Two Days Later
The sun burned high above the Grand Arena, its light slanting through banners of flame-thread that danced in the dry wind.
This was the second phase.
The circle had already formed around the arena—the hundred Young warriors who claimed the hundred flags stood in silence, every eye pulled toward the towering Red Tower looming at the edge of the arena.
At its highest balcony—the Eye of Flame, they called it—the Chief sat, heavy cloak draped over his shoulders like a mantle of storms. Around him were the tribal elders, commanders, and overlords of the tribe. But my eyes didn't linger on them.
They landed on Raiga.
Clad in blackened robes etched with subtle flame patterns, he sat as if the chair had been made for him. Comfortable. At ease. Jared stood behind him—silent, stone-faced, as always.
I exhaled slowly and stepped closer to the crowd.
Whispers began to rise like embers around me.
"That's him."
"He broke the record."
"With his average Vahl? No way."
"He must've cheated. Or someone helped him."
I heard them all.
They weren't subtle. They didn't care if I noticed. In fact, I think they wanted me to.
Not one of them—not one—even entertained the idea that I might've done it alone.
I didn't flinch. I didn't answer.
Well, I lost the ability to care anyway.
The band around my arm—red and black, lined with silver flame runes—marked what I'd earned. Second Cup. Just like every one who completed the first phase.
My gaze drifted—and landed on three familiar figures.
Dark clothes. Masks. Standing still at the edge of the circle like shadows pulled into human form.
So they made it too, I thought, unsurprised.
We locked eyes for a second. Their stares were sharp, cutting through the dust and noise like knives.
Then—almost simultaneously—they looked away.
Like they hadn't seen me at all.
I Didn't push.
But then, something else tugged at my attention.
Three others.
Lucas. Lisa. Kael.
Standing just across from me. Watching. Studying.
Kael's face twisted the second our eyes met.
"He's looking at us without any shame," Kael spat, his voice low but full of heat. His fists were already clenched at his sides. "We should go over there and make him confess he cheated. There's no way he did it alone."
"Kael, we don't know that he cheated," Lisa said, trying to calm him. "Maybe he just… got lucky. Found the flag first. It's not impossible."
"There's no need for that kind of talk right now," Lucas cut in before Kael could argue. His tone was measured. Cool. But Lisa didn't miss the flicker in his eyes. The quiet rage he kept buried just beneath the surface.
"Whatever helped him before won't help him in this phase."
Lisa turned slightly, watching Lucas as he continued staring across the circle at Anazor.
Why does his name twist you like this…? she wondered.
Because every time Anazor was mentioned, Lucas changed—just a little but Lisa could always sense it.
A hush swept over the arena like the wind before a storm as the Chief of the tribe rose from his seat. The flames behind him seemed to flicker with the sound of his voice—deep, commanding, impossibly steady.
"Warriors of the Varak-Kai Tribe !" His voice echoed across the arena, silencing whispers and halting breath. "You have passed your First Trial as warriors . You have earned your place inside the tribe."
Cheers burst out briefly before falling quiet again as he raised his hand.
"And today, the Second trail begins. And it will not be like the last."
A pulse ran through the crowd.
"This is not a race. This is battle. You will fight—each of you. In the arena. The ten who stand above the rest shall rise to the rank of Third Cup. And the one among you who claims First Place will ascend to the Fang Rank—a title that many warriors spend years, even lifetimes, to earn. And you may earn it today."
The murmurs began again—louder this time.
"The outcome of this Trial will determine your place among the warrior ranks," the Chief continued, "and the resources, respect, and authority you will command in the tribe. "
While the Chief—my father—continued his speech, I looked up at him like everyone else. But I wasn't listening to his words. My eyes drifted to the way the wind pulled at his heavy cloak, and all I could feel was the quiet stillness in my chest.
For the first time in my life—I felt nothing looking at him.
No longing. No hunger for his approval. No fear of his disapproval. No anger either. He was just… a man.
A father in name only.
The Chief raised his hand once more, and the crowd leaned forward, waiting.
"There is one final rule," he declared, voice rising. "A new rule added to this year's Second Phase. Each of you will be given the right to refuse a fight once. Only once. Before a match begins, if you feel your opponent is beyond your ability, you may surrender without elimination. But choose carefully—this opportunity will not be granted twice."
Silence.
Then, noise.
A hundred whispers exploded across the arena in a single breath.
A rule like this had never been part of the Trials. It was unthinkable. The Trial had always been absolute—fight or fall. No exceptions. No mercy.
But now… a path to evade one battle.
All of them knew why.
They turned their heads, almost in unison, toward one person.
Lucas.
He stood quietly among the others, arms crossed, face unreadable—but there was no mistaking the pressure that pulsed around him. His presence was like a quiet storm, heavy and suffocating.
Raiga, watching from above, let a small grin pull at the edge of his mouth.
So that's why they added it, he thought.
From what he saw during the first phase, Lucas wasn't just strong—he was unnatural. Raiga was certain he hadn't used even half of what he was truly capable of.
If a normal kid was forced to fight him early… they wouldn't just lose. They'd be broken—physically, sure, but also mentally. Some might never recover, their growth crippled by shame and fear.
They were still kids, after all. Even warriors had breaking points.
Still…
It's excessive to change the tradition just for one boy, Raiga mused. Unless… there's something more behind it.
His eyes shifted—Lucas… then Anazor.
Well. Doesn't matter to me.
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
I just want to see which of them comes out standing.
The Chief's voice finally faded, leaving a charged silence across the arena. Dust settled for a heartbeat before being stirred again—this time by the slow, dragging steps of a new figure entering the center.
He didn't look older than Nisrin, maybe even younger, but the weight of his presence pressed on the crowd like heat.
A Drake Rank warrior.
The murmurs rippled instantly.
"Is that really a Drake?"
"He's so young…"
"They say there's only four at that level in the whole tribe under thirty."
He had a bored look plastered across his face, his half-lidded eyes dragging across the crowd like he couldn't be bothered to care. Two swords hung at either side of his hips, blades tied down with crimson cord. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed. His mouth opened in a slow yawn as he raised one lazy hand.
"Ugh, alright. Let's get this over with," he muttered, his voice drowsy and almost annoyed.
He pointed upward, toward the flying relic, and at his gesture, the thing shimmered—light pulsing like a heartbeat before it burst open in the sky. A flare of blue and gold, unfolding into a holographic list. Names—dozens—rippling into view like stars across a pond.
"This is the order of the fights," the Drake-ranked warrior muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "Try not to cry or die. I don't like cleaning up blood this early."
I looked up.
There it was. First name. First match.
Anazor of Northern Flower Clan vs. Veil of the Kazath Clan.
Of course. Tradition. The Chief's son always goes first.
A wave of sound rolled through the crowd like a tide of glass shards. Laughter. Gasps. Murmurs that didn't even try to hide themselves.
"Anazor?! Against Veil?!"
"No way he's walking out of that one."
"Phantom Dead… First round? That's just brutal."
"I bet he'll surrender. Has to haha."
I didn't need to look around to know they were talking about me. Their voices were loud enough, bold enough, as if I was already gone. Some of them just laughed. Others almost seemed relieved. Like my existence had been a stone in their shoes.
"Looks like he ran outta luck."
"Dying in the first round? That'd be ironic."
Lucas stood still, his gaze locked on the glowing list above.
His jaw tightened.
Fingers curled slowly into a tight, deliberate fist.
Veil…
All this time, he'd waited—waited to face Anazor himself. To settle it the way he always imagined. To finally take the revenge that burned in his chest like a quiet ember.
And now?
That chance might disappear before he even touched the arena floor.
Still, he kept his face still, unreadable.
Not a flicker of emotion.
But Lisa, standing close, glanced at him—just once—and saw it.
The tiny twitch at the corner of his jaw. The sudden sharp glint in his eyes.
Like something inside him had snapped, just a little.
I also could see it as I looked at Lucas's direction the heat of his eyes.
Still, I didn't flinch. My gaze drifted to the edge of the crowd. And there they were—the black-clad trio.
And Viel the dead phantom.
He looked right back at me.
Why do I keep running into you?
At the edge of the arena, the referee raised both flame-scarred arms, voice cutting through the weight of whispers.
"Anazor. Veil," he called.
"Enter the ring!"