The air thrummed with mana. High above the coliseum, arcane projectors cast shimmering projections of the arena onto massive banners, replaying every moment in vivid detail. In the crowd, noble sponsors leaned forward in their cushioned seats, eager for blood, spectacle—or ideally, both.
And below, at the edge of the platform suspended over the void, Class C prepared to break every expectation.
I stood in the waiting zone, arms folded, ignoring the nobles whispering behind me. I'd seen their evaluations—dismissive scrawls in red ink branding Class C as "statistically unlikely," "pedagogically doomed," "barely combat capable."
Statistically unlikely?
Good.
Let's destroy statistics.
Julien stepped onto the field first, grinning like he was about to rob a bakery.
Varnin was a hulking, tusked beast of a student. Orc-blooded. Greatsword. 300 pounds of sheer "I eat swords for breakfast" energy.
The arena shimmered.
Reality rippled like a disturbed pond.
