[Central Continent]

[Imperial Colosseum]

Time once again passed in the blink of an eye, and the day of the tournament soon came

The Imperial Colosseum was not an ordinary stadium; rather, it was a mountain of white stone carved into a bowl, capable of holding 100,000 screaming citizens.

And today, just like everyone would have guessed, it was full.

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, shaking the banners of the ten Great Noble Houses that hung from the spires.

Magitech screens the size of buildings floated in the air, broadcasting the arena floor to the nosebleed seats.

High above the chaos, in a private box reserved for "Distinguished Guests," the air was cool and quiet.

Damien sat in a velvet chair, sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea.

He wore his Mozart mask, his black coat pressed to perfection.

He looked completely at ease, even though he was about to gamble the fate of his entire organisation.

The door to the box opened.

A woman entered.

She was not wearing a maid's uniform.

Instead, she wore a floor-length gown of midnight silk, high-collared and elegant.

Her usual practical bun was let down, cascading in dark waves. Covering her eyes was a delicate mask of black lace.

To the public, she was a mysterious executive from the Golden Coin Guild.

To Damien, she was the only person who knew how much money they were about to make.

"The bets are locked, Young Master," Isabelle whispered, taking the seat beside him. She crossed her legs, the picture of aristocratic grace.

"The final odds?" Damien asked, watching the crowd.

"200 to 1," Isabelle replied.

"The Imperial Exchange stopped taking bets on Class F an hour ago. They think it's free money."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a stress-filled hiss.

"If they lose in the first round, we'll lose ten billion gold. That's the liquidity of the entire Southern Branch. We won't be able to buy mana potions for a year."

Damien smiled behind his silver mask. He set his teacup down.

"Then it is a good thing I hate losing money, Isabelle."

…..........................

[Location: The Arena Floor]

"WELCOME, CITIZENS OF THE IMPERIAL EMPIRE!"

The voice of the announcer boomed through the magical amplifiers, echoing like thunder.

"Today begins the 50th Annual Rookie King Tournament! Let us welcome the future defenders of humanity!"

Fireworks exploded in the sky—gold and crimson.

"First, the pride of the Academy! The paragons of talent! GIVE IT UP FOR CLASS S!"

The East Gate opened.

Prince Nero walked out.

The crowd went insane. 100,000 people screamed his name.

Nero waved, his golden armour gleaming under the sun.

Behind him, Class S marched in perfect formation, their capes fluttering. They looked like gods walking among mortals.

"Look at that mana density!" the Announcer shouted, clearly biased.

"Prince Nero is practically glowing! You can feel the power from here!"

The other classes followed, Class A, B, and C, each receiving polite applause.

Then, the music stopped.

"And finally..." The Announcer's voice dropped, dripping with mockery.

"The survivors of the swamp. The ones who apparently crawled out of the mud to be here today... Class F."

The West Gate creaked open.

There were no fireworks. A few people booed. Someone even threw a tomato.

Class F walked out.

They wore their standard black combat uniforms, but they looked different.

There was no hesitation in their steps. No looking around at the crowd.

At the front walked Alaric.

He was dragging a slab of dull grey metal behind him.

SCREEECH.

The sound of The Anvil scraping against the stone floor cut through the jeers. It was a harsh, grinding noise, like a tank tread crushing bone.

"Oh dear," the Announcer laughed. "It seems this class might bring us some surprises"

The crowd laughed.

But Alaric didn't flinch. He didn't even look up.

He remembered the 6th Order pressure of the Flesh-Crafter.

He remembered the smell of the rotting lab. Compared to that, the booing of 100,000 civilians felt like nothing.

"Ignore them," Alaric said quietly to his team. "They're just noise."

…...................

[Location: The Arena – First Match]

"ALRIGHT! ENOUGH INTRODUCTIONS! LET'S GET TO THE BLOODSHED!"

The giant screen flashed.

[Match 1: Lukas (Class F) vs. Gareth (Class C Champion)]

The crowd groaned. "A slaughter to start the day?"

Lukas stepped into the center of the arena. He looked small. He was wearing his new Salamander Skin Gloves, fidgeting with the cuffs.

Opposite him stood Gareth.

Gareth was a massive Earth Mage. He wore heavy plate armor and carried a staff made of granite. He towered over Lukas.

"Hey, matchstick," Gareth grinned, slamming his staff down.

"I heard you like fire. Try not to blow yourself up, okay? I don't want ash on my boots."

"BEGIN!"

BOOM.

Gareth wasted no time. He slammed his hands onto the ground.

[Earth Magic: Iron-Stone Fortress]

Three walls of reinforced stone erupted from the ground, surrounding Gareth in a triangular bunker.

It was a classic anti-fire tactic. Block the flames, wait for the mage to run out of mana, then crush them.

"Come on!" Gareth shouted from inside his bunker.

"Burn your mana! You can't melt this!"

Lukas stood there trembling.

The crowd laughed. "Look! He's shaking! He's scared!"

In the VIP box, Isabelle gripped the armrest. "He's terrified."

"No," Damien corrected, sipping his tea. "He's concentrating."

However, Lukas wasn't shaking from fear. He was shaking from the effort of holding back.

Inside his chest, the Blue Flame was roaring, begging to be let out. It wanted to explode. It wanted to turn the arena into a crater.

'No,' Lukas told his core. 'Not a bomb. Be a needle.'

He raised his right hand. He pointed his index finger at the stone fortress.

The runes on his new gloves glowed soft orange, forcefully compressing the mana accumulating at his fingertip.

Under these settings, he summoned a single, compressed beam of blue light, no thicker than a coin.

"Needle Fire," Lukas whispered.

HISSS-THWIP.

There was no explosion. Just a sharp, high-pitched hiss of superheated air.

The beam of blue fire shot across the arena.

It hit the stone wall of Gareth's fortress.

The beam instantly melted a perfectly circular hole through three feet of solid stone in a microsecond, passed through the empty air inside, and singed the hair off Gareth's ear before punching through the back wall.

Pop!

The beam dissipated.

Silence fell over the arena.

Gareth froze inside his bunker. He turned his head slowly, looking at the hole in the wall.

The edges were glowing white-hot, dripping molten lava.

He touched his ear. A drop of blood fell.

If that beam had been two inches to the left, his brain would have been vaporized.

Lukas lowered his finger. Smoke curled from the tip of his glove.

"Surrender," Lukas squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. "Or the next one goes through the middle."

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