The morning air of the Grand Colosseum carried the sharp, dry ozone of the arena’s outer edge barriers running at maximum dampening voltage. Sixty-four academies remained in the championship brackets, their heraldic banners fluttering from the third-tier low roof walls beneath a pale, washed-out sky. Overhead, the huge light-projected displays projected the matchup for Ring 2 with flashing crimson letters: ROUND OF 64 // MATCH 04: IRONFANG VANGUARD ACADEMY VERSUS SKY-SCYTHE ACADEMY.
Arthur Vance stood in the northern ready nook, checking the air-powered pressure valves of his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine. The needle rested dead-center on three crushing deep-sea pressure of freezing liquid propellant, and the sight sightlines on his Monocle Taxonomy Loupe (Mk. IV) were tuned to forty split seconds of neural latency. Behind him, Toby had already set up their portable tracking data receiver on an overturned munitions crate. They muttered under his breath as he adjusted the spectrum analyzers. Then they checked the cable leads running to their spare battery banks.
“Sky-Scythe Academy fields three Razor-Beak Wind Rocs,” Instructor Valerie said. She leaned against the damp concrete archway while holding a pair of sight field glasses trained on the opposite tunnel. “Breeding lineage: aerial storm-hunters harvested from the jagged wind-scarred peaks of Sector 3. Their flight doctrine is pure energy bleeding. They reach two thousand feet, tuck their wings into upright stoops, and strike at two hundred miles an hour with razor-thin talons. They don’t engage on the ground. They dive, lacerate the tamer’s neck with wind-blades, and climb…
