The morning bells of Aethelgard Cathedral chimed across the capital, their deep bronze tones echoing down into the damp halls of Sub-Level 4. By eight o’clock in the morning, the Grand Colosseum was already packed to its total maximum capacity. One hundred and twenty thousand spectators filled every inch of the ancient stone tiered arena, their banners of black, crimson, and gold fluttering beneath the soaring quartz dome.
Overhead, the huge central light-projected display projected the matchup for Ring 1 in burning amber letters: QUARTER-FINALS // MATCH 01: IRONFANG VANGUARD ACADEMY [SEED #1] VERSUS THUNDER-FORGE ACADEMY [SEED #4].
Inside Workshop Bay 12, the preparation went on with the razor-sharp focus of an emergency razor-sharp unit preparing for an open-chest thoracotomy.
Arthur Vance sat at the long steel workbench, step by step inspecting the ice-cold sabot darts for his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine. Each three-inch dart had been hand-turned on Toby’s care lathe from high-thickness razor-sharp heavy dark metal, then empty pocket-infused with packed stygian neuro-paralytic extract. Beside the ammunition rack lay his tactical razor-sharp roll: fine heavy dark metal scalpels, blood-vessel clamps, and three high-pressure ampoules of heart steadying fin.
Across the room, Toby was running a final test check on Titus’s shell harness, his multimeter clicking as he checked the grounding continuity between the giant’s fiery armor scales and the bedrock shoes clamped to his feet.
