The first arena was nothing like Andrew expected.
Carved into the heart of Caedros, it was a hollowed-out crater of metal and floating stone, suspended over open sky. Platforms hovered midair, drifting in irregular patterns like islands on invisible waves. Jagged terrain. No walls. No escape. The spectators circled in a ring of crystal amphitheaters suspended high above, protected by runes and reinforced glass.
A voice, calm and cold, echoed across the void.
"Trial One: The Culling.
Forty champions enter.
Ten advance.
You fall—you fail.
Begin.**"
No countdown. No explanation. Just chaos.
A flash of flame burst to Andrew's left—someone from Yllvane, hurling molten spears across a floating gap. To his right, a fighter blinked out of existence and reappeared mid-air, slamming their staff into an opponent's chest. The man flew backward, missing a platform by inches—then fell into the sky.
Disqualified.
Andrew didn't move at first. He watched.
Analyzed.
The real threat wasn't the powers. It was the platform.
Fighters were being lured into chasing each other across the floating stones, burning stamina, wasting their gifts. The smart ones were controlling space. Holding position. Forcing mistakes.
He crouched low, tightening his stance. His sword whispered as he drew it. A light blade, slightly curved. Fast, not heavy. Forged by poverty. Honed by need.
Someone landed hard in front of him—a hulking brute from Gol-Karath, muscles coated in stone armor, fists like battering rams.
"Out of the way, peasant."
Andrew tilted his head. "Try."
The man roared and charged. Predictable.
Andrew didn't parry—he slid, letting the man's momentum carry him past. At the last second, he twisted, blade flashing.
Not a killing strike—just a tendon cut. Precise. Cruel.
The brute screamed as his ankle gave out. He stumbled toward the edge—and plummeted off the platform, cursing the whole way down.
Andrew didn't look back.
One down.
Above, names blinked out one by one from a floating scoreboard, each accompanied by a dull chime. The crowd cheered, but Andrew tuned them out. He moved through the chaos with sharp, purposeful steps—ducking blasts, baiting wild swings, never overextending.
He wasn't here to prove anything. Just survive.
A sudden pulse in the air made him freeze.
A hum.
He turned and saw her—Kaelira, the Pyreward of Vellvire—standing on a raised platform of molten glass, arms raised, heat rippling the air.
One wide gesture, and a wave of flame surged across three platforms, sending two fighters diving—one made it. One didn't.
Andrew didn't look away.
Kaelira met his eyes through the heat haze.
She smiled.
It wasn't friendly.
Elsewhere, the Storm-Blooded Prince was carving a path through the field, lightning dancing across his shoulders like a cloak. His eyes were calm. Detached.
Andrew tightened his grip on his sword.
Five left to fall.
He moved quickly now, letting the platforms carry him, stepping into confrontations only when necessary. He didn't waste motion. Didn't waste words.
By the time the final platform disintegrated beneath a fallen combatant, Andrew stood bloodied, breathing hard, but upright.
A long silence.
Then a single tone—low, reverent.
The Trial was over.
Above, ten names hovered in golden light. Andrew's was last.
That was fine.
He only needed to be on the list.
For now.