Even among the Regal Vanguard, few dared to cross Lucretius.

  The very mention of his name carried the weight of command; he was not merely a knight of the Abyss — he was its general, its executioner, its silence made flesh.

  When he spoke, agreement was not requested, it was expected.

  And so, one by one, the warlords of the Realm lowered their heads.

  Better to fight Starfall, they decided, than to challenge the Fallen Knight himself.

  Bjorn, ever the instigator, gave a crooked grin.

  “Relax, all of you. If it came to it, Lucretius could fight three of you at once.”

  The words earned him a few glares, but he only laughed, smoke curling lazily from his mouth.

  “Fine,” said Remini, her voice crisp beneath the brim of her battle helm. “But keep this match clean. Most of us weren’t exactly planning to fight tonight.”

  The room murmured in agreement.

  Thousand Fist cracked his knuckles, the sound like distant thunder.

  Druganda began to mutter under his breath, calculating probabilities in that alien tongue of his.

  D’Hertz plucked the strings of his guitar, tuning it with a faint metallic hum that seemed almost like growling.

  And Brunhild, stepped to the back of the room, arms crossed, her metal wings folding against the wall.

  At last, grudgingly, they all agreed.

  Bjorn clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Then it’s settled, after the second match, the audience will vote for Starfall’s opponent. Let’s give them a little fan service, shall we?”

  The idea sparked immediate uproar and disbelief. But Starfall beamed like a boy given a sword for the first time.

  “Thank you, councilmen,” he said, eyes bright. “I won’t disappoint.”

  Leroy cleared his throat, breaking the stillness.

  “Good. Then it’s decided. The council has what it needs — a replacement duel, a full roster, and a crowd that won’t go home disappointed.”

  He turned toward Raidbones and Gruk. “You two prepare. You’re up first.”

  Raidbones stretched, his skeletal grin widening. “Finally,” he said. “Thought we’d rot down here before the match started.”

  Gruk grunted in agreement. “I’m ready.”

  But as they moved toward the exit, Leroy raised a hand.

  “Before you go, I’ll need at least five of you to oversee the Silver Chair Summit.”

  Thousand Fist groaned. “It's too far from the schedule. We’ll discuss it after the tournament.”

  “Agreed,” said Starfall, impatient.

  Leroy nodded slowly. “Then we’ll conclude here. I’ll send word about the summit once the matches end.”

  Chairs scraped. Armor clinked. One by one, the Vanguards began to move stretching sore limbs, rolling shoulders, eager to leave the weight of the underground behind.

  They believed the meeting was finished.

  They believed the night’s business was done.

  Until that same rasping cough tore through the silence again.

  Dryskull hadn’t moved. but this time, his head was tilted up.

  “Apologies,” rasped Dryskull, still seated against the wall, his head bowed low.

  “But there are two children listening outside.”

  For a heartbeat, silence. Even Druganda, who already had his hand on the door handle, froze mid-motion. His alien eyes widened slightly behind the visor.

  Outside, Starlax and Morrigan turned pale.

  “Run!” Morrigan hissed.

  They bolted down the corridor, but before they could reach the turn, a flash of green light filled the passage.

  In an instant, Leroy appeared before them, relic energy still crackling in the air. In his haste, he accidentally shouldered Druganda aside while pushing through the doorway.

  The alien staggered. Sigurd, D’Hertz, and Gruk immediately rushed to steady him — gripping his arms and armor with urgent precision.

  “Careful, Leroy, have you lost your mind!” Sigurd barked. “If he falls and that suit tears, we’ll all be poisoned!”

  Leroy ignored them, seizing Starlax and Morrigan by the wrists before either could flee. The two young heirs were wide-eyed, half terrified, half in awe.

  The small door creaked wider as one by one, the Vanguards stepped out a procession of rude people emerging from the shadows.

  Leroy released the children, straightening.

  “What exactly were you two doing down here?”

  Neither answered immediately. Morrigan and Starlax stood frozen.

  They were surrounded, not by guards, but by warlords.

  Raidbones was the first to speak, his voice a low rumble.

  “My prince,” he said, recognizing Morrigan and lowering his head slightly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Then Druganda tilted his head toward Starlax.

  “Wait... isn’t that your little sister, Starfall?”

  A faint murmur rippled through the group.

  From the back, Starfall’s voice cut through the noise. “What?”

  He pushed past the others, his expression tightening when he saw her.

  “Starlax, you naughty girl” he snapped, “why are you here? You’re not supposed to be in arena!”

  She lowered her head, guilt flooding her voice. “So sorry, big brother, please don't tell father. I just... wanted to see the Vanguards.”

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  Morrigan stepped forward, placing himself between her and Starfall. “It’s my fault. I dragged her down here. You can blame me.”

  There was a pause — then laughter.

  Not mocking, but genuine, rolling through the room like a break in the storm. Remini chuckled softly, shaking her head.

  “It seems the new generation of Abyss royalty has lost its fangs,” she said.

  “Or maybe,” Gruk added, crossing his arms with a grin, “Prince Morrigan showing courage early.”

  Morrigan straightened, pride flickering across his face. Even Lucretius, standing near the back, allowed himself the smallest, rarest of smiles — a ghost of approval.

  Starfall rubbed his temples. He knew he should be furious; he had been explicitly ordered to keep Starlax out of trouble.

  But what could he say? She was his sister.

  And, truth be told, he had never been a good brother.

  Finally, he sighed. “Okay, fine, I'll not tell this to father.”

  Bjorn laughed around his cigar.

  “Well,” he said, “at least something wholesome happened in this cursed place.”

  “Don’t jinx it,” muttered Sigurd.

  Leroy turned to Bjorn.

  “Take the children up first,” he said. “Lucretius and I will follow with the others.”

  Bjorn arched a brow, cigar glowing faintly between his fingers.

  “A fine attempt Vanguards,” he said dryly, “winning the young prince’s heart through discipline and mercy.”

  Some Vanguards couldn't accept it, they were actually praising Morrigan from their heart.

  Leroy exhaled through his nose. “Enough, Bjorn. Don’t make it worse.”

  The professor grunted, then rested a heavy hand on each child’s shoulder. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s get you two out of the dungeon before something else decides to kill me.”

  The climb was long. The air grew less damp with each step, but colder somehow — like the walls carried ghosts rather than heat.

  Bjorn’s breathing deepened as they ascended the spiral stairway. His boots scraped against ancient stone, each echo swallowed by the endless hallways above.

  Starlax glanced up at him, concern breaking through her timid silence.

  “Are you all right, Professor?”

  Bjorn chuckled, waving her off. “I’ve survived worse stairs than these.”

  Still, sweat gathered at his brow. His body, heavy with age, carried the fatigue of decades.

  The corridors they passed through were dim and narrow — remnants of older structures buried beneath newer glory. Even the torches burned slower here, as though the air resisted light itself.

  The silence pressed in until Bjorn finally broke it.

  “So,” he said, half to himself, “you two weren’t afraid to sneak down there?”

  Morrigan shrugged. “Why would we be? The halls of the Abyss are darker than this.”

  Bjorn smirked. “Yes. But not all darkness is the same.”

  Starlax tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  He hesitated. “Nothing,” he said finally. “Forget I asked.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments more.

  Then Starlax spoke again, her tone lighter, almost naive.

  “We followed the Vanguards. If anyone dangerous showed up, we’d just yell for help. They’d protect us, right?”

  Morrigan nodded. “Besides, we’re kind of important. No one would dare harm us.”

  Bjorn stopped for a heartbeat, gazing at them both, the prince and the starborn girl, walking side by side through a corridor soaked in the blood of history they didn’t know existed.

  “Tch,” he muttered softly. “Maybe too important.”

  He didn’t tell them that this place had once been called the Hall of Slaughter, or that the bricks beneath their feet were laid with ashes from another age.

  The history of the Colosseum, he realized, had been deliberately buried — polished over with music, banners, and light.

  A lie of comfort for a generation that had never seen war.

  He wondered if that was kindness… or cowardice.

  Not long after Bjorn left the children at the main gate, Leroy, Lucretius, and the Vanguards entered through the same corridor.

  The difference was in hierarchy: the Vanguards’ seats lay just below the balcony reserved for the Council, while the commonfolk and nobles filled the tiers that spiraled endlessly upward.

  Bjorn paused at the archway before stepping inside. He lit his cigar again, the ember flaring briefly against the night air. Together three of them ascended the next flight — two floors above the Vanguards’ section, where the Council’s balcony overlooked the entire arena like a throne of judgment.

  The other Council members — Starmist, Cygnus, Amaterasu, and Elysius emerged from the side hall when they heard the growing noise outside.

  Bjorn’s grin was already mischievous. “Well then,” he said, puffing on his cigar, “shall we make the first match interesting?”

  Cygnus raised an eyebrow. “You mean that old habit of yours?”

  Bjorn smirked. “Exactly that. The first fight always deserves a wager.”

  “I’ll put up one of my task droids,” Bjorn declared.

  “Predictable,” said Cygnus, resting his hand on his staff. I’ll offer one vial of Elixir of Adrenaline.”

  Amaterasu’s crimson lips curved upward. “And I’ll wager my flame-carved katana. You know the one.”

  Starmist feigned surprise, though her smile betrayed familiarity. “You three still keep that tradition?”

  “It’s hard to break old habits,” Bjorn said dryly.

  Elysius leaned forward in protest. “Let me join, just this once!”

  Bjorn barked a laugh. “Out of the question.”

  “Why not? I promise I won’t use foresight!”

  “That,” said Amaterasu, “is exactly why we can’t let you play. You ruin all the fun.”

  The boy scowled, folding his arms while the rest chuckled at his expense.

  Lucretius stepped forward then, he want to get in the room immediately.

  But Bjorn exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Speaking of getting serious — Luce, care to place a wager?”

  Without hesitation, Lucretius answered. “Burgess. He’ll take the first match.”

  He turned and entered the Council’s viewing chamber, his steps slow but certain.

  Elysius, still pouting, tried again. “Come on, just one bet! One!”

  Bjorn waved him off. “No, and that’s final. Starmist, take the boy inside before he starts betting his soul.”

  The two of them walked into the balcony chamber, the crowd’s cheers swelling as the Council of Six appeared in full view.

  Leroy lingered behind them, he whisper. “Actually,” he said, “put me in too. I’ll take Burgess same as Lucretius.”

  Bjorn’s brow lifted. “And your stake?”

  “My trophy, from the last betting season.”

  Amaterasu laughed. “Oh, the one you swore you’d never risk again?”

  Bjorn joined in. “Now that’s a bet worth watching.”

  Even Cygnus chuckled softly, shaking his head.

  One by one, the Council members moved to their seats, the laughter fading into focus as they faced the brilliance of the arena.

  The Council Balcony resembled the royal dais of old — vast, gilded, and open to the night sky.

  At its center sat Lucretius, calm and still as stone. To his right: Starmist, then Leroy, and Elysius beside him.

  On his left: Cygnus, then Amaterasu, and finally Bjorn, whose cigar smoke drifted lazily into the stars.

  Below them, the Vanguard’s row gleamed with armor and relics — silent figures waiting for their moment.

  And beyond them stretched the sea of the living: nobles, warriors, scholars, and commoners alike, filling every tier, waving banners under a storm of lights and fireworks.

  The opening ceremony had ended, the dancers gone, the music fading, and now, only the pulse of anticipation remained.

  The crowd rose to their feet as the seven Council members took their seats, their applause thunderous enough to shake the foundations of the Colosseum.

  Down in the royal guest section, near the edge of the battle floor, Starlax and Morrigan found their places.

  They slipped into the front row beside Samartian, who sat with her hood down and her arms crossed, still wearing that perpetual look of disdain.

  “Where have you two been?”

  Samartian’s voice was sharp with irritation as Morrigan and Starlax finally reached their seats.

  “We were watching the Vanguards,” Morrigan said quickly, dropping into the chair on his sister’s left. Starlax took the one on the right, still a little breathless from their rush through the halls.

  Around them, the section buzzed with conversation — nobles, commonfolk elites, and superhumans from every faction mingling freely. It was one of the few nights when status mattered less than spectacle. Every seat was filled; every eye was fixed on the arena below.

  The Colosseum of Gods was awakening once more.

  The Master of Ceremony a commonfolk herald stepped onto the sands — the official voice of the arena. He stood in the middle of the arena, all the spotlights are on him, leaving the dark side in the other parts.

  “Citizens of the Realm,” he began, “on behalf of the Council, I welcome you to the annual Tournament.

  Tonight, champions of six great factions will remind us that even in peace, strength endures.”

  His words were brief, deliberate. The appearance of the entire Council together, seven figures seated side by side — was a rare sight, and a symbol in itself.

  For the crowd, it meant one thing: the balance of the Realms still held.

  “Tonight’s opening match,” he declared, his voice echoing across the dome, “pits Sigurd of the Cogworks Consortium against Burgess of the Weapon Masters!”

  A wave of cheers swept through the stands.