All the teams mounted their platforms, the stone discs rumbling as they rose from the ground. The arena sunlight was harsh, blazing off polished steel and runed weapons. The crowd above was a living wall of noise, banners fluttering in every direction. Dust shimmered over the field like a golden haze.
Avin squinted against the glare. Then, suddenly, it dimmed. A floating platform drifted overhead, momentarily eclipsing the sun. The announcer stood atop it, his coat snapping in the wind. His voice rolled through the air, amplified by spellcraft.
"WELCOME, TO DAY TWO OF THE TEAM CHALLENGES!"
The stands erupted. Avin felt the vibration in his ribs.
"THE FIRST FIGHT OF THE DAY IS BETWEEN TEAM TWENTY-FIVE, TWENTY-SIX, TWENTY-SEVEN, AND TWENTY-EIGHT!THE RULES REMAIN THE SAME!"
The floating stage glided upward, the light cutting across the field again. For an instant, the glare caught the silver of the Prince’s armor and threw it back at the heavens. The announcer raised his hand.
"WITHOUT ANY MORE DISTRACTIONS..."His voice dropped into a growl."FIGHT!"
A horn blared, low and ancient. The sound rolled through the coliseum like thunder under water.
Avin’s team moved first. The Prince’s voice cut through the roar.
Theo blinked once—then vanished in a shimmer, reappearing twenty paces ahead. Henry followed, spear spinning lazily in his hand, a grin splitting his face. The Princess stepped backward, robes rippling, the crystal of her staff flaring to life. Rings of mana spun around her wrists like molten halos.
"I’ll stay back. Cover me."
Avin nodded, drawing his blade. "Try not to die," he muttered, though the sound was lost to the roar.
Across the field, Team 27 waited.
They looked almost theatrical: a young man with hair the color of deep water standing at the center—serene, untouchable. Avin remembered him instantly. Back in the long hall, when the Chimera had screamed and half the crowd collapsed, this one hadn’t even blinked. Now that same calm radiated from him like cold light. A faint pressure hummed in the air around him—divine blood. God-folk.
To his right stood a woman with a crossbow of black steel, etched with sigils that pulsed softly. Beside her, a knight in silver armor heavier than a coffin—her grip steady, her steps shaking the sand. A swordsman stood behind, ordinary save for the exact stillness in his posture. And furthest left, a figure cloaked in black, face lost in an oily blur as though the world refused to focus on him.
"Most unique bunch yet," Avin muttered.
The Prince raised his sword, the runes along its edge igniting blue-white.
The sound of impact was a storm. Henry hit the silver knight first, spear clanging against her shield. Sparks rained. Theo blinked into existence behind the archer, slamming his boot into her spine before she could turn. Avin cut low, his blade glancing off the god-blooded man’s guard. It felt like striking stone. The Princess’s first spell hit a moment later—an explosion of light that folded the ground inward before bursting outward in a shimmering shockwave.
The crowd screamed. Dust rose. Steel flashed.
But before any of it settled, another fight had already begun across the field.
On the opposite side of the coliseum, Team 26 and Team 28 stood facing each other, the sun painting their armor in gold and blood-red. Wind dragged streaks of dust across the ground between them.
Team 26 looked immaculate—soldiers, not adventurers. Five in perfect line: a commander with a halberd, two spear-bearers, a shieldman, and an archer crouched slightly behind. Their armor was identical—polished, efficient, merciless. Each move mirrored the other.
Team 28 looked like chaos in comparison. A scarred man with twin daggers twitching with lightning. A brawny claymore user, his armor dented and his mouth twisted in a permanent grin. A girl in thin robes, palms glowing with soft azure runes. A short fighter with curved blades hooked like talons. And in the middle, the silent one—an armored knight, broad-shouldered, motionless, sword point resting in the sand. Her armor was battered, dull gray, her presence cold and weighty.
She didn’t move when the horn blared again. The others did.
The dagger fighter vanished into motion, the sound of his steps replaced by a hiss of displaced air. Lightning bloomed in thin lines along his path. The claymore wielder charged behind him, kicking up a small storm of grit. The two spear-bearers of Team 26 responded instantly, halberds crossing into an X to block the charge. The impact jarred their shoulders, but they held.
Then the mage girl from Team 28 thrust both hands forward. The air quivered. Blue rings of magic layered like ripples on water—and detonated. The sound was a deep whump that made the crowd’s cheer stumble into silence. The sand shot upward in a geyser, swallowing the front ranks of Team 26. A moment later, the daggers flashed through the dust—small, electric arcs flickering in their wake.
"Left flank!" the commander of 26 shouted, but his voice drowned under the crash of the claymore hitting his halberd.
The world became flashes of silver and blue. Steel meeting steel. Magic scattering sparks. Each movement felt like an impact against the bones of the arena itself.
The archer of Team 26 fired—quick, precise, three arrows in one breath. They screamed through the air, each trailing fire. The mage girl ducked the first, raised a shield for the second, and the third grazed her cheek, leaving a glowing burn. She grimaced, whispered something sharp under her breath, and the air thickened around her like glass.
The claymore user laughed even as he was forced back, each swing of his sword creating miniature gusts that sent the sand spiraling upward. The commander parried high, twisted, and slammed the butt of his weapon into the man’s ribs. The crunch carried.
The dagger fighter tried to capitalize—slicing upward in a blur—but his lightning sputtered. The commander caught him with a backhanded strike from the halberd shaft that sent him skidding through the dirt, rolling, his daggers leaving twin gouges in the sand.
The twin-blade fighter screamed and dove forward, using the momentum of a low spin to slice through one of the spear-bearers’ legs. Blood sprayed, dark against the light. The spear-bearer’s body hit the ground before the pain reached his eyes.
The remaining three of Team 26 tightened formation, shields overlapping. Their leader’s halberd spun like a silver storm, intercepting blow after blow. The mage of Team 28 was down to one knee, drained, her spell circle flickering weakly.
And through it all, the armored knight still hadn’t moved.
She stood watching, hands resting on the hilt of her sword, helm reflecting only chaos.
When the dagger fighter went down—skewered through the shoulder—something shifted. She lifted her head slightly, as if listening to a distant cue. The claymore wielder was next, slammed down by the halberd commander’s boot, armor cracking open under the weight.
The motion was subtle at first: a tilt of the neck, a roll of her shoulder. Then the sand exploded around her as she stepped forward.
The first spear came in low. She pivoted, blade snapping out in a half circle that sheared the steel clean through. Before the man could scream, her armored elbow drove into his visor, folding the metal inward. He dropped like a stone.
The second soldier shouted and thrust. Her sword caught the haft mid-strike, twisted once, and the weapon flew out of his hands. She kicked him in the chest, a dull boom ringing out. He hit the ground hard, armor scraping.
The commander roared and lunged, halberd spinning in tight arcs that hummed through the air. Each swing carried enough power to gouge the stone floor beneath the sand. She met him halfway, sword colliding with halberd in a thunderclap. Shockwaves rippled outward, sending sand into the stands.
They traded blows—one after another, relentless. He was precision and power; she was gravity and inevitability. Each strike rang like a funeral bell. Her armor dented, his halberd splintered, neither gave ground. Sparks burst with every impact, painting the air orange.
He feinted, spinning the weapon to sweep her legs. She jumped, boots slamming down on the shaft, pinning it. The move forced him forward, off balance. Her sword flashed, the edge trailing silver fire, and carved a diagonal line from his shoulder to his waist.
He fell, gasping, the sand turning dark beneath him.
She exhaled once. The noise of the crowd dissolved into a distant roar. One of the archers tried to take aim. She didn’t even look. Her sword turned, flicking sideways, and the released mana wave bent the arrow mid-flight, shattering it into sparks.
Then silence. Just the sound of her armor breathing with her.
The sunlight hit her helm. She reached up, grasped the latches, and tore it free. The motion threw her hair loose in a spray of dust and sweat. The helmet hit the ground, rolled once, and stopped at her feet.
Her face was flushed, eyes wide and bright, lips parted as she dragged in air. For a moment, the entire arena seemed to hold still—thousands watching her breathe, alive and burning in victory. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ N()velFire.net
"TEAM TWENTY-EIGHT... WINS!"
The announcer’s voice cracked through the quiet. The crowd erupted, a wave of sound rolling up into the sky. The knight dropped her sword into the sand, shoulders heaving. She turned slightly, staring up at the light that fell through the dust. It painted her armor gold.
Across the arena, the battle between Teams 25 and 27 raged on, their spells colliding like comets. Avin could feel the air thicken, smell the ozone from the Princess’s magic. But his eyes, for a heartbeat, flicked across to where the knight stood alone, framed in the sun.
When the dust finally began to settle, only one figure remained upright on that half of the arena—a woman breathing through blood and silence, her hair clinging to her face, her sword half buried in the dirt.
And above them all, the floating platform circled slowly, its shadow crawling back across the field like a passing eclipse.
The crowd’s cheers faded into a low, rhythmic chant, a pulse that merged with the beating of Avin’s heart.
No one yet realized that beyond the stadium’s walls, far past the purity barrier, something darker had already crossed into their peace.
The day’s first victory was written in sunlight and blood.And the dust had only just begun to rise.