The noise of the banquet had faded behind him.

  Elysius walked through the marble corridor alone, his boots echoing softly on the polished floor. He had escaped far from Bjorn and Cygnus, hoping for a moment of quiet.

  He reached for the handle of the outer door. The night beyond promised wind, distance, silence—but someone was already there.

  Princess Samartian stood waiting, her hood drawn back, her black gown glimmering faintly under the torchlight. Her eyes cold, violet, and sharp—fixed on him with the intensity of a blade held just shy of his throat.

  Elysius froze. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel, pretending not to notice her.

  “Not going out after all?” Samartian’s tone was half-mockery, half-command.

  He exhaled slowly through his nose, then turned back with forced politeness.

  “Oh. Hello, Princess. Long time no see. I—ah—thought this was the door to the lavatory. My mistake. I’ll just—”

  He tried to move past her, but she stepped into his path.

  “Wait,” she said sharply. “I’m not finished.”

  Her presence was suffocating. Samartian of the Abyss—cold and cruel as her lineage demanded. Everything about her grated on Elysius’s nerves: the way she looked down on him, the way she twisted every word into mockery, the way she smiled like she knew he’d rather run.

  “I heard,” she said, voice dripping with feigned sweetness, “that you wet yourself the last time you spoke to Lucretius.”

  Elysius blinked, dumbfounded. “What—? That’s not—! Don’t say things like that!”

  She leaned closer until their eyes met, a grin tugging at her lips.

  “Oh, I’m only asking,” she purred.

  “You always say that,” Elysius shot back, his composure cracking. “Why do you always have to start something with me? I’ve never done anything to you!”

  “Then maybe you should stop making it so easy,” she replied, smiling like she’d won a private game.

  Their voices began to rise, words growing sharper with every breath. A few commonfolk guests nearby turned their heads, drawn by the tension.

  Elysius clenched his jaw. “Listen, if you’re angry because I’m on the Council, I swear I never wanted to take anyone’s place. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  That made her laugh — not a pleasant laugh, but the kind that cuts.

  “You didn’t ask for it?” Samartian stepped closer, her voice lowering into a dangerous whisper. “The boy who was handed everything by the heaven says he didn’t ask for it?”

  Elysius’s expression darkened. For a heartbeat, the air around him seemed to hum.

  “Careful,” he said quietly. “You’re standing close enough for the gods to hear you.”

  Samartian tilted her head, unflinching. “Let them. Maybe they’ll finally realize their mistake.”

  "I am far more better than you are." Elysius cannot hold his annoyance.

  Samartian’s smirk widened.

  “Then prove it,” she said coldly. “If you’re really as noble as everyone claims, fight me after the tournament. Only you and me, or the other councils can watch.”

  Elysius let out a tired sigh. “Sorry, Princess. I have more important duties than fighting with you.”

  “Oh?” Her voice turned sharp, mocking. “More important than your useless little council meetings?”

  That cut deep. Elysius’s jaw tightened; his breath hitched in his throat. He wanted to shout — to break the silence around them with the words she deserved. But he didn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  Not because he feared her — but because she was a woman, and even in anger, his upbringing chained his tongue. And because the corridor was still full of eyes.

  Instead, he forced himself to smile. A blade’s edge disguised as civility.

  “Besides,” he said softly, “Your fate’s already written, the Abyss needs its princess to marry another prince.”

  Samartian didn’t flinch. Her composure was carved from obsidian.

  “How remarkable,” she said. “You can see the future as far now?”

  The jab slid through him again like a knife. For a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in her gaze — not anger, but something darker.

  Then it was gone.

  Before he could reply, the arena’s loudspeakers thundered to life — a booming voice echoing through every corridor of the Colosseum.

  Elysius immediately left Samartian, this time without hesitation.

  Seeing the boy leave, Samartian smiled faintly to herself, but it wasn’t triumph. Not quite.

  Something colder. Something closer to disappointment.

  “If the gods gave him the stars,” she murmured, “then I’ll take the sky from him piece by piece.”

  Elysius joins Starmist, Cygnus, Amaterasu, and Bjorn to watch the match.

  “Elysius,” Starmist said softly, watching the boy’s jaw still tense with lingering anger.

  “As you grow older, you’ll meet more people who will test your patience. The trick is learning which ones are worth the effort.”

  Elysius let out a breath and forced a smile. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll try to remember that.”

  The tension drained from his face, replaced with the restless excitement of youth. The argument with Samartian faded from his mind — the only thing that mattered now was the sound rising from the arena above.

  They would soon take their seats in the highest balcony, the sacred terrace reserved for the Council — a place that overlooked the entire Colosseum, its view stretching across thousands of roaring spectators and the vast circle of the central pit.

  But for now, they waited in the antechamber behind the stands. Three of their number were still missing.

  Far below, in the belly of the arena, Bjorn descended the narrow stone stairway into the underground chamber, a place forbidden to most, lit only by the flicker of a single gas lamp swaying above a round iron table.

  There, Lucretius and Leroy were already seated.

  Leroy was the first to speak, his voice low but steady.

  “I’ve got a proposal for tonight’s match,” he said. “Something... unconventional. But we’ll need several Vanguards themselves before we decide anything.”

  Bjorn folded his arms. “You’re planning something again, aren’t you?”

  Leroy only smiled. “Planning is what keeps the Realm interesting.”

  Above them, the Colosseum roared to life.

  The sound came like a storm breaking through the earth, waves of cheering, the blare of horns, the pounding of war drums that echoed through every corridor. The opening ceremony had begun.

  Then came the footsteps.

  Slow at first, heavy boots grinding against stone — then faster, louder, joined by the metallic clatter of weapons and armor. The sound multiplied, tenfold, twentyfold, until the entire corridor seemed to vibrate with it.

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  The guards lining the passage stiffened, their spears lowering instinctively.

  From the shadows of the tunnel, shapes emerged tall, monstrous, radiant, grotesque.

  Ten figures, each one distinct in silhouette: some human, some far from it.

  They filled the narrow passage, their movement unhurried but commanding, the weight of their presence forcing even soldiers of the Council to step aside. The very air thickened with their aura — the kind of power that made the body remember what fear was.

  The Regal Vanguard had arrived.

  The corridor itself seemed to reject them — walls of ancient brick, blackened with soot and burn marks from forgotten fires. The deeper they walked, the narrower the space became, until the torches barely illuminated more than the outlines of their faces.

  This was the oldest part of the Colosseum — a labyrinth built sixteen years ago by the League of Transcendent, back when the games were not sport, but spectacle.

  The walls, mottled with dark stains, seemed to breathe with memory. Though the stone had been scrubbed clean long ago, the mind remembered what the body refused to forget. A few of them even covered their mouths or noses, as if the air still carried the stench of blood.

  This used to be a killing ground.

  Now it was the foundation of entertainment for the upper realms.

  But for those who had fought in its earliest days, these halls carried weight. The kind that pressed on the spine and whispered through the heart.

  As they moved deeper, the air grew colder. A thin layer of water gleamed across the stone, slick and uneven. Ahead stood a small iron door — dark green, rust creeping along its hinges.

  Without hesitation, one of them pushed it open.

  Bjorn looked up as the first shadows reached the door.

  “Seems your guests are here,” he said.

  The door screamed against the frame, the sound slicing through the underground quiet.

  “Why did you summon us?” demanded Starfall, his voice commanding the room with the ease of someone used to being obeyed.

  Leroy rose from his chair, startled. He had expected two, perhaps three Vanguards at most — not nearly all of them.

  “What in the world?” muttered Leroy. “All of you are here?”

  “We were summoned,” said a deep, gravelly voice.

  The speaker was D’Hertz, of the Weapon Masters, a towering man with thick dreadlocks that framed his head like a lion’s mane. His leather jacket was studded with iron rings, wrists wrapped in chains and copper bangles. He looked more like a rock warlord than a knight, his every step radiating raw aggression.

  “Summoned?” Bjorn frowned. “By whom?”

  “By me,” said Lucretius, calm and pale beneath the flickering lamplight.

  Leroy turned, disbelief flashing in his eyes. “You called all of them?”

  Lucretius clasped his gloved hands behind his back, tone unhurried. “Relax, no secrets among warriors tonight.”

  A scoffing laugh echoed from the corner.

  Brunhild, the Cogworks representative, leaned against the wall, her bronze armor glinting under the lamp. Her helmet, crafted with mechanical wings, hissed faintly as its joints adjusted.

  “So confident, Lord Knight,” she said. “You didn’t even tell us it was you who sent the summons. Were you afraid we might not come?”

  Lucretius’s lips curved in a faint, cold smile. “You came anyway.”

  Brunhild’s single artificial eye a faint red lens embedded in her temple — flickered. “Don’t mistake curiosity for loyalty.”

  Bjorn sighed, glancing between them. “Are we planning a meeting or a civil war?”

  Behind the banter, Gruk stood silently near the door, a hulking mega simian with pale blue fur streaked with white like Yeti, holding a spear made of enchanted ice that misted faintly in the stale air.

  “I don’t have all night,” he rumbled. “I’m fighting soon, against that corpse-faced over there.”

  He gestured at Raidbones, who stood beside him, another mega simian grinned, teeth flashing. “Oh, come now. Don’t act like you’re not looking forward to it.”

  Gruk’s knuckles tightened around his spear. “Keep laughing while you still have a jaw.”

  “Bjorn! What in the blazes are you doing down here? Get out!”

  The shout came from Sigurd, the iron-clad prodigy of the Cogworks Consortium, as he stepped into the lamplit chamber. His gauntlets gleamed, and the strange machinery coiled along his back hissed with steam.

  Bjorn, sitting lazily at the round table, puffed once on his cigar before flicking it straight at Sigurd.

  “Watch your tone, brat.”

  Sigurd dodged easily, laughing as the ember hissed against the stone floor. “Apologies, Professor. I forgot how sensitive the elders can be.”

  “Keep talking,” Bjorn muttered. “And I’ll remind you what old hands can still do.”

  “Enough,” said Leroy sharply.

  Then Remini spoke, her tone firm, her armor creaking softly as she adjusted the straps of her leather battle harness.

  “Lucretius, why summon us like this? Is something wrong?”

  “I agree,” said another voice deep, confident, the kind of voice that filled rooms.

  From near the entrance stood a broad-shouldered man with a heavy chestnut mustache and forearms like hammers. He wore a dark brown work overall, the fabric stretched tight over muscle, and a small round cap with a clover emblem sat crooked on his head. In one hand, he idly squeezed a steel hand-grip, each flex sounding like a pistol cocking.

  The Thousand Fists of the Weapon Masters, leaned against the wall and eyed Lucretius with faint suspicion.

  “Normally you hate crowds. So what’s different tonight?”

  The question hung in the dim air.

  Behind him entered something far strange, an alien figure, humanoid in shape but unmistakably not of this world. His skin shone a muted violet under the lamp’s glow; his hands bore only three fingers, and behind his lips glinted a pair of curved, venomous fangs. His suit a full-body armor of pale gold and ivory — sealed him completely from neck to foot, leaving only his face visible through a thin glass visor.

  Druganda of the House of Venoria, representative of the Extraterrestrial Faction. Known by reputation as the most poisonous lifeform in the Realm.

  And behind him came the last arrival.

  A chill followed him like a breath of grave air.

  Ender Dryskull, the pale swordsman of the Northern Abyss, stepped into the light. His body was wiry and bent, his skin the color of frostbitten bone. He wore tattered white cloth wrapped loosely around his frame, a hood drawn low over his hollow eyes. In one hand, he always dragged a long, blackened sword, its edge scraping sparks from the stone floor with every step.

  The sound hissed through the room like the rasp of a dying fire.

  Lucretius waited until the last echo faded before he spoke. His voice, calm and precise, carried the kind of authority that demanded silence.

  Almost every members stood before him now. Only a few were missing: Susanoo, still under suspension; one from the Elementalist Faction, another from the Cogworks Consortium; and one from the Weapon Masters.

  “First,” he said, “I need to make something clear.”

  His gaze swept the room — across the humans, the aliens, the hybrids, and the monsters who bore the title of Regal Vanguard.

  “If any of you cause trouble now, your fate will like Susanoo’s.”

  That name struck like a blade. The silence that followed was heavy. A few nodded quietly. Others muttered or gave lazy gestures of acknowledgment.

  No one dared challenge the warning outright.

  Lucretius turned slightly. “Leroy.”

  The Green Wraith stepped forward, his boots echoing softly on the stone. Around him, the Vanguards shifted — some standing, some crossing their arms.

  Only Dryskull stayed where he was — lowering himself to sit on the ground with a soft grunt, back against the wall. He drew his sword into his lap and rested his head against it, eyes closed, as though sleep might come even here.

  No one told him to stand.

  Leroy began to speak.

  “Good. Then we can begin the real reason we called you here.”

  Starlax and Morrigan had followed the Vanguards in secret, trailing them through the maze of stone corridors that coiled beneath the Colosseum.

  It was rare, almost unthinkable — to see so many of the Regal Vanguard gathered in one place. And rarer still to see them descend into the underground.

  Curiosity burned brighter than caution.

  The two pressed their ears against the cold brick wall, the texture rough against their skin. Through the stone came muffled voices — sharp, commanding, familiar.

  Inside, the air crackled with the tension of warriors who had seen too many wars.

  “Because of Susanoo’s suspension,” Leroy was saying, “three of tonight’s matches can’t proceed. That leaves us with open slots and a problem.”

  Across the table, Lucretius leaned forward, his tone calm but deliberate.

  “We have discussed it. We can still host the duels... if we find a replacement.”

  He turned, eyes falling on the young man leaning against the far wall.

  “Starfall, do you still intend to fight?”

  Starfall straightened.

  “Of course,” he said. His voice carried both confidence and hunger. “That’s what I came for.”

  Bjorn’s cigar glowed red as he gestured broadly to the assembled warriors.

  “Then let’s not waste time. Which of you will face him?”

  His gaze swept the line of Vanguards, each towering and silent in the half-light.

  Gruk, Raidbones, Sigurd already assigned opponents. That left the others.

  “Why the sudden challenge?” asked Remini, tightening her armor straps.

  “Sudden?” Leroy chuckled. “You’re all wearing full battle gear. If you weren’t ready to fight, you wouldn’t be dressed for war.”

  That drew several glances. Even those who protested knew he was right.

  “We came to watch, not to be toyed with,” Brunhildr muttered, crossing her arms.

  Bjorn slammed his iron gauntlet on the table, the echo thundering through the chamber. “Is that it then? You’re afraid to fight him?”

  The insult hit like a thrown knife. Every warrior in the room stiffened. Even Thousand Fist, leaning lazily against the door, straightened his back and cracked his knuckles.

  “You want a fight?” he growled. “Fine. I’ll fight your pretty boy, while your father isn't here.”

  Starfall smiled faintly. “Don't you dare bring my father's name.”

  But not all were fooled.

  Brunhild’s mechanical wings hissed softly as she adjusted her helm. “Don’t let him bait you,” she said coolly. “This must be Bjorn’s old game, provoke the pride, watch who takes the bait.”

  Remini nodded, eyes still on her open spellbook. “He’s testing us, not challenging us.”

  Druganda said nothing, his violet face hidden behind the reflective glass of his visor. The alien’s fingers tapped the side of his helmet in thought — slow, deliberate, calculating.

  D’Hertz, on the other hand, chuckled. “A test is still a fight, isn’t it? Count me in.”

  Still, the tension lingered — indecision hanging in the stale air like a physical weight.

  Then Lucretius rose.

  “If none of you wish to face Starfall,” he said, “then I will randomly choose one of you to fight me.”

  The words froze everything.

  Even the ever-jesting Bjorn went still.

  For a long heartbeat, no one spoke. The lamplight flickered across Lucretius’s face features, making his eyes gleam like hollow moons.

  The Fallen Knight had issued his challenge.

  Behind the wall, Starlax and Morrigan exchanged looks.

  “He’s serious?” Morrigan whispered.

  Starlax’s pulse raced. “They’re really going to fight… down here?”

  Inside the room, Leroy finally broke the silence. “You’re sure about this, Lucretius?”

  The Fallen Knight smiled faintly. “Absolutely.”

  Bjorn gave a low whistle. “Well then,” he said. “This just got interesting.”