.
The katana at his hip rested in a mirror-polished scabbard, reflecting the faces of onlookers back at them—a warning and a promise wrapped in steel.
He moved like death walking, quiet and inevitable.
Students who were near them as they passed dropped into bows so deep their foreheads kissed the grass, their bodies trembling with a mixture of reverence and terror that made Blazar's stomach churn.
The sight was nauseating—all these proud, wealthy students reduced to groveling shadows by mere presence.
The kings ascended the Apex Gallery—a tiered observation platform of frosted crystal and chromium, floating fifteen feet above the arena on anti-grav generators that hummed with barely audible power.
The structure gleamed like a frozen lightning bolt, casting prismatic shadows over the cowed students below while making it clear exactly who ruled this particular kingdom.
From their floating throne, they could watch everything. Judge everything. Destroy everything.
Then, Vesper turned on his heel and strolled back through the crowd, and the brief relief that had settled over the students shattered like glass hitting concrete.
Those who had just begun to rise from their bows froze mid-motion, then dropped back into deep, exasperated genuflection as he passed, their backs aching with the strain of repeated submission.
His boots clicked against the polished stone floor with deliberate precision as he made his way toward the newbie trial candidates, each step echoing like a countdown to judgment.
The air grew thick with tension, the kind that made throats dry and palms sweat and hearts race with primal fear.
Students snapped to attention, backs straight as soldiers, lips sealed tight against any word that might be construed as disrespect.
One wrong word, one careless whisper, one moment of perceived insolence, and Vesper might decide to make an example out of them.
And then there was Blazar.
Unbothered. Unbowed. Completely, utterly unaware.
While the others trembled in perfect, obedient silence, she stood there with her headphones on, eyes closed, head bobbing along to some unheard beat as she tapped her left foot against the ground in time with music only she could hear.
The last bite of Vyne's Piroshki still lingered between her fingers, flaky crumbs dusting her sleeve like evidence of her complete obliviousness to the social catastrophe unfolding around her.
A few students nearby—maybe out of pity, maybe out of self-preservation—tried desperately to warn her. A sharp cough that sounded more like choking.
A hissed whisper that barely carried sound. Someone even dared to murmur her name 'Orion' under their breath, the word barely more than a breath of air.
But Blazar? Completely, blissfully oblivious to the approaching storm.
Until—
A cold hand plucked the headphones from her ears.
Her eyes snapped open, sharp and irritated, ready to unleash hell on whoever had dared interrupt her moment of peace—only to lock directly onto Vesper's amused crimson gaze.
He stood there, waiting with predatory patience, his smirk dripping with the unspoken demand: Apologize. Grovel. Beg for the mercy you don't deserve.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Blazar's temper flared like a match struck in darkness. "What?" she demanded, her voice carrying across the suddenly silent courtyard. "Listening to music is a crime now?"
A collective intake of breath from the surrounding students. Someone actually whimpered.
Vesper's grin widened, slow and infinitely dangerous, like a cat that had just spotted a particularly interesting mouse.
His fingers—elegant, deliberate, cold as marble—curved around her shoulder with deceptive gentleness, firm but not rough.
Yet. She tensed, muscles coiling like springs, already calculating whether she could break his grip before he decided to snap her neck for the unforgivable crime of insolence.
Her mind raced through scenarios, each one ending badly.
'He's going to kill me for not bowing.' The thought was crystal clear and terrifying in its simplicity.
"Relax," he purred, his upper fangs glinting in the afternoon light like polished daggers. The word rolled off his tongue like honey laced with poison. A light chuckle followed, smooth as aged wine and twice as intoxicating.
And that was when Blazar felt it.
A rush—like her blood had been set alight, burning through her veins in a single, dizzying surge that made her gasp.
Her skin prickled with sudden awareness, every nerve ending hyper-conscious of the weight of his hand, the proximity of his breath, the way his thumb brushed just slightly against the curve of her collarbone.
Her pulse hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it, could probably count the beats like a drum in the darkness.
For one terrifying, exhilarating second, her whole body hummed.
Not with fear.
Not with anger.
But with something infinitely more dangerously addictive—a relaxation so complete it felt like drowning in warm honey.
Every ache, every bruise, every lingering pain that had been her constant companion simply... vanished. Dissolved like sugar in rain.
When Vesper released her shoulder, the absence of his touch felt like losing sunlight.
Blazar blinked in confusion, rolling her shoulders experimentally—no stiffness, no twinge of discomfort, no reminder of yesterday's incident. Just... lightness. As if she'd been carrying invisible weights her entire life and had finally been allowed to set them down.
"You're feeling great now, huh?" Vesper asked, that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips like he knew exactly what he'd done to her and was enjoying every second of her confusion.
Blazar couldn't help but nod, still too stunned by the complete absence of pain to form words. When was the last time she'd felt this good? This... whole?
He looped her headphones around her neck with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing just once—too casually to be accidental—against the sensitive skin of her jaw.
The contact sent electricity racing along her nerve endings.
"Make sure you win," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to vibrate in her bones.
He tucked his hands into his pockets as he stepped back, but his eyes never left hers. "I don't like wasting my abilities on nothing."
Then, with a flash of fangs that caught the light like a promise of violence, he added, "Don't. You. Dare. Fail." His voice dropped to velvet-wrapped steel, each word a threat disguised as encouragement. "You won't like the outcome."
The promise hung in the air between them like a blade waiting to fall.
With that, he sauntered off, his stride lazy and arrogant, as if the entire world existed solely for his amusement. As if he hadn't just turned her entire understanding of herself upside down with a single touch.
Blazar stood there for a long moment, watching him go, her mind reeling from the encounter.
Her shoulder still tingled where he'd touched her, and she found herself unconsciously reaching up to press her fingers to the spot, as if she could capture the lingering warmth.
Then reality crashed back like a cold wave.
She shook her head slowly, a sad, defiant smile spreading across her face as she whispered to herself, "I'm sorry, but my mind is set on losing. I'll deal with the outcome as it is." The words carried all the weight of a decision that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with spite.
Let them expect victory. Let them invest their power in her success.
She would give them failure, and it would taste all the sweeter for being their chosen one.