Among the thousands packed into the stone bleachers of the public stands, one old man sat at the very front.
His face was weathered like cracked earth, but his hands trembled slightly. On his lap, a small prayer cloth stitched by his wife.
Harron Vale, a farmer from Solmeyr, stared at the arena with the same eyes he used to read the skies during harvest full of hope, dread, and resignation.
He saw his son standing among Group Umbra. Still. Steady.
His name was Elric Vale a boy who had caused a wildfire at age eleven simply by screaming.
"You're no one, son," he whispered under his breath. "But today... maybe our name will be carved into stone."
He knew his son might lose.
He knew nobles had tutors, artifacts, tactical training, bloodlines.
But he also knew this Elric carried something they never could: the honest hunger to survive.
And in the back of his mind, Harron didn't pray for victory.
He simply prayed...
"Let him not be afraid."
The gray sky hung low above the obsidian arena, its polished black stone reflecting the last light of dusk like congealed blood.
Thousands of eyes filled the stands citizens, nobles, soldiers, observers. But no voice rose. All waited.
At the highest tribunal, Emperor Gaius Octavianus Magnus sat in perfect stillness. His gaze was fixed ahead, piercing through time itself. He said nothing power did not need to speak.
To his right, Archon Soren Voltaire Duval reclined, eyes closed. To the unknowing, he appeared asleep. But for those who understood... it was a sign. A warning. That all was still under control.
Below, at the edge of the arena, Magister Halvran Rusk stood still. Waiting.
Until the Emperor gave a single nod small, nearly imperceptible.
Then Rusk moved.