It didn't take long for the group to arrive at the largest stadium in Univara—a colossal structure capable of holding a few hundred thousand spectators.

Looking around at least tens of thousands of people walked on this side of the stadium's entrance, moving with such density that it resembled an entire city in motion.

Elric turned his head left and right and muttered, "I've never seen anything like this."

No one heard him. Just the sound of the crowd walking was overwhelming—so loud that even shouting into someone's ear would barely carry your voice.

At the front of the group, Carl raised a hand, signaling the students to follow as he led them toward the waiting room's entrances—where the participants from the four academies were required to assemble before the tournament began.

It took them half an hour to cover just a few hundred meters—navigating the dense crowd could have easily passed for a trial in itself.

Finally, a massive gate loomed ahead, standing wide open and revealing a broad corridor that stretched into the depths of the stadium. Without pause, the group pressed forward, led by the head instructor. They wound their way through a maze of twisting passageways, the noise from outside slowly fading behind them.

At last, they reached a heavy door bearing a plaque inscribed with a single word: Quarath. The instructor opened it and gestured for the students to enter.

Once everyone was inside, he turned to face them. "Make your final preparations," he said. "We've got about half an hour before the introduction begins. The first round will start immediately after."

Everyone nodded in acknowledgment and soon found a place to sit in the spacious room. While the students settled in, quietly preparing themselves, the instructors engaged in casual conversation. Most of their talk revolved around the tournament—speculations, strategies, and personal predictions. Some even placed bets on which students would go the farthest and who might take the top spots.

Elric and Neve located two empty chairs and sat down beside each other, choosing silence over conversation. Both were inwardly focused, immersed in their thoughts as they prepared mentally for what was to come.

A solemn rhythm took over the room. Only a handful of students whispered among themselves; the rest used the stillness to calm their nerves and sharpen their focus. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation.

For the students, time seemed to slip by unnoticed. To the students time seemed to fly by, making them wish for more. But for the instructors, the wait dragged endlessly. They were eager for the tournament to begin, impatient to see how their students would fare. Carl's earlier words that brought them some news had only intensified their curiosity—and their anxiety.

Thirty minutes passed in a tense lull before the door finally creaked open. Heads turned sharply toward the entrance as a middle-aged man stepped into the room, dressed in black robes adorned with a small bronze tag that read Staff.

He gave a slight bow, cleared his throat, and announced, "Welcome, Quarath Academy. Everything is ready. The tournament will begin immediately after the introduction. Please follow me to the arena."

The instructors responded with curt nods. As if their seats had caught fire, they sprang to their feet and moved quickly toward the staff member. One turned back briefly and called out, "Follow closely." Then he too disappeared into the hallway behind the head instructor.

Elric and Neve rose with the rest of the students—hundreds of them—and soon found themselves somewhere in the middle of the line as they filed into motion, following the staff member through the corridor.

I'm shaking, Elric thought as the tension he'd tried to suppress finally took hold—part nerves, part adrenaline.

Wondering if he was the only one feeling this way, he glanced sideways at Neve. Her expression hadn't changed—calm, impassive, cold. Not a flicker of panic.

Elric scoffed internally and forced his eyes forward. Ahead, at the end of the corridor, a wall of shimmering light awaited them—the threshold to the arena.

The farther they walked, the louder the noise grew. A steady hum at first, it swelled into a thunderous roar as they neared the corridor's end. Then, the moment they stepped into the arena, the sound exploded—Elric's ears rang from the sheer force of the crowd's cheers.

He squinted against the sudden brightness, blinking as his eyes adjusted. When his vision cleared, the sight before him left him momentarily breathless.

The stands were overflowing—row upon row of spectators crammed into every available seat. Most of them were already on their feet, shouting, waving, and chanting with wild enthusiasm as the fourth and final academy made its entrance.

The fight hasn't even started... and they are already this hyped? Elric wondered, his feet moving almost on instinct as he followed the others. His body was in motion, but his mind felt detached, stunned by the sheer energy around him.

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The Quarath Academy group reached the center of the arena and took their designated position on the far right. To their left stood Tritus Academy, followed by Altura Academy, and finally Univara Academy, which occupied the far-left spot.

The students from Tritus Academy, led by a striking red-haired woman, immediately turned their heads as the Quarath's students entered. Their eyes locked onto the newcomers with sharp, predatory focus—like hunters sizing up their prey.

Feeling challenged, several of Quarath's students met their gazes head-on. A few even mouthed silent taunts, smirking with bravado. Tension crackled between the two groups, teetering on the edge of escalation.

Fortunately, it was broken at just the right moment. From the grandstand, tens of meters high, directly in front of the arena, a tall, middle-aged man with white hair rose from his seat and stepped toward the railing.

Only a handful of spectators noticed him—just a few in the crowd picked up on the subtle movement. The rest continued talking, oblivious to the presence of someone so important.

The man cleared his throat awkwardly, then turned to the person seated behind him—a slightly younger man than him with streaks of silver running through otherwise dark hair, clad in a blue robe that marked him as an instructor from Univara Academy.

"Victor, would you mind?" he asked, voice low.

Victor snorted in mild annoyance, from his seat he snapped his fingers. The air between his fingers was compressed so much that a thunderous bang erupted across the stadium, silencing thousands in an instant. Compared to this sudden blast, the roar of the crowd moments earlier now seemed like a whisper.

"Thank you," the white-haired man said calmly.

Victor gave no reply.

Shaking his head slightly, the white-haired man first turned toward the crowd, seeing everyone's attention was on him he nodded inwardly and his gaze then looked downward, landing on the four rows of students and instructors standing on the grand stage—an arena platform constructed specifically for this monumental occasion.

"I'm Jonathan Lewis, President of the Federation," he began, his voice calm yet resonant. "And I welcome you all to our first national tournament: The Birth of Deities."

He let his words hang in the air for a beat before continuing.

"I know the past few months have been difficult for many of you. First came the introduction of the system—God's Path—and then, the loss of friends, family, and mentors. I can't begin to imagine the pain you've endured."

Jonathan paused, giving the moment space to settle. A quiet hush fell over the arena as thoughts drifted to what had been lost.

Then, with a steadying breath, he continued.

"But today is a celebration. It won't erase the past, nor should it—but it offers something new: a chance to build brighter memories, to move forward. What we honor today is the rebirth of our civilization—stronger, more capable, and, I dare say, more united than ever before."

He raised a hand slightly, his expression softening.

"Over the next two days, you'll witness firsthand just how far we've come in such a short amount of time. And rather than bore you with more speeches, I'll let the facts—and the students—speak for themselves."

The crowd erupted. Cheers and applause thundered from the stands. Instructors not on duty, along with students who weren't competing but had come to spectate, roared with enthusiasm. Those from the civilian sector—government workers and a handful of lucky citizens granted entry—were practically trembling with anticipation. For them, this was more than just a tournament. It was a glimpse into a world of superhuman power… and the future of their nation.

Jonathan clapped his hands once, sharply. A man stepped forward from the side, carrying a large ornate box.

"I'll leave the rest to you," Jonathan said firmly. The man gave a solemn nod in response, and with that, Jonathan turned and took his seat at the center of the grandstand's front row.

To either side of him sat the most powerful figures in what remained of the old order: the heads of the four academies, and the leaders of the last high families—Victor Vale, Damian Gauss, and Henry Winters.

But none of the three heads spoke. They sat like statues.

Victor's expression was unreadable, his mood clearly sour. Damian had sunk so deeply into his self-imposed low profile that it was easy to forget he was even there. And Henry, caught awkwardly between their silence, simply stared ahead—knowing that any attempt at conversation would be met with either a grunt of outright ignored.

The man with the box stepped to the edge of the grandstand and lowered his head to face the assembled students.

"My name is Isaac," he declared, his voice cutting through the air. "I will be serving as the judge for today's segment of the tournament."

He glanced briefly at the instructors still standing behind their students.

"Instructors, you may now leave the arena."

Without a word, dozens of instructors nodded and stepped down from the stage, moving with quiet discipline.

Moments later only the students remained, just more than a thousand of them standing beneath the eyes of the crowd.

Isaac let the silence stretch for a moment before continuing, his voice booming across the stadium.

"I will now explain the rules for the first round. Pay close attention."

The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath, every ear attuned to Isaac's words as he prepared to lay out the rules. Not a single soul wanted to miss a detail.

"This box contains numbered slips of paper," Isaac began, his voice slow and deliberate. "The numbers range from 1 to 11, and there are one hundred identical pieces for each of them." He held the box up, letting the audience get a good look before continuing. "Each of you needs to grab one of them. The number you receive will determine which group you belong to. Group 1 will fight first. Group 11 will fight last."

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd.

"You have five minutes to pick your number. If you fail to do so, you're disqualified." Isaac's tone shifted, turning colder, more commanding. "During those five minutes, you may do whatever you wish with your number. Trade it, sell it, barter for a better group—just make sure you have one before time runs out."

His gaze swept over the crowd, his voice lowering but sharpening.

"However, if, by the end of the 11th round, you still hold a number and haven't fought in a single match, you will be disqualified and branded a coward. Understand?"

The students gulped and nodded without hesitation. Even some of the spectators, swept up in the tense atmosphere, nodded along, eager for the tournament to begin.

Isaac's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

"Good. Let the first round begin."

With a swift motion, he dumped the box's contents down, letting the numbered slips of paper fly high into the air and scatter across the arena like confetti.

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