Sorn gazed down from the edge of the arena, watching the fight unfold from his floating platform. The battle had been immensely drawn out, but Sorn had paid attention to every moment, rooting for his companion as he sat quietly. Meanwhile, Aria had barely spared the brawl a glance. As Sorn now looked beside him, Aria was fast asleep.

The other competitors had erupted as Oden won, the final bout starting and ending in seconds. From the other platforms, voices rose in cheers and jeers alike. This awoke Aria, who sat up while rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Is it over?" she asked lazily.

"Yes," Sorn replied.

He hadn't expected this. The way the fight had dragged, he didn’t think Oden had a chance of victory. He was consistently out-skilled until the end of that fight. And while he was happy for his friend, he found himself unsettled by his secret ability. Seeing so many secrets unfurl one after another only left him to wonder; how many other secrets did the Marauder have?

Now, Oden stood tall in the heart of the arena. A floating platform descended to meet him, carrying him back to his place beside Crystal. As he rose, he lifted his hand, spreading his five fingers wide for all to see.

"I’ll see you at stage five." — was Sorn’s interpretation of that message.

Then, Faron announced the next matchup.

Once again, Sorn found himself with someone to root for. He didn’t have the chance to reflect much on it, but his brief encounter with Zoe had certainly left an impression on him.

He had heard the name “Zachary” from her once, but he hadn’t needed to. The boy, self-assured he descended, was the spitting image of his sister. They shared the same sharp features and the same piercing gaze. His hair was slicked back into pointed spikes, and his youthful face was painted with an excited grin.

His opponent, Flem, was far less interesting. Sorn was certain that if he dropped him into a crowd of Ice Elementals, he’d never pick him out again. He was a forgettable presence, but he carried himself with confidence as he descended to face his opponent.

Sorn’s mind drifted elsewhere as he waited for his battle to begin— who was his opponent going to be?

He ran through the numbers in his head. He came fifteenth, and Aria was fifth. At first, he believed that she was his opponent, and his stomach tensed. Then, with a bit of relief, he realized that she was one number off.

His gaze swept the other Elementals. If he had known the order would matter this much, he would have asked around more. But at least there was one other bit of good news—he wouldn’t be facing Crystal or Keilan this round either.

“Are you not scared?” Sorn asked suddenly.

“Hm?” Aria barely reacted. “Why would I be?”

“There’s a lot of strong people here,” he said.

Aria turned to him, her voice smug. “And none of them can beat me.”

Sorn glanced at her frail frame. He wasn’t sure if she was overstating her ability, or if she was telling the truth. After everything he had seen since arriving, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter.

He then turned back to the arena as the fight began.

Zachary burst forward in a flurry of movements. His claws of ice generated on his fists— small but deadly. Sorn noticed immediately that the boy’s style was nothing like his sister’s. Zachary was full of raw aggression. There was little refinement in his attacks, but what he lacked in technique, he made up for in his overwhelming physical capability.

Sorn believed that Zachary could likely keep up with Oden’s strange form, the same one that had overwhelmed Ren in an instant.

Flem was struggling, his chains snapping out in rapid succession as he tried to keep Zachary at bay. But Zachary only grew sharper as the battle progressed. His attacks began to find a rhythm as he began to break through Flem’s chains with far fewer strikes than before.

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The arena had seemed far too massive for Sorn at the start. However, the two fighters traversed from one end to the other in their dance. Now, Flem was running out of space as his back came closer to kissing the ice wall behind.

“It looks like Zachary is winning this easily,” Sorn observed.

Beside him, Aria gave an unimpressed side-eye. “Are you stupid?”

Sorn blinked. “Huh?”

“Flem hasn’t used a single technique yet,” she said. “He has a plan.”

As if on cue, a chain came straight out of Zachary’s mouth.

The shackles of ice wrapped around the Claw, constricting his limbs and locking his body in place. The moment Zachary stopped struggling, Faron’s voice rang out, announcing the match’s end.

A quiet disappointment settled in Sorn’s chest. They had been compelled by Zoe’s story, by her desire for a dream. She had put complete faith in her brother. He didn’t even want to imagine the talk the two siblings would have later.

Flem’s chains were uncoiled and fell away before disappearing into thin air. Zachary sat frozen, his gaze locked onto the ground as he processed his defeat.

“That’s how it works,” Aria said indifferently. “You only get what you want if you’re strong.”

Sorn glanced at her. “Why didn’t you sleep during this fight?”

“Watch your words, outsider. You’re getting too comfortable.” Aria studied him for a moment before answering, as if deciding whether he was worth the effort. Then, she shrugged. “I already had my nap, so I’m well rested. And this fight was short, so it didn’t bore me to death.” She paused. “The only correct question in this situation is… why aren’t you taking a nap?”

“Huh?” Sorn replied, dumbfounded. “Because I’m not tired.”

“Blasphemy,” Aria said. “You can’t be the best if you never take naps.”

“Number eight, Homer of the Sword, and number thirteen, Neville of the Dancing Blade. Please enter the stage and prepare to face your opponent.”

As Faron’s voice rang out once again, Sorn recalled Oden telling him about the Sword clan.

In distant history, the Swords had once ruled the Fortress alongside the Spears. The two clans held a monopoly over the council’s seats, and for generations, they stood as equals.

A disagreement, the details of which had conveniently been forgotten, had shattered their alliance. A battle trial ensued, and strength would decide who was right. The Sword's head stood against his Spear counterpart in single combat, and in a fight that would be remembered for its one-sided brutality, the Sword faced utter defeat and he died with the respect for his clan.

In the aftermath, the Swords made their concessions. Every ten years, they would offer up ten of their young to the Spears. Those chosen would be stripped from their roots, and taken into the Spear clan, where they would be raised and trained as a Spear. If they adapted, they were made warriors. If they failed, they became little more than servants bound to the very clan that had broken them.

It was a system built on humiliation, meant to remind the Swords of their place.

In this complicated dynamic, Homer was an exception of sorts. His reputation was built on mystery, as he had never stepped foot in the Academy or public at all. To most, he did not exist at all. But when his name finally surfaced a decade ago, the whispers began.

The Sword’s secret project.

For years, they had hidden him, using all their resources to train him on ancient, forgotten techniques. If this had been done in a past generation, such defiance would have carried dire consequences. The contract was clear, and to withhold a Sword from the selection was to spit in the face of their sworn agreement.

The truth was that this entire system had proven to be ineffective. No converted Sword had ever risen beyond the Fourth Division. The idea that Spears could forge warriors out of their rivals had been immensely destructive to the Fortress’s military force. Ten years ago, Varian had issued a pardon, dismissing the binding terms of the agreement.

A year later, the Swords revealed Homer. There had been no trial for him to earn his placement. The Council had simply accepted his presence and place. Since that announcement, many had anticipated this day, as an ancient clan’s secret project would bring forth results.

Now, Homer stood across from Neville. With a single breath, weapons of ice began to generate. Floating still in the air by each of Homer’s sides were a sword and a shield. Across from him, Neville remained still, and a slender needle, a weapon measuring no longer than half a meter, formed in his grasp. He raised it to his face, settling into the stance of the Dancing Blade.

“I don’t see Geville winning this fight,” Aria said simply

Sorn frowned. “Isn’t it Neville?”

Aria shrugged. “You can’t expect me to remember someone so forgettable.”

Sure enough, the fight began as Aria had expected. Homer moved first, a single step forward, and then his blade struck true. A clean cut across Neville’s shoulder caused a spray of red against the ice. The Dancing Blades were supposed to be elusive and slippery, but Neville was struggling to keep up.

Homer continued to press forward without hesitation, his swordwork tight. The Sword hadn’t used his shield once. Neville danced backward, his needle flicking out, but none of his counterattacks landed. Unable to find any openings, and repeatedly being worn down with shallow injuries, Neville leaped backwards.

Then, Homer smiled

The Sword threw his shield mid-stride, as though he had predicted this event. It launched it toward Neville with a perfect arc. It was perfectly timed, too fast for Nevile to dodge easily, but just slow enough for Homer to catch up to his projectile and he used the ice floor to his advantage, slipping under the shield.

Neville barely dodged the shield, trying to jump to the side, but Homer was already there. His foot swept low, cutting beneath Neville’s stance, and before the boy could even react, his back hit the ground, and Homer’s sword carved a deep slash across his stomach.

The crowd roared, and Homer stood tall, lifting his blade in triumph. The once-feared Sword clan had returned, they were here to reclaim their former glory.

Then, just as suddenly, the cheering stopped, and silence swallowed the arena.

Homer turned, confused, only to see Neville standing behind him.

He was pale, trembling, with blood seeping through his uniform, pooling at his feet, but he was standing. And worse yet, his needle was raised, the tip aimed directly at Homer’s throat.

"If there’s one thing I excel at," Neville murmured, his voice hoarse but steady, "it’s stitching myself up."

Homer was unable to move, and the fight was announced over.

“Wow,” Aria mused. “Beville is pretty good.”