A few hundred meters from the roaring colosseum, in a quiet pavilion built of black marble and ivory columns, a dim light glowed behind glass windows.

  The building was a refuge for visiting nobles, a place for privacy before stepping into the noise and spectacle of the games.

  Inside, Cygnus Spellbane sat alone at a low table, a porcelain cup of steaming herbal tea resting before him. The faint scent of lemongrass and iron filled the air.

  The silence was perfect. Only the muffled echo of the crowd from the colosseum broke the stillness, like distant thunder from another world.

  Moments later, the door creaked open.

  A guard entered, bowed low, and announced, “Master Cygnus, King Dayrand of Alvoria has arrived.”

  Cygnus nodded once. “Send him in.”

  The king entered hesitantly.

  He was a large man with thick arms, a broad frame, and a beard streaked with gray, but the moment his eyes met Cygnus’s pale gaze, all sense of authority withered.

  Fear replaced posture. His hands twitched against the fabric of his royal coat.

  Cygnus rose, smiling politely.

  “Your Majesty, thank you for coming” he said softly.

  Dayrand clasped it with trembling fingers, then followed the Sorcerer Supreme’s gesture to sit.

  Cygnus did not waste time.

  He laid a stack of parchment and several printed photographs upon the table of images and documents marked with seals of Alvoria. Evidence.

  The King’s breath hitched the moment he saw them. His pupils dilated and for the first time, the cup in his hand rattled audibly.

  “Master Cygnus,” he began, voice breaking. “I swear, I had no part in this… rebellion. Whoever told you.”

  “Please,” Cygnus interrupted gently, almost kindly. “There’s no need to recite the usual lines. I’ve heard them from every guilty man for the past centuries.”

  He motioned to a servant standing silently by the door. “Pour His Majesty tea to calm his nerves.”

  The servant nodded and stepped forward, filling a small glass with a pale green tincture, the same herbal brew that Cygnus himself had been drinking.

  Dayrand accepted it with shaky hands, downing it too quickly. He coughed, eyes watering, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Forgive me,” he gasped.

  Cygnus smiled faintly. “No harm done.”

  He leaned forward, folding his hands. The air seemed to darken.

  “Listen,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to do anything rash. Not yet.”

  He tapped one of the photographs. “But I do need honesty. Because these documents tell a very different story than the one you’re trying to sell me.”

  Dayrand swallowed, his throat dry. “I… I would never betray the Council of Power. My loyalty—”

  “—is admirable,” Cygnus said, cutting him off again, “and irrelevant.”

  He stood slowly. The King flinched as Cygnus’s shadow fell across him.

  When Cygnus spoke next, his tone dropped — no longer human, but resonant and cold.

  “I am not like the others, Your Majesty. You know that.”

  Dayrand nodded quickly, unable to meet his eyes.

  Sweat gathered at his temples. His jaw clenched.

  Cygnus turned toward the door, pausing just before stepping out.

  “We’ll speak again after the match,” he said calmly, lifting his teacup for a final sip. “Until then… relax.”

  He glanced back, his expression unreadable.

  “And finish your tea. It helps clear the mind. That’s an order.”

  Then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  Inside, the King remained motionless for several seconds — staring at the empty seat across from him, where Cygnus’s aura still seemed to linger like frost.

  His breathing quickened. His heart hammered against his ribs.

  The cup on the table gleamed faintly green in the lamplight.

  His hand trembled as he reached for it.

  The tea was still warm when he swallowed.

  And though the taste was gentle — herbs and mint —

  his fingers began to shake harder.

  Outside, Cygnus Spellbane walked alone through the night.

  Back inside the grand hall, the air had turned light again, alive with laughter and motion. Starlax and Morrigan sat by the arching doorway, nibbling on sweet cakes.

  Morrigan tilted his head toward her, his expression mischievous. “You know,” he said, “I was just thinking… what if your aunt, Lady Starmist, ever got engaged to Lord Lucretius?”

  Starlax immediately choked, coughing hard as crumbs flew everywhere. “That’s absurd!” she sputtered, grabbing a napkin and wiping her mouth.

  Morrigan grinned wider. “Come on, think about it. Everyone likes your aunt. Even the council can’t hide it. If I were older—” He leaned in, lowering his voice in mock seriousness. “—I’d marry her myself.”

  Starlax tossed her napkin straight at his face. “Then I’ll be the first to protest the wedding!”

  The two of them burst into laughter, their giggles lost in the hum of hundreds of voices.

  Just then, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Cygnus Spellbane re-entered — calm as ever.

  Almost immediately, the colosseum speakers crackled to life overhead.

  “Attention, spectators of the All Realm Colosseum — the third match of the night will proceed as scheduled!”

  The announcement sent a tremor through the hall.

  Starlax’s smile froze. “The third…?” Her eyes widened. “That means!”

  “My brother’s fight,” she whispered.

  She and Morrigan both stood, their half-eaten food forgotten, and hurried toward the nearest speaker panel to hear the rest.

  The crowd began to press closer too, forming a small sea of people before the screen and sound crystal near the center of the hall.

  “Representing the Extraterrestrial Faction, heir to the House of Star… Starfall!”

  Cheers erupted, echoing up the marble pillars.

  “And his opponent…”

  The crowd hushed. The announcer’s tone shifted, now full of deliberate suspense.

  “—will be determined by you.”

  The hall exploded into chatter.

  “For tonight only, the opponent of Starfall will be decided through audience voting! Choose from among the Regal Vanguards present in the arena!”

  Gasps, laughter, shouts — the idea was madness. Yet it thrilled everyone instantly.

  “Here are your candidates:

  Brunhild, the Oath-Wings Valkyrie.

  Ender Dryskull, the KnightButcher.

  Rufus White, the Thousand Fist.

  Remini, The Master of Polymorphism.

  Druganda, the Exotic Venom.

  Ellison Ramones, the D’Hertz.”

  The speaker pulsed brighter.

  “Voting begins now and will remain open for thirty minutes!

  Those inside the Colosseum may cast their votes at the entrance tables, while offsite spectators can call the channels displayed on your viewing crystals.

  Remember, one vote per person! Choose wisely… and enjoy the show.”

  The moment the announcement ended, the hall erupted into motion.

  Spectators, nobles, guards, even off-duty superhumans — surged toward the voting booths near the grand entrance. The line curved out of sight within seconds.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Starlax turned to Morrigan, her face lighting up again. “This is crazy, they’ve never done anything like this before!”

  Morrigan laughed. “That’s why it’s perfect. Come on, let’s vote!”

  They joined the wave of people rushing toward the main gate, pushing through the chatter and excitement.

  “So who are you voting for?” Morrigan shouted over the noise.

  Starlax paused to think, her expression playful. “Hmm… if I had to choose someone to fight my brother…” She crossed her arms, pretending to weigh the names. “I think Lady Remini. She’d make it an elegant duel — all grace, no blood.”

  Morrigan grinned. “Then I’ll balance that out. I’m voting for Dryskull, the scarier, the better!”

  They laughed as they ran, swept up in the energy of the crowd, just children thrilled by the promise of battle.

  On the far side of the hall, Cygnus had already sidestepped the chaos. He reached the balcony landing, where Leroy, Amaterasu, Lucretius, and Starmist had gathered, watching the commotion below.

  “What kind of stunt is this supposed to be?” Cygnus asked dryly, raising an eyebrow at Leroy and Lucretius.

  Leroy adjusted the cuffs of his coat as he looked down at the hall filled with movement, laughter, and noise. “This,” he said with that familiar calmness, “isn’t just for entertainment. It’s a warm-up for the Vanguards, a way to keep their instincts from rusting.”

  Beside him, Cygnus gave a slow nod, though his expression betrayed quiet skepticism. “A dangerous kind of exercise,” he murmured.

  As always, Lucretius said nothing.

  Then, without another word, the group turned and began their ascent back toward the higher balcony — the Council tier that overlooked the entire colosseum. Their figures soon vanished beyond.

  Among that crowd was Elysius, standing in the winding line of voters.

  He was almost to the voting table when a familiar voice, sharp and cutting, sliced through the noise.

  “Since when are Council members allowed to vote?”

  Elysius turned and there she was. Samartian, the Skull Princess of the Abyss. He remembered Amaterasu’s advice echoing in his mind: Don’t argue. Listen.

  He smiled, calm and practiced. “Well,” he said softly, “no one said we couldn’t.”

  Samartian crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You think you’re clever.”

  “Not clever,” Elysius replied, tilting his head slightly. “Just… participating. Who are you voting for, Sam?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that. We’re not friends.”

  And with that, she turned sharply and strode toward the colosseum entrance, not even stopping by the voting.

  Elysius let out a long breath, watching her disappear into the crowd. “Well,” he muttered, half-smiling, “at least that went better than usual.”

  After casting his own vote, Elysius left the booth and found himself face to face with Starlax and Morrigan, who had just returned from doing the same.

  Morrigan bowed slightly, his manners surprisingly proper for once. “Prince Morrigan. Your sister’s already gone inside.”

  Elysius waved it off. “That’s fine.”

  Morrigan chuckled. “So she still hates you?”

  “Seems so,” Elysius admitted, shrugging lightly. “But that’s her problem. As long as she treats you well, I don’t care.”

  “She doesn’t,” Morrigan said immediately, tone deadpan.

  Elysius blinked, caught off guard. “Ah… I see.”

  An awkward silence followed, broken only by Starlax’s laugh.

  “Well,” she said quickly, stepping between them, “Elysius, when are you coming back to Stargate?”

  Elysius smiled, grateful for the rescue. “When I can. I promise I’ll try.”

  “Then bring Leroy with you,” she said, her voice bright.

  He hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do. He’s… busy.”

  But Starlax was already satisfied. “That’s good enough,” she said, waving. “We’ll hold you to it.”

  From the stands above, Starlax and Morrigan pressed closer to the railing, their seats beside Samartian now vibrating with the rhythm of the chanting crowd below.

  Morrigan reached into his satchel, pulling out a small vial of crimson ink that shimmered like molten glass. “Here,” he said, grinning. “War paint.”

  He dipped two fingers into the liquid and drew a streak down his cheek, the color glowing faintly in the torchlight.

  “Go on, Starlax. You’re supporting our side tonight, right?”

  Starlax raised an eyebrow, hesitant. “You’re making me paint my face with blood-colored ink to show support?”

  “It’s symbolic,” Morrigan replied, winking. “Besides, it looks cool.”

  Before she could answer, the noise from outside exploded — the Abyssal supporters had arrived.

  They came like a storm tide.

  The largest races like Mega Simian to the smallest like Ashkin came there, bone-marked and banner-bearing.

  They carried ornamental skeletons, skull torches, and long red banners.

  Scarlet smoke coiled through the air as the drums intensified, each beat like a heartbeat shaking the Colosseum’s foundations.

  The crowd rose to its feet — not in fear this time, but awe.

  Even the Superhumans from other factions clapped and cheered, impressed by the sheer spectacle.

  But among the commonfolk, the reaction was mixed, excitement tinged with quiet terror.

  For many, the Abyss still meant one thing: the sport disguised as war.

  The arena lights dimmed suddenly, plunging everything into near-darkness. A single spotlight ignited at the center circle, illuminating the announcer, his voice amplified across the vast expanse

  “Ladies and gentlemen, before the second round begins, a quick announcement!”

  The voice was swallowed, for a moment, by the roar of the Abyss drums. When it broke through again, it carried the theatrical lilt of a man who loved attention.

  “By the will of the people across the All Realm, we have found the next challenger for our third match — the one destined to face Starfall, heir to the House of Star!”

  The crowd’s energy surged again, a rising wave of excitement and speculation.

  Starlax and Morrigan leaned forward, gripping the railing.

  “Who do you think it is?” Morrigan whispered, eyes wide.

  “Maybe Remini,” Starlax guessed. “Or Brunhild. Definitely not Dryskull. That’d be—”

  But the announcer interrupted with a laugh that echoed like thunder.

  “Ah, but not so fast, my dear audience. The results are being finalized as we speak… and the reveal will come after the second match!”

  He winked toward the crowd, dragging the moment out with theatrical cruelty.

  The audience groaned in unison and laughter followed.

  Even the Council chuckled. Bjorn was nearly doubled over, slapping the armrest of his seat. Amaterasu hid her grin behind her fan, while Starmist only sighed, shaking her head.

  Down in the Vanguard seats, Starfall slammed his palm against the railing.

  “Hey!” he shouted toward the announcer, voice rising above the roar of the crowd. “Stop dragging it out and say the name already!”

  But his protest was swallowed by the thunderous cheers of the Abyss supporters.

  Remini, seated two chairs away, smirked. “What’s wrong? I thought you said you’d fight anyone. Afraid of a little suspense?”

  “Or maybe,” Thousand Fist added with a sly grin, “he’s scared of the unknown.”

  Brunhild leaned forward. “Relax, Starfall. We won’t hurt you too badly — your father would have our heads.”

  Their laughter rippled through the row.

  Starfall said nothing.

  He just clenched his fists, the silver light of his veins flickering faintly beneath his skin.

  “And now,” cried the announcer, “one of the most feared champions in Colosseum history—one whose name has been etched again and again into these sacred stones! He is one of the Four Horsemen Knights of the Abyss!”

  Before he could even finish, the Abyssal faction erupted into madness.

  The eastern stands ignited with flares of red smoke. Thousands of Abyss supporters unfurled a massive choreographed banner, forming a painted vision of Raidbones, smashing through a wall covered in ancient rune-wards.

  The illusion was stunning and dangerous. The depiction alone was a direct symbol of defiance against the higher magic castes. Morrigan shifted uneasily in his seat, his small hands gripping the railing. Even Samartian, usually unshaken, looked away for a moment.

  Up in the Council gallery, the seven watched in silence. The flickering image of the Abyss banner danced across their faces.

  “Master Cygnus,” said Elysius, pointing toward the display, “are you… fine with that?”

  Cygnus lifted his teacup, eyes glinting with amusement. “Why not?” he said, sipping calmly. “I rather enjoy a good psychology war. Keeps the crowd entertained.”

  A ripple of nervous laughter passed among the other councilors.

  Bjorn leaned over toward Amaterasu. “He’s enjoying this too much,” he muttered.

  “Let him,” she said. “The crowd’s already choosing sides. It’s politics, not sport.”

  Down below, the announcer raised his hand for silence.

  “Among Conquest, Famine, and Death,” he shouted, voice booming over the arena, “this man embodies War itself! The Crack Warhammer of Proxia — handpicked and trusted personally by Lucretius von Black! His endurance is unmatched, his might legendary! Citizens of the Realm, raise your voices for… Figar Raidbones!”

  Drums thundered.

  And through the smoke-filled gate came a beast.

  Vetrix a monstrous gray-white Warthog, its tusks capped in forged iron, its hide thick as armor, its eyes glowing faintly with Abyssal runes.

  Riding atop it, gripping a bone-carved warhammer longer than a man was tall, was Raidbones himself.

  The Abyssal faction lost its mind. The ground vibrated with their chant.

  “RAIDBONES! RAIDBONES! RAIDBONES!”

  He circled the arena slowly on Vetrix, raising his hammer once, twice, in salute to the roaring crowd. As he passed through Samartian and Morrigan, his head bowed slightly.

  And then, with a thundering snort, Vetrix was led out by handlers, leaving the field to its master.

  Raidbones stood in the center of the arena, planting his hammer in the sand with a sound like thunder.

  Up above, Cygnus turned to Lucretius, eyes gleaming.

  “So, Fallen Knight,” he said with a smirk. “Planning to steal this victory, are you?”

  Lucretius’s expression didn’t change. “Why not? While Susanoo’s gone.”

  The announcer raised his arm to introduce the next contender—but before he could speak, the air itself began to twist.

  From ten corners of the Colosseum, circles of light suddenly flared to life. The crowd gasped as ten shimmering portals opened in perfect symmetry around the arena floor.

  And from each portal… stepped a sorcerer.

  Their robes rippled with arcane wind. All of them stood at attention, each raising one hand to the night skies in flawless synchronization.

  Then, without a word, they began to chant.

  The arena darkened.

  The sky trembled.

  And then—light erupted.

  A storm of fireworks spiraled upward, bursting into cascading rivers of flame and crystal dust. Trails of emerald, sapphire, and violet fire rained down like falling stars, illuminating the faces of tens of thousands of awestruck spectators.

  But it wasn’t over.

  As the last sparks faded, the night above the Colosseum bent and shifted. The dark velvet sky gave way to a curtain of shimmering color — a vast, rippling aurora that stretched from horizon to horizon, painting the heavens with impossible beauty.

  The crowd erupted in cheers that shook the walls.

  From the Council balcony, Cygnus Spellbane laughed, loud and triumphant. His voice echoed over the storm of applause.

  “Ha! My apologies, Lucretius,” he said, still laughing as the colored light played over his aged features. “But this time, I refuse to be outshone!”

  “Careful,” Bjorn interjected from across the balcony, puffing his cigar. “You’ll make the rest of us look lazy.”

  “Lazy?” Cygnus teased, smirking. “No, no — historically outclassed, perhaps.”

  Even Amaterasu laughed this time, covering her mouth with her fan. “He’s not wrong,” she said.

  Cygnus turned his head slightly, his voice calm and teasing. “My apologies, Leroy. Bjorn. But the Sorcerers and Abyss are steeped in history — it’s only natural that your factions struggle with spectacle.”

  Laughter rippled through the Council chamber.

  Bjorn groaned dramatically. “Leroy, next year we’re coming back with something epic. Anything. I’m not being humiliated twice.”

  Leroy only smirked, swirling his glass. “Deal."

  The aurora’s reflection shimmered in Elysius’s eyes.

  For someone born under the stars, it felt almost like home.

  Beside him, Starmist fell silent. He looked around from the luminous sky at the council members joking around, and for a brief, fragile moment, his heart softened.

  Generations of sorrow.

  Ages of blood.

  And yet here they all were together, under one sky.

  Her vision blurred. She touched the corner of her eye quickly, brushing away a tear before it could fall.

  Leroy noticed immediately. He reached into his pocket and handed her a folded linen handkerchief.

  “Are you crying?” he asked quietly, trying to sound casual.

  She took it, smiling faintly. “No,” she said, her voice trembling despite herself. “I just… I’m happy. After all these years of war… we finally made it here.”

  Leroy said nothing, only smiled and gave a small nod. Starmist quickly wiped her eyes and regained her composure, though the faint shimmer of emotion lingered in her blue-lit gaze.