The Draakin, from a young age, learned the art of combat; it was intrinsic to their nature in this harsh world. Their lands, nestled inland in the Northeast. Their Kingdom, was filled by volcanic mountains and valleys. The farther one ventured from to the south or north, the denser the monster population. This reality forced even simple farmers to grasp the basics of combat, rendering your average Draakin considerably formidable compared to humans who lived comfortably in their coastal kingdoms.

Aerin was no exception to this rule; her father had initiated her into the basics of kickboxing since she was young. The grand arena teemed with thousands of youths tested in various skills, but only those meeting a certain threshold were permitted to partake in the open combat segment. This was both practical and designed to maintain the festival's excitement for distant spectators, keen on witnessing the emergence of the next generation.

Registering took hours; those who met the minimum threshold were ushered into a small waiting room below the arena. Time crawled as everyone waited, and nearly all who passed hailed from Dragon-blood or Wyvern bloodlines. Drakes, if they met the criteria, were rare but almost always wielded immense strength through sheer brute force. Many attributed this to the nature of drakes, essentially flightless dragons.

The room, fashioned from carved volcanic rock, bore worn yet intricate tapestries and a few cushioned seats. Aerin felt the weight of gazes upon her since her test, a mixture of glances, glares, and sneers, compelling her to keep her head down, quietly seated in the room's corner.

It wasn't in her nature to seek the spotlight or conflict, yet it seemed destiny had other plans.

"Just my luck!" a youthful, boisterous voice erupted in the room, which had previously been muffled by soft conversations. "The year I have a chance to court suitors and patrons, a country bumpkin with a rare bloodline shows up."

The voice belonged to a boy roughly Aerin's age, lacking in particular charm due to what seemed a near-permanent sneer adorning his face. He sported short black hair, two expansive wings from his back, and a long, slender tail—signs of his Wyvern bloodline. It was uncommon for them to possess horns or claws, but their close relation to pure dragons meant they often boasted remarkable flight capabilities, sometimes rivaling even dragons themselves.

Approaching Aerin, who had been trying to fade into the wall, the boy sought to invade her space. "Peasants like you need to understand that regardless of your lineage's greatness, you lack the refinement or talent to harness it. Thus, you waste everyone's time and steal attention from those destined for greatness."

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Every word struck Aerin like a barrage of spears. Her parents had warned her to know her place and avoid upsetting high-ranking individuals.

"Aerin, the town we're in is far removed from the disputes of nobles and clans, but one thing you must never do or bring tragedy to our family. Never upset anyone of high rank and always ignore insults you cannot retaliate or embarrass them. In Draakin society, one's face is incredibly important. A wound to pride or ego will be perceived as equivalent to a slap in the face," her father's words echoed vividly in her mind, his usually amiable demeanor taking on an unusual seriousness. If he emphasized it this way, it was undoubtedly serious.

Meeting the boy's eyes as he leaned closer, Aerin felt utterly helpless.

"What? No words or witty comebacks?" the boy sneered, closing in. "That's because you know your place."

"This is rich!" a new voice shattered the awkward silence.

A girl with fiery red hair and small, four-pointed horns stood up from one of the couches. Her back displayed a long tail and two wings with scales tinted red. Her hands, delicate yet armed with sharp clawed nails, immediately projected her high-class status through her gait and attire, crafted from fire silk with golden embroidery, bearing a crest that left Aerin's memory hazy. Ultimately, she exuded a beauty akin to the most finely crafted fire-pearls.

"A Wyvern from a middling clan in a medium-sized city on the empire's outskirts thinks he knows nobility and peasants? Don't make me laugh."

The boy turned, his sneer evaporating instantly upon seeing the source of the voice. "Prin… Princess Silandra, I didn’t realize you woul…"

"What? That I would wait among the other contestants as if I were above the rules?" The girl's hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, her piercing green eyes regarding the boy as if he were an insignificant insect. "You know nothing of nobility. I’ve met homeless beggars with more class than you. If you want attention, you ought to prove it in combat and actual skill. Everyone knows that blood potency and mana attributes are mostly meaningless in the long run anyway."

The boy's sneer turned to embarrassment, and without a word, he retreated to a corner. The Princess approached Aerin, exuding the confidence of royal bearing. "I’m curious. Where does our now oh-so-famous Wyrm-blooded come from?"

As she heard the question, her father’s warnings rang loud in her ears. "Just a simple countryside village, milady."

"Call me Sila; I hate formalities where there's no need for them," Sila said, sitting next to Aerin and placing her hand around her. "You can converse with me; I’m sure it would be interesting to get to know you."

Aerin sensed a hint of menace behind the sweet words, sending a chill down her spine.

Just as the atmosphere was on the brink of awkwardness, the stone doors swung open, and the dragon priest from before entered. His arrival instantly diffused the tense atmosphere, quelling it as effectively as a bucket of cold water on a fire.

"We are ready for the final event. Follow me."