The massive brass gates of the Grand Arena swung open with a deep, echoing groan.
Thousands of disciples poured through the archways, their voices rising into an excited roar that shook the white marble colonnades.
Following the destruction of the Measuring Stele, the Academy Council had scrambled to restore order. Rather than let rumors of demonic sabotage fester in the plaza, the proctors hurried the entire assembly into the Second Spire’s colosseum for the annual tournament draw.
Above the circular combat ring, four massive jade mirrors hovered in mid-air, cast with levitation runes.
Golden light rippled across their polished surfaces, rapidly organizing the tournament brackets for each of the seven spires. Names scrolled up the glass in blazing calligraphy, pairing disciples for the coming trials.
Down in the shaded competitor staging area near the northern tunnel, Felix Vance sat slumped on a cold stone bench.
His feet were stretched straight out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. On his head sat his wide-brimmed farmer's straw hat, tilted forward to shield his tired eyes from the glaring arena banners.
In his lap, the cracked obsidian slate glowed with a faint amber pulse.
Beside the bench, Lyra Ashford stood guard with folded arms, her rapier resting against her hip.
On the stone seat next to her sat the brass kettle and a small wicker lunch basket, covered neatly with a blue cotton cloth.
"Senior Brother," Lyra murmured, her eyes scanning the passing crowd with icy vigilance. "The Golden Griffin Clan has already mobilized their inner disciples. Julian intends to use this exhibition match to salvage his wounded pride."
Felix let out a long, weary sigh from beneath the brim of his straw hat.
"I don't care about his pride, Lyra," Felix mumbled. "I care about the fact that this cutscene has been running for twenty-two minutes, and there's no skip button."
Felix tapped his thumb furiously against the glass screen of the AetherDeck.
Every time his finger hit the obsidian surface, a red warning prompt flashed over the display:
Felix groaned, resting his forehead against his palm.
"Eighteen minutes remaining," Felix muttered in sheer agony. "Who wrote this script? Why do high fantasy elders always need four paragraphs of prologue just to announce a wrestling match?"
Out on the elevated podium in the center of the arena, Vice-Chancellor Raymond stood beneath a golden canopy.
The elder was draped in seventy pounds of embroidered crimson brocade, stroking his waist-length beard while reciting the founding charter of the Radiant Dawn Academy through an acoustic amplification talisman.
"Let the heavens bear witness!" Raymond's voice echoed through the stadium, so loud it rattled the stone tiles. "Since the First Epoch of the Celestial Dawn, our sacred institution has cultivated the purest virtues of the blade! Honor! Diligence! Righteousness!"
In the competitor dugout, Felix jammed his fingers into his ears.
"Diligence," Felix grumbled. "Always diligence. What happened to a healthy work-life balance? What happened to sleeping in on weekends?"
A shadow fell across the stone bench.
Felix tilted his hat back by half an inch.
Standing five paces away was Young Lord Julian.
The blond youth had stripped off his casual academy robes. In their place, he now wore a set of heavy, gilded lamellar armor that gleamed with polished arrogance under the arena lamps. At his hip hung the Sun-Cleaving Broadsword, a six-foot blade of crimson star-steel that pulsed with violent waves of True Yang sword intent.
Two inner-court disciples stood behind Julian, holding his golden greaves and a velvet polishing cloth.
Julian looked down at Felix with a cold, triumphant sneer.
"Enjoy your stone bench while you can, squatter," Julian hissed, resting a gauntleted hand on the heavy hilt of his broadsword. "The council has approved the opening exhibition match. In ten minutes, the entire academy will watch me peel your demonic tricks away layer by layer."
Felix blinked up at him, deadpan and completely unimpressed.
A translucent HUD tooltip popped up over Julian's gilded helm:
【Target: Young Lord Julian (Armor Equipped)】 【Gear: Sun-Cleaving Broadsword (Weight: 85 lbs / Swing Recovery: 2.4 Seconds)】 【Threat Level: Highly Vulnerable Telegraphed Boss】 【Inspector Note: Swapped to a heavy greatsword to look impressive for the crowd. His swing recovery time is now so slow that an elderly turtle could dodge his primary cleave. A complete waste of gold on cosmetic stats.】
Felix took a slow breath and looked Julian up and down.
"That sword looks heavy, man," Felix said flatly. "You're going to pull a muscle in your lower back. You should have stuck with the rapier. Better frame data."
Julian’s face flushed purple behind his golden visor.
"Frame data?!" Julian spat, his voice trembling with humiliated rage. "You dare babble gibberish before the ancestral blade of my house?! Keep mocking me, vagrant! When your blood stains the arena sands, we will see if your demonic tongue still wags!"
Julian spun around with a furious clatter of plate armor, storming down the corridor toward the staging grounds with his sycophants scrambling behind him.
Felix watched him walk away, shaking his head in pity.
"Heavy armor in a high-agility meta," Felix murmured. "Classic rookie mistake. The guy clearly never read the patch notes."
Beside him, Lyra’s eyes sparkled with fierce pride.
*Senior Brother’s martial wisdom is boundless,* Lyra thought, committing every word to memory. *'Frame data'... an ancient esoteric concept of temporal motion! He perceives the exact micro-fractions of time required for an enemy's strike! To Senior Brother, Julian's attacks are moving in slow motion!*
Lyra stepped forward, bowing respectfully.
"Senior Brother," Lyra whispered. "Shall I prepare your blade? Or will you dismantle him with the Void Arts?"
Felix looked at his empty hands.
"I don't have a sword, Lyra," Felix said. "I left my garden trowel on the porch, and I don't think they allow gardening tools in an official match. Besides, I'm not even planning to fight. I'm just waiting for the daily quest to clear."
As if responding to his words, the cracked obsidian slate in his lap gave a sharp, celebratory buzz.
*BZZZZZT-DING!*
A vibrant golden banner rolled across the obsidian glass:
Felix froze. His bloodshot eyes locked onto the screen.
He read the last two lines twice.
"Wait a second," Felix whispered, sitting up straight on the stone bench for the first time all morning. "Instant return to Solitude Spire?"
The prompt glowed warmly in confirmation.
If he stepped onto the sand and finished the match, the system would immediately unlock the fast-travel waypoint.
He wouldn't have to ride the creaky, twelve-mile-per-hour gondola back to his peak. He wouldn't have to walk up the mountain trail. He wouldn't have to listen to the rest of the Vice-Chancellor’s speech.
He could just tap the screen and teleport straight into his hammock!
And he would get five hundred gacha crystals plus a limited summon ticket!
"Five hundred crystals," Felix murmured, a rare spark of gamer motivation lighting up his chest. "A limited ticket. And an instant exit from this noisy crowd."
He looked toward the northern tunnel.
Out on the arena sand, Julian was already standing in the bright sunlight, posing with his massive broadsword while reciting his grand speech through the acoustic talisman. The crowd was roaring Julian's name, their cheers echoing off the stone walls.
Vice-Chancellor Raymond’s amplified voice boomed across the arena:
"Representing the Seventh Spire! Disciple Felix Vance! Enter the combat grounds!"
Felix let out a short, decisive breath.
He reached down, checking the frayed straw slippers on his feet.
The heel of his left slipper was still held together by a loop of green garden twine he had tied three weeks ago. He gave the knot a quick tug to make sure it wouldn't slip off in the sand.
He rolled the sleeves of his gray cotton shirt up past his elbows.
Then he reached for his wide-brimmed straw hat, pulling it firmly down over his brow to block out the blinding midday glare.
"Alright," Felix said, pushing himself up from the bench with a soft grunt. "Let's get this over with. One quick match, claim the daily loot, hit the fast-travel button, and go back to sleep."
He tucked the cracked obsidian slate into his pocket, keeping his hands comfortably shoved into his trousers.
Lyra picked up the wicker lunch basket, stepping into formation behind his shoulder. Her posture was straight as an iron rod, her golden eyes blazing with solemn reverence.
*The Sovereign moves,* Lyra thought, her heart pounding against her ribs. *The mortals believe they have summoned a student to a duel. They do not know they have invited the master of the stars to judge their realm.*
Felix shuffled forward, his straw slippers dragging across the flagstones.
*Scritch. Scritch. Flap.*
He approached the dark archway of the northern tunnel, squinting toward the blinding white sand of the arena floor ahead.
"Man," Felix Vance grumbled into the shadows of the tunnel. "I really hope this guy doesn't have an unskippable phase-two cutscene."