From the east gate, Sigurd The Mischief Paladin emerged.

  He was lean and sharp-featured, with long black hair that hung like ink against his silver armor. His movements were light, too light for a man clad in metal and every step carried the poise of a strategist rather than a brute.

  His weapons were works of dark art of mechanical:

  On his right arm, a wolf-headed gauntlet, fangs bared — Fenrir.

  On his left, a ram-horned brace, spiraled and ridged with hidden pistons — Hela.

  Coiled around his back like a living whip, a serpent of articulated steel — Jormungandr.

  Each relic pulsed faintly with runic light, their inner machinery hissing in rhythm with his breath.

  As he stepped into the arena, Sigurd raised one hand, laughing, and offered a crisp salute toward the Council’s balcony.

  The crowd roared in return.

  Then, from the west gate, came Burgess, The Jungle King, one of the nine leaders of the Weapon Master gang.

  At first, he appeared unassuming — tall, wiry, dressed in a crimson martial tunic with short sleeves, hands wrapped in reinforced gloves lined with small, serrated edges.

  A ripple of anticipation moved through the spectators.

  Because everyone knew what came next.

  Burgess stopped at the arena’s center, closed his eyes, and drew a long breath. The ground trembled beneath his feet.

  Then came the change.

  His bones cracked, his muscles bulged, his jaw elongated.

  Fur — thick and golden, rippled across his skin as claws burst from his hands.

  When he opened his eyes again, they gleamed like molten amber.

  The Lionshifter had arrived in it's hybrid form.

  The transformed Burgess threw back his head and unleashed a roar so powerful it shook dust from the rafters.

  The response from the crowd was instant — an eruption of cheers that seemed to shake the very heavens.

  Match begins.

  Sigurd and Burgess circled each other in silence, the tension almost tangible.

  The crowd erupted into a roar that rolled through the night like thunder.

  Dust and light swirled together above the arena floor as the two warriors faced each other.

  Then Burgess moved fast.

  He lunged forward, claws carving deep gouges in the sand as he sprinted straight for Sigurd. The mechanical knight’s eyes widened; his gauntlets flared.

  Too late.

  Burgess leapt, a blur of muscle and gold, and brought his fist down like a hammer.

  The impact exploded in a cloud of dust and grit that swallowed half the field.

  The crowd gasped—then fell silent.

  When the smoke cleared, Sigurd was gone.

  A shimmer of red light flickered from the wolf-faced gauntlet Hela on his left arm — its eye glowing. The illusion faded, revealing the real Sigurd standing several paces away, untouched and smirking.

  “Now, now,” he called out, voice smooth and mocking. “If I let you win that quickly, where’s the fun in that?”

  Burgess snarled and charged again, zigzagging in erratic, predatory bursts. His claws slashed through the air, his movements too wild for calculation.

  Sigurd tried to track him, but Fenrir’s targeting censor flickered, unable to predict the beast’s motion.

  Then Burgess leapt — his silhouette eclipsing the firelight and came crashing down.

  Again, the strike passed through an illusion.

  The real Sigurd appeared behind him, raising his right arm. The Fenrir gauntlet pulsed, the eyes burning bright as it unleashed a magnetic wave that dragged Burgess backward, off balance.

  “Come here, you cat,” Sigurd hissed.

  With a twist of his wrist, Jormungandr, the steel serpent coiled across his back, snapped forward — uncoiling like lightning. It wrapped around his left arm, fusing with his gauntlet, and he swung it like a whip.

  The blow cracked through the air and struck Burgess square in the chest, hurling him across the sand in a spray of golden fur and dust.

  Bjorn shot to his feet, cigar between his teeth.

  “Wahahaha! That’s the spirit of the Cogworks!”

  “Sit down, you maniac,” Amaterasu said, rolling her eyes, though a faint smile betrayed her amusement.

  The rest of the Council leaned forward, intent. Even Lucretius’s stoic gaze flickered slightly with interest.

  Burgess rose slowly, growling. His breath steamed in the cold night air.

  Sigurd smirked. “Careful, cat. Rage makes you clumsy.”

  Burgess’s eyes narrowed. Then he vanished — darting side to side in unpredictable bursts, faster and faster, until even Sigurd’s targeting sensors began to desynchronize.

  “Not again,” Sigurd muttered, his voice breaking the illusion of calm.

  The Lionshifter appeared out of nowhere, slashing downward—

  —but again, his claws met nothing but dust.

  Sigurd was already flew above him, anchored midair by the writhing chain of Jormungandr, which lashed downward like a meteor. The steel serpent slammed into Burgess, driving him into the ground hard enough to rattle the seats above.

  Before the crowd could react, Sigurd’s right gauntlet flared once more, and Fenrir’s magnetic pull hurled Burgess skyward — only for Sigurd to whip him back down again with Jormungandr.

  He struck again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each hit landed with the force of a cannon.

  “Stop the match, he’s finished!” someone shouted from the stands — but the crowd’s roar drowned them out.

  From her seats, Starlax clapped her hands in awe.

  “That was amazing! Sigurd’s power is unreal!”

  Beside her, Morrigan grinned. “You can’t underestimate the Vanguards.”

  Sigurd stepped back, panting lightly. “Well then,” he said, brushing dust from his armor, “I suppose that—”

  A sudden blur of motion cut him off.

  Burgess exploded upward from the ground, blood matting his mane, and drove his claws toward Sigurd’s chest—

  But when the hit landed—

  It struck another illusion.

  Sigurd laughed — until something cracked above him.

  Burgess had anticipated the trick. With a roar, he leapt again, shattering Hela, the floating gauntlet that had been projecting Sigurd’s illusions.

  The device sparked, then exploded in a burst of red flame.

  The holograms vanished.

  For the first time in the duel, Sigurd stood alone.

  The arena was trembling with noise.

  Every breath, every heartbeat of the crowd echoed through the Colosseum’s hollow belly.

  Down below, Sigurd struggled to stand. His lean frame trembled under the weight of his own armor. Across from him, Burgess — the man-beast — was crouched, blood seeping through his golden fur.

  Both warriors were broken, and neither willing to fall first.

  Burgess growled, the sound low and animal. Then, with a guttural roar, he charged again — his claws raised for the killing blow.

  Sigurd barely managed to react. The Fenrir gauntlet flashed, releasing a burst of propulsion that hurled him sideways just as the strike came down. Sand exploded where he had stood.

  He hit the ground, skidding hard, and raised his right arm again.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Jormungandr snapped forward, the metal serpent uncoiling like lightning and wrapping around Burgess’s torso, binding him tight. The beast struggled, muscles bulging, but the chains only constricted further — sparks flying where the coils bit into his flesh.

  Sigurd’s breathing was ragged. His vision swam. But he still forced Fenrir to charge one last time.

  “End of the hunt,” he hissed.

  The gauntlet’s wolf jaws lit up with blinding crimson light — and then he struck.

  The blast hit Burgess square in the face, sending a shockwave across the arena and dropping the Lionshifter to his knees.

  When the dust settled, Burgess lay still.

  The crowd hesitated, torn between awe and disbelief.

  Up in the balcony, Bjorn erupted with laughter, pounding the railing with his metal hand.

  “HAHAHAHA! That’s how it’s done!”

  Below, Sigurd lifted his arm high — the crowd’s cheers swelling like thunder.

  The arena herald stepped forward, ready to declare the victor.

  But then the cheers faltered.

  A faint, impossible sound — claws scraping stone — cut through the noise.

  From behind Sigurd, the massive shadow of Burgess rose again.

  “Wait—behind you!” Starlax and Morrigan shouted from the stands, their voices lost in the roar.

  Sigurd turned — too slow.

  Burgess moved with pure instinct, his last reserve of strength fueled by fury alone. He stepped forward and slammed both palms into Sigurd’s sides, one on each rib. The blow sent a jolt through the Cogworks warrior’s body — his limbs stiffened, his relic circuits shorting in violent bursts of light.

  Sigurd gasped once, then collapsed, lifeless but alive — unconscious before he hit the ground.

  Silence.

  For a long moment, the entire Colosseum went still.

  Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Then the countdown began.

  Ten seconds.

  The herald’s voice trembled with disbelief as he reached the final number.

  “...and the winner — by knockout — Burgess of the Weapon Masters!”

  The arena exploded in noise. Thousands of voices screamed his name.

  Burgess lifted his head and let out a thunderous roar, shaking the banners above him.

  Bjorn’s victory cheer turned to a strangled curse.

  “I'll kill that brainless boy! I told him never underestimate the opponent!” He slammed his fist against the railing.

  Starmist sighed softly, folding her arms. “He fought well, even if he lost.”

  “Maybe you should’ve sent your strongest Vanguard next time,” Leroy said with a smirk.

  The balcony filled with laughter and friendly jabs. Bjorn scowled, muttering darkly while Elysius tried to suppress a grin.

  Amaterasu leaned back, shaking her head in amusement.

  “Well, at least it wasn’t bored,” she said.

  Down below, Starlax and Morrigan were nearly bouncing in their seats.

  “That was incredible!” Starlax exclaimed, clapping her hands.

  “I thought Sigurd had him for sure,” Morrigan said, eyes wide with excitement. “That ending—wow.”

  Samartian said nothing. She sat perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the arena floor.

  There was no victory, no thrill reflected in her eyes — only the faint, cold glint of thought.

  When the match ended, the two young heirs leapt from their seats, still talking excitedly as they made their way toward the exits. Samartian didn’t follow. She remained seated, silent, until the noise faded behind them.

  The arena attendants entered the sands, cleaning the wreckage and tending to the fighters.

  In the Council balcony, Bjorn rubbed his temples, surrounded by laughter.

  “Mock me one more time, and I swear I’ll send the plague to all of you,” he growled.

  “Relax, uncle,” Elysius teased. “You lost one bet, not the Realm.”

  Bjorn groaned, gesturing for his attendants. “Bring me a head massage unit. I’m tired for this nonsense.”

  As the others filed out toward the ballroom, Bjorn stayed behind — cigar still smoldering, eyes distant.

  Meanwhile, Lucretius made his way down into the infirmary tunnels.

  He found Sigurd lying on a medical cot, body bruised but still conscious.

  The Fallen Knight stopped beside him, his presence filling the small room like a shadow.

  “Tell me,” Lucretius asked quietly, “you truly couldn’t stand again after that hit?”

  Sigurd sat half-dressed on the infirmary cot, one arm wrapped in bandages, the other lazily holding a small box of concentrated herbal tonic. He sipped it like a child drinking syrup.

  “I could have,” he said flatly, “but why bother? The reward isn’t worth the pain.”

  He smirked, tilting his head back against the wall.

  “This whole thing’s just entertainment anyway. What’s the point of trying too hard?”

  Lucretius regarded him in silence for a moment — eyes cool, unreadable.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  “Then recover quickly,” he said. “I'll assign you to Silver Chair cause of your defeat.”

  Without another word, he turned and left the chamber. Sigurd didn't say any other words after that.

  Cygnus, Starmist, and Leroy walked side by side down the sweeping stairway that curved from the Council balcony toward the lower halls. Their voices were quiet, private — not for the crowd’s ears.

  Cygnus spoke first. “About that fragment you gave me the other day…”

  Starmist turned her head slightly. “You found something?”

  The Sorcerer Supreme shook his head, expression grim. “Nothing concrete. No trail, no signature. Only traces of magic — old, ancient, predating any known Circle. Whoever crafted it… wasn’t from this age.”

  Starmist and Leroy exchanged thoughtful glances, both folding their arms in near-identical posture.

  “Do we treat it as an anomaly?” Starmist asked softly. “Or do we keep digging until we find whoever’s behind it?”

  Leroy ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

  “In my opinion, if this phantom hasn’t targeted any of the major kingdoms yet, we leave it be. For now.”

  Cygnus nodded. “Agreed. We already have more immediate problems than we can count.”

  Leroy gave a humorless chuckle. “The closer the All Realm gets to peace, the more complicated it becomes, in other ways.”

  That drew a light laugh from Starmist. “Then let’s hope we’re good mechanics,” she said. “Because like it or not, it’s our machine to fix.”

  Far ahead of them, Amaterasu and Elysius walked together, their pace slower but their voices more animated.

  “I don' want to see you argue with Princess Samartian in public again, do you understand,” Amaterasu said, a wry smile on her lips. “The key to handling emotional women is listening first. Don’t counter them, it never ends well.”

  Elysius sighed. “That’s… difficult. She provokes me on purpose.”

  “That’s because she wants a reaction,” the Fire Goddess replied lightly. “When I’m angry, the Shogun never argues. He just listens. You should try it sometime.”

  “I’ll… consider it,” Elysius muttered. “Though I suspect it’ll be harder than any duel.”

  Amaterasu laughed and, with casual familiarity, slung an arm over his shoulder as they walked.

  They passed the Vanguard quarters — the heavy doors marked with the sigil of the six factions.

  The moment they were out of sight, those very doors burst open.

  One by one, the Regal Vanguards filed out, voices raised, tempers barely contained

  “Damn that Sigurd!” Starfall snarled, storming out first. “He embarrassed our entire order losing to a non-Vanguard!”

  D’Hertz leaned casually against the doorframe, smirking. “Then you should go next, pretty boy. Show us how a real champion does it.”

  “Yeah,” added Druganda, his filtered voice rasping through his mask.

  Brunhild, tightening the straps on her bronze armor, rolled her mechanical shoulder. “Careful what you wish for. I’d rather fight than listen to your bragging.”

  D’Hertz chuckled. “You volunteering, Valkyrie?”

  “She doesn’t have to,” Thousand Fist rumbled from behind them. “She’s Cogworks wildest fighter. Let her handle it.”

  “Huh… don’t order people around so casually,” Brunhildr said, chuckling under her breath.

  “Relax,” replied Starfall, stretching both arms behind his head, his voice calm but edged with mischief. “I’m just eager to face one of you soon.”

  Down the corridor, the three councilors — Leroy, Starmist, and Cygnus appeared, their slow and measured steps echoing against the stone.

  The Vanguards turned almost in unison.

  For a moment, the hall seemed to brighten — light catching the silken shimmer of Starmist’s gown, scattering silver-blue reflections across the walls. Her presence bent the air itself; the men couldn’t help but stare.

  Thousand Fist, D’Hertz, and Druganda exchanged looks.

  “Lady Star,” Druganda began, his voice filtered and low through the mask, “even the night’s own constellations hide in shame before your light.”

  “Truly,” D’Hertz added, trying to straighten his hair — which only made it worse. “You look incredible tonight.”

  And then Thousand Fist, grinning wide, chimed in, “Lady Star, I was accidentally crushed by a steel beam during the fight. Maybe you’d be kind enough to… heal me personally?”

  Their laughter echoed through the corridor.

  Leroy’s patience snapped. “Enough,” he barked, stepping forward. “Show some restraint and make way.”

  But Starmist only giggled softly, covering her mouth. Her cheeks flushed faintly blue — not from offense, but from amusement.

  “Please,” she said lightly, “you’ll make the others jealous.”

  Leroy’s jaw tightened. He didn’t enjoy being the butt of the joke in this situation.

  “Apologies, Sir Leroy,” said Thousand Fist, smirking. “But who are you to tell us what to say to the Lady Star?”

  “Exactly,” added D’Hertz, crossing his arms. “We’re only paying our respects. Unless, of course… you’re her keeper now?”

  Leroy froze, his expression twisting awkwardly, words caught somewhere between anger and embarrassment.

  Behind him, Starfall gave a dramatic sigh.

  “Oh, if you’re all so enchanted with my dear aunt,” he said dryly, “you might as well bring flowers and a marriage letter to Stargate.”

  The three Vanguards ignored him completely — their attention still on Starmist.

  The young prince muttered, half under his breath, “Unbelievable.” Then, shaking his head, he turned and strode away with Brunhild, Remini, and Dryskull, leaving the rest to their games.

  Cygnus finally intervened, his tone smooth but absolute.

  “Enough chatter,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time to exchange poetry after the next match. For now, step aside.”

  Even the most hardened warriors hesitated when the Sorcerer Supreme spoke. The three men immediately moved aside, their arrogance dissolving as quickly as it came.

  As Starmist passed, she turned over her shoulder, her expression bright and teasing.

  “Oh, and Druganda…”

  He straightened slightly.

  “Give my regards to Lord Drogin, will you?”

  Druganda froze, his alien posture stiff. The faint hum of his containment suit fluctuated nervously. D'Hertz and Thousand Fist quickly stepped in on either side of him, wary one wrong movement, and a single tear in his pressurized armor could release toxins strong enough to sicken half the hall.

  Cygnus chuckled as they walked away, the echo of his laughter fading between marble columns.

  “Starmist,” he said, glancing at her with a sly smile, “some things never change. You’ve always been a favorite among the regal and the foolish.”

  Starmist laughed softly, tucking a strand of luminous hair behind her ear.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “Though I must admit, it’s rather flattering.”

  Even Leroy couldn’t help but smirk. The three continued down the corridor together, their laughter trailing behind them like fading starlight.

  The main hall had come alive again. The intermission between matches filled it with noise — the murmur of nobles and warriors mingling, the clinking of glasses, the hum of music from the upper galleries. The air was thick with perfume and the faint metallic tang of relic energy still pulsing from the arena below.

  Leroy’s gaze drifted toward the far corner where Remini stood alone, half hidden behind a pillar.

  Without a word, he excused himself and crossed the hall to meet her.

  “Remini,” he said, his tone calm but clipped. “Why did you forget to erase the memories of the people in that tavern?”

  The woman froze. Her eyes flicked up briefly, then down again.

  “I… was distracted,” she admitted quietly.

  Leroy folded his arms, disappointment written plainly on his face.

  “I trusted you to keep discretion,” he said. “You know what happens when rumors spread in the lower districts.”

  “I know,” she replied, voice faint. “It won’t happen again.”

  Leroy exhaled slowly, his frustration cooling into fatigue. “It’s not just about mistakes, Remini. You’re one of the few I actually trust to think — not just fight.”

  Remini lowered her head slightly, her dark curls hiding her eyes.

  “I understand. And I’ll fix it.”

  He nodded once, letting the silence settle between them.

  “Tell me something,” he said quietly, still watching the room. “Do you think we’ve grown… complacent?”

  Remini blinked. “Complacent?”

  “In the last few years,” he continued. “Our fighting instincts. Has peace dulled them?”

  Remini’s lips curved faintly. “You mean now that the world’s quiet, you miss the chaos?”

  Leroy didn’t answer. His eyes remained on the crowd — the laughing nobles, the young soldiers, the children waving miniature banners of their factions.

  She sighed softly, sipping her herbal tea. “Maybe it’s better this way. Not everyone was made for war.”

  Leroy turned to her, studying her face. “And yet here you are a Vanguard since the first time.”

  “I didn’t choose it for the fighting,” she replied simply. “If the Vanguard were chosen by strength alone, the Council would be nothing but Elementalists and Abyssals. I’m here because someone has to remember the reason we fought — not just how.”

  For a long moment, Leroy said nothing.

  Then, quietly, “You’re right.”

  He leaned, looking out over the glittering crowd below. “We have to keep every faction involved. Equal footing — even if it slows the machine.”

  Remini nodded slowly. “I understand. Balance first. Victory later.”