Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Five: Ares in the Air

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The amphitheater curved against the rugged mountainside, a crescent of ancient stone defying gravity with its elegant, spiraling tiers. Each level rose like a deliberate challenge to nature itself, a testament to craft honed by ambition as raw and untamed as the air in the Ares District of Olympus University. The atmosphere thrummed with the memories of past clashes and the unspoken promise of battles yet to come, every breath thick with the metallic tang of anticipation.

Towering trees framed the arena, their sprawling branches clawing at the sky like the gnarled fingers of slumbering giants. Sunlight fractured against them, spilling in jagged, restless patterns across the smooth stone, as if even the light hesitated—uncertain, cautious—before it dared to touch this place.

Over a thousand students filled the seats, a restless tide of anticipation. The scrape of a shoe, the creak of stone, each sound punctuated the silence but quickly dissipated. A fragile stillness hung over them—poised, expectant. After a beat, uneasy murmurs began, voices joining in a growing hum, conversations awkward and incomplete.

Jace's pulse thrummed in his ears. Unease coiled in his chest, not sharp, but insistent—a strength rising within, uncertainty and determination twisting together. The tension around him fed that energy, his resolve swelling like a tide just before the break.

At the amphitheater’s center stood Brutus, a hulking figure in armor dark as iron forged from some infernal depth. His chest was a siege engine barely contained, a strange device strapped across his back—its purpose unreadable. A single, glaring cyclopean eye marked his forehead, sweeping over the crowd with grim precision. Brutus exuded raw power—a storm on the edge of release. His smirk, slight but sharp, was the smirk of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run.

The air shifted, that subtle, uncanny stillness when something forces its way into being. And then Dranice Thorne simply was. One moment he wasn’t there, and the next he stood beside Brutus, as if reality had shrugged and slipped him into place. His robes shimmered—deep purple, like starlight caught in velvet. Tall and willowy, his white beard flowed down in a cascade, framing a face carved sharp as weathered stone. He looked every bit the classic wizard, but his eyes held a ruthless glint. When he raised one long-fingered hand, the murmurs ceased—the crowd silenced like a candle snuffed by pinched fingers.

Dranice let the silence stretch, his lips curving into a cat’s smile. “Welcome, aspiring legends,” he said, voice like silk over bladed steel. “Welcome to our most honored and vital tradition—the Winter Games.”

He paused, his gaze raking over the students, lingering on those whose fear betrayed them, on the few whose defiance dared to flicker through. “I am the Master of Games. The Trials ahead are no stroll in the park. They are designed to test you, to break you—to see if you are stone or tin.” His gaze shifted, eyes narrowing, daring them to run or step forward.

Jace’s heartbeat thundered against his ribs. The enormity of what lay ahead pressed down on him, but he remained still, that ember of defiance flickering—alive. A promise: he would not turn back, no matter what awaited.

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Dranice’s smile widened. He shot Brutus a sidelong glance, amusement flickering in his eyes. “This year’s Games will be unlike any before. The challenges will test you. And, of course, there will be surprises… surprises that will kill you if you’re not careful.”

Brutus snorted, a sound like grinding stone, but Dranice ignored him and pressed on. “These Trials will be the most unforgiving yet. Any questions?”

The amphitheater stayed silent. He hadn’t told them anything—of course there were questions. A slender hand rose beside Jace. Alice.

“Miss Candor, yes?” Brutus’s gravelly voice softened at the edges.

Alice spoke with confidence. “How do the games work? What are the rules?”

Jace’s gaze lingered on her, the shift in her so stark it almost took him by surprise. Where had the shy, uncertain girl gone, the one he'd met just months ago? In her place stood a woman, poised and self-assured, her strength as undeniable as the stone beneath his feet.

But then again, he didn't need to wonder. They had all changed, each of them ground down, polished like stones in a mill, shaped by forces they hadn’t seen coming. Life had a way of doing that, he supposed.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, curiosity awakening. Dranice clapped his hands sharply—the sound cracked like a whip, slicing the noise in two.

“You enter the Trials with only what you have Soul Bound,” Brutus said, his tone firm and unyielding. “That includes your Shards, Traveler’s Handbook, User Interface Stone, and so on. No other weapons. No enchanted armor. For those who reach the Tower, there will be absolutely no divine assistance—no gods stepping in to save you or pull you out at the last minute. This is true combat, in every sense of the word. If you have the wit to use your resources, good. But if you don’t… well, no one will mourn your failure. Failure is simply more material for the Wall of Lost Names.”

His gaze swept over the crowd, cold and assessing, already marking who appeared strong and who looked ready to crumble. “Before you even set foot in the Tower, there are the Qualification Trials—four brutal tasks, crafted by the Master of Games and the Master of Artifacts from each participating school.” He let the silence linger for a moment, his smirk cutting like a blade. “We take great pride in making them… unforgettable. Those who survive will be granted the honor of attempting the Tower. Simple as that.”

Alice’s hand rose again, followed by the rest of her, swift and unhesitating.

“Yes?” Dranice called on her, his voice laced with thinly veiled annoyance.

“The Tower,” Alice began. “What else can you tell us about it? Did you…?”

“Attempt the Climb?” Dranice finished for her, his lips curling into a faint, almost self-satisfied smile tinged with nostalgia. “Yes, I’m very proud to say I made it to the Eleventh Floor before turning back. A very respectable floor, I might add.”

“But my experience won’t help you. They call it the Wandering Spire for a reason. Some call it the Mazeheart. A few, the Tower of Eyes. Pick your poison, but the truth’s the same—it’s alive, it’s watching, and it’s more cunning than any of us. Always. No two Climbs are ever alike. Thirty floors, or so we believe. No one has ever made it past twenty-five, and not a single Traveler has breached the twentieth floor.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping the students. “Now, before you ask, Miss Candor, let me make this clear—these aren’t our rules. They’re the Tower’s. It decides who gets to pass, and it shapes the challenges however it damn well pleases. The rhyme, the reason—those are the Tower’s secrets, and it keeps them to itself.”