Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Six: For Love of Glory

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Dranice’s voice dropped, becoming softer, almost reverent.

“Only those below Gold rank are permitted to enter, and you get one shot—no second tries. It lets you in once, and that’s it. For those who survive the Trials and reach the Tower, there are rewards—far beyond gold, far beyond mere trophies,” Dranice said, his voice carrying the weight of promise and peril. “Artifacts of untold power. Prestige among the elite. Prizes so rare, so incomprehensible, they could only come from forces beyond mortal understanding—the kind that can alter destinies.”

He wove temptation into every word. “Some say the top holds the gift of True Immortality. Others whisper of answers to the Secret Questions of the Universe. The highest Floors, even for Travelers, bring status, fame, and glory.” His gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “But such rewards are as much a curse as they are a blessing.”

The hum of the crowd swelled as students broke into hushed, private exchanges, their voices rising and falling in a discordant rhythm. The noise grew, a restless tide of murmurs—until Brutus cut through it with a bark sharp enough to cleave stone.

“This is not a field trip,” he growled, his voice a low thunder, rumbling with the menace of an avalanche on the verge of breaking loose. “The Southeastern Stronghold sits on the doorstep of the embodiment of evil. And in case any of you geniuses haven't noticed, that’s exactly where you’ll be in two days. So listen up!”

The silence deepened as the students exchanged glances. Brutus coughed and jerked his head toward the pouch hanging at Dranice’s side.

With a sigh of exasperation, Dranice lifted a small golden orb from the pouch, holding it up for the students to see. The orb was wrapped in intricate gold filigree, swirling around the sphere in delicate patterns that caught the light, casting a soft, warm glow.

“Each of you will have this soul-bound before you start the Trials. Use it, and it will teleport you out of the Trial or out of the Tower, immediately. We didn’t have these in my day. Takes some of the fun out of it, if you ask me. But, apparently, faculty has been going soft.”

Brutus glared at him, halting his words. His gaze drifted over the crowd, cold and deliberate.

"Now, for those of you not keen on throwing your lives away in the Games, this is your last chance to walk." Brutus’s voice was hard as stone.

The tension grew, thick and stifling, until about forty students broke. They shuffled away, heads low, glancing back as if second-guessing. None of them turned around.

"That's it?" Brutus shook his head and looked more tired than Jace had ever seen him. "Fine. For the rest of you—let it be recorded." He reached into his pouch and flung a small scroll into the air. It snapped open, unfurling again and again until it hovered above him, its golden ink shimmering as the names of the remaining students etched themselves onto its surface.

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He cleared his throat; the sound of iron knuckle rapping against stone.

"I said it once, and I'll say it again—this is a bad idea." His voice cut through the quiet, daring anyone to argue. "Not just because of the respawn issues, though those are a bloody nightmare alone. It's the location. It's reckless. Dangerous. And yet, did anyone listen to me?"

His glare pinned Dranice. For a heartbeat, just a sliver of time, the ever-composed figure faltered. A twitch in the jaw, a shift in posture. Brutus caught it and smirked.

"But small blessings of the gods," he continued, voice dripping mockery. "The respawn issue has earned us one new rule for all entrants this year, across all of Mythica. One death—anytime between now and the Tower—and you’re immediately disqualified from the Games."

The crowd erupted, murmurs swelling into a chaotic clamor. Near the back, Jace felt a chill crawl over his skin, sharp as frostbite. He couldn’t understand why anyone would complain about this—knowing what they did about the dangers of dying here, the risk of losing your mind. Who would willingly tempt fate like that? All for what? Fortune? Status? Items? Jace told himself that he probably wouldn’t have bothered with it at all if it weren’t for his brother.

But he was kidding himself. If it was a chance to get ahead in this madness, of course he would have.

Brutus’s eyes scanned the crowd.

"Yeah, yeah, whine all you want, you ungrateful lot..." he growled, his voice cutting like a blade. "Since my objections were conveniently overruled, the Council has agreed to allow me some lenience in the Pre-Trial Selection Process." His eyes took on a feral glint. "Two days. You have two days before you’re transported to the Southeastern Stronghold of Roandia. Two days to prove you’re not a liability—to yourself or anyone else. And I get to decide exactly how to test you."

He reached into his side pouch and pulled out a ball. This one wasn’t glowing, but opaque, a deep, dark green that looked like polished acrylic.

"So, I’ve decided on a Pre-Trial—The Ink Stain." A few of the students' eyes went wide, apparently knowing what he was talking about. Jace had never seen anything like it in Mythica, though it reminded him of the paint he played with once as a child in the orphanage. He recalled the way it felt in his fingers—smooth, thick, and warm. A memory he hadn’t even realized he’d held onto flickered to life, and a bitter, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips, fading as swiftly as it had come.

"Me, versus all of you. If a single drop touches you, your name—gone from the enrollment. But if any of you manage to tag me, I’ll stop." He glanced down at the ball, eyes gleaming with a hidden thrill. "Lucky for me, I’ve prepared quite a batch for myself. Those who actually paid attention in my class, instead of running off to grind ranks, will know how to make it—which should be all of you."

Unease rippled through the students, glances shifting nervously. Brutus folded his arms, grin widening as he placed it back in his pouch.

"So enjoy the next two days. If you can."

He turned, as if done, his posture relaxed. Then, without warning, he spun back, pulling out a small ball, this one glowing red—like a shard of a twisted sunset.

"If I were you," Brutus snarled, dark glee in every word, "I’d start running."

He pulled back and hurled the orb into the crowd. Chaos exploded. The orb burst, spraying molten red dye, sizzling and staining the courtyard. Jace dove, barely avoiding the splash—it hissed as it hit the ground, vivid red spreading wide.