The first thing Nigel noticed was warmth—not the smothering heat of fire and destruction, but something softer. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the walls, casting elongated shadows that swayed with the slow, rhythmic dance of the flames. The scent of aged wood mixed with the faint traces of tobacco, settling into the air like something old and lived-in.

  His fingers twitched.

  The last thing he remembered was the Sentinels surrounding him, weapons raised, their voices distant and unimportant beneath the crushing realization that there was no escape. He had been outnumbered, hunted. And now—

  Now, he was here.

  His eyes snapped open.

  The ceiling loomed high above him, the dark mahogany walls lined with towering bookshelves, each packed with tomes that smelled of dust and history. The room was too elegant, too foreign, its atmosphere weighted with an unsettling stillness that made his skin itch. Above, dozens of floating candles hovered in the air, their soft glow giving the space an almost ethereal quality.

  A voice pulled him from his disorientation.

  “This is the one.”

  Nigel tensed immediately.

  Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself upright, muscles stiff, breaths measured. The remnants of sleep clung to him, thick and disorienting, but he forced his thoughts into focus.

  "Where…?" His voice was hoarse, the word rough against his throat. He exhaled, blinking away the haze. "Where am I?"

  “You arrived here a few hours ago. Unconscious.” The man’s tone was smooth, practiced. “If you made it this far, it’s to register for the Chaos Tournament.”

  Nigel’s gaze snapped toward the speaker.

  The man appeared middle-aged, thin but composed, his presence exuding an effortless control that put Nigel further on edge. A quiet, unreadable authority wrapped around him like a second skin. He sat leaned back in an ornate chair, pipe in hand, its tip smoldering faintly as tendrils of smoke curled upward. His glasses reflected the warm glow of the candles, obscuring his eyes just enough to make him feel like an enigma.

  A few feet away, a woman stood in silence.

  Tall, elegant, her arms crossed in a way that made it impossible to tell if she was relaxed or simply waiting. She was watching him—not idly, but with a quiet intent, as if she were studying something beneath the surface.

  “Bernard D’Traue,” the man introduced, gesturing to himself with a small, practiced motion before nodding toward his companion. “And this is Amelie.”

  Nigel remained still.

  His heartbeat was still too fast. His body was still too ready to move. His mind kept slipping backward, pulled toward the memories he didn’t want to relive.

  Fire. Blood. The bodies he left behind.

  He rubbed his temple, forcing his thoughts to quiet. "Yeah," he muttered, voice flat. "I’m here to register."

  But his mind was still calculating, still weighing the risks. Still deciding if this was a trap.

  Bernard smiled faintly, something knowing behind the expression. “Then let’s get to it.”

  He rose from his chair with the kind of effortless grace that suggested someone accustomed to control. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he already knew that the young man wasn’t at ease.

  Nigel forced himself to move, trailing behind them through the massive hall.

  His senses stayed sharp, the weight of unease pressing against him with every step. Every instinct told him that something wasn’t right. The silence felt too curated, the lack of guards too intentional.

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  They entered a smaller room, where the decor was stripped down to the essentials—a wooden desk, two chairs, and little else. The space felt more utilitarian, free from unnecessary embellishments, designed solely for function.

  A place for negotiations. Or interrogations.

  “Take a seat,” Bernard said, motioning toward one of the chairs.

  Nigel sat, but he didn’t relax.

  His hands remained on the arms of the chair, his body slightly angled forward, weight balanced, ready to lunge at the first sign of danger.

  Bernard settled across from him, exhaling another slow breath as he adjusted a stack of papers. "We’ll make this quick."

  The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It carried something weightier, deliberate, a moment stretched just long enough to see if Nigel would react to it.

  Then—

  “Name, age, weight, and height?”

  Nigel exhaled, his expression unreadable. “Nigel Lowell. Twenty-one. A hundred and eighty-one centimeters. Seventy-eight kilograms.”

  Bernard hummed, jotting something down. His hand moved with an ease that suggested he had done this countless times before. "I assume you have skills, then?"

  Nigel hesitated for a fraction of a second.

  Then, he nodded. "Yeah."

  Bernard’s gaze lifted, meeting his over the rim of his glasses, studying him in the kind of way that suggested he already knew the answer to the next question.

  “And how many do you possess?”

  “Skip.”

  Bernard smirked faintly, unfazed. “Alright. What’s the dominant attribute?”

  “Next question.”

  Bernard let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as he tapped his pen lightly against the desk. “Pass, pass… You’re a cautious one, aren’t you?”

  Nigel didn’t bother answering.

  He simply watched as Bernard adjusted his glasses and set his pen aside. “Very well. You’re officially registered for the Chaos Tournament. That easy, right?”

  He then tossed a small, black wristband to Nigel.

  "This is your lifeline in the Tournament, the Chaos Bracelet" he said. "It tracks your status—health, stamina, injuries. It logs your combat performance, marks your location, and even keeps record of your inventory. Without it, you’re blind in the field. But as you’re just a newbie, there are a lot of locked functions that you’ll have to earn."

  Nigel picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The material was smooth and cold, impossibly lightweight yet undeniably sturdy. Despite its unassuming appearance, he could feel there was more to it.

  Bernard took a slow drag from his pipe, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "It also holds an initial balance of ten thousand credits. Use it wisely."

  Nigel slid the wristband onto his wrist, feeling it tighten automatically to a perfect fit. A faint pulse of energy rippled through it, barely noticeable.

  Bernard leaned back, his sharp gaze settling on Nigel. "Now, let’s talk about survival."

  Nigel flexed his fingers, his grip on the wristband tightening slightly. Something told him that whatever lay ahead, this piece of technology was going to be the difference between life and death.

  “The Tournament is brutal,” Bernard continued, his voice unhurried. “A competition where most never make it past the first few months.”

  Nigel said nothing, but his mind sharpened, absorbing every word.

  Bernard studied him for a moment before continuing. “You know about the Rings, don’t you? The Chaos Tournament is the only way to unlock more of them. But—” he paused, tilting his head slightly— “it has been over forty years since the last one was opened.”

  The words lingered between them, deliberate and heavy.

  “Forty years,” Bernard repeated, tapping his pipe against the ashtray. “In all that time, no one has been able to clear the Twelfth Stage.”

  Nigel’s fingers brushed against the wristband as his thoughts drifted.

  Forty years.

  How many had died chasing whatever lay beyond the Stage?

  Bernard’s gaze remained sharp. “The difficulty is simple. Each Stage is twice as hard as the previous one. By the time you reach the Twelfth, you’ll be facing a challenge two thousand times more difficult than the First.”

  Nigel barely reacted.

  “If,” Bernard added, “you even make it that far.”

  Finally, Nigel spoke, his voice flat. “And what’s the First Stage?”

  Bernard exhaled, pleased to see he was still interested. “A city. Massive. The size of an entire Ring.”

  Nigel processed that quickly. “And the challenge?”

  Bernard smirked. “You’ll find out once you enter.”

  Leaning back, Nigel ran a hand down his face. His body still ached. His mind was still catching up. He had barely escaped the Eleventh Ring, only to land himself in something far more dangerous.

  Bernard closed the folder in front of him and stood. “That’s all you need to know for now. The portal to the First Stage opens in a week. You’ve been assigned Room Sixty-Seven—just head upstairs, and you’ll find it. It would be good to wash yourself and rest”

  Nigel exhaled, rising from his seat. “Got it.”

  Bernard gave a slight nod. “Good luck.”

  Nigel turned toward the door—only to collide with someone.

  Amelie.

  She had entered hastily, barely stopping herself before impact.

  “Oh, sorry,” she muttered, stepping aside.

  Nigel gave a short nod and brushed past her, heading for the stairs.

  Behind him, the door clicked shut.

  Amelie lingered for a moment, her gaze flickering toward Bernard. “So… he’s her son.”

  Bernard sighed, adjusting his glasses before setting them down. “After all these years, a new variable enters the equation. And, just as I feared… he came willingly.”

  Amelie crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. “We failed. But now that he’s here… we have another opportunity.”

  Bernard’s gaze darkened. “Indeed. We should inform the boss.”

  A few minutes later, they exited the room.

  Bernard’s eyes drifted toward a locked cabinet in the corner of the hall, where faint breathing could be heard.

  “Time to clean up loose ends.”, he said, while materializing a dagger.

  There was a lot to do.