Bodies fell—one after another, a relentless tide of death.
Ezra pushed himself beyond exhaustion. His limbs felt leaden, breath rasping through clenched teeth, muscles burning. His stamina dropped, rose again, carried by the surge of shards flooding into him with every kill.
He didn't have time to feel pain.
Only time to keep going.
The forest floor was littered with corpses—scorched, mangled, blackened beyond recognition. Smoke curled from craters in the earth. Blood soaked the roots.
Then Nora faltered.
Just a stutter in her step.
One breath too long.
Sweat beaded at her brow. Her claymore dipped, heavy in her grip.
And that—that was enough.
Ezra saw it happen.
The creature lunged from the shadows—jaws wide, claws arched to strike.
He opened his mouth to shout.
But no sound came.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't reach her.
Could only watch.
Then—the shadows moved.
They rippled and surged, as if they had a will of their own.
One second, Asli was behind Ezra.
The next, he was there—already between Nora and the beast. One arm raised, his blade manifesting mid-motion, like it had been waiting for this moment. Like it had always wanted to be used.
The sword arced upward—clean, precise, almost lazy.
It carved the creature from jaw to sternum.
No roar.
No struggle.
Just a wet, tearing sound. Then silence.
The beast dropped in two halves, steam rising from its split flesh.
Asli stood over the body, chest heaving, blade dripping black. His curls were matted to his forehead, soaked with sweat and blood. His breathing was ragged.
He was exhausted too.
But his voice, when it came, was steady.
"Are you okay?" he asked, not looking at her—just holding himself up by his sword, shoulders tense, still listening to the forest.
____
The arena watched in stunned silence.
The massacre played across the screens—monsters lunging, students screaming, blood painting the forest floor. Mothers shielded their children's eyes. Some didn't react in time.
Even the commentators were speechless, their usual theatrics strangled into silence.
Emergency protocols activated. A handful of Awakened and Resonants were dispatched into the battlefield.
But it was already too late for many.
Contestants were being eliminated—one after another.
On the upper tier of the arena, the heads of the great houses and high-ranking representatives sat in their shadowed balconies.
Aloof. Unmoved.
Their expressions unreadable.
Their eyes sharp and unblinking as students died in real time.
Then—
A voice, smooth and amused, broke the quiet.
"It's been a while since things got this interesting."
Heads turned—just slightly.
Another voice, colder, clipped with disapproval, answered.
"You'd do well to measure your words."
A soft chuckle followed.
"Oh, I measure everything. Especially blood."
A sharper voice cut in.
"You speak as if they're not your kin down there."
A pause. Then—
"They are. That's what makes it fun."
Further down the row, someone sat ramrod straight, hands folded, posture impeccable even as the feed showed a boy's throat torn open.
"This was ill-prepared," came the quiet judgment. "Sloppy."
"It's war," someone else said dryly. "Not embroidery."
Across from them, a glass of wine swirled lazily in delicate fingers.
"It's better this way. The weak die early. Saves us the effort later."
A snort.
"Of course you'd speak of effort. Especially when the title never belonged to you."
A low whistle pierced the tension.
"Ouch. That one landed."
Someone bristled. Calm—controlled—but firm.
"They're children. Not tools."
Another voice, older, colder:
"All tools start as something softer."
And then, a chuckle—low, indulgent, edged with hunger.
The figure leaned forward, gold rings catching the light, watching the carnage below with thinly veiled glee.
"Now this… this is entertainment. Let them bleed. Let them learn."