The roar of the Colosseum wasn’t just loud; it was heavy.
It vibrated through the concrete floors of the provisional locker room, rattling the rusted lockers and making Kael’s freshly healed ribs itch.
He sat on a wooden bench, wrapping his hands with cheap, frayed athletic tape.
Around him, the other provisional students were practically vibrating with anxiety.
They were D-ranks and E-ranks, kids whose abilities ranged from slightly enhanced eyesight to making water boil a few degrees faster.
For them, the Academy Tournament wasn’t a competition.
It was a slaughterhouse designed to entertain the nobles in the VIP boxes.
A heavy iron door at the end of the room swung open.
Instructor Toris stepped in, holding a stack of digital bracket slates.
He looked at the room full of lower-tier students with barely concealed disgust.
“Listen up,” Toris barked over the muffled roar of the crowd above.
“First round is single-elimination combat.
No lethal strikes.
Ring outs, submissions, or knockouts only.
When your name is called, you walk out.
If you refuse to walk out, you are expelled.”
Toris began tossing the slates onto the benches.
Kael caught his out of the air.
He tapped the screen.
The bracket lit up, displaying his name in dull gray next to a bright, pulsing bronze name.
Match 4: Kael Morgan (F-Rank) vs.
Vane Harker (C-Rank).
Kael let out a slow, dry breath. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Vane.
The same C-rank brute Sebastian usually used as a sparring dummy when he wanted to break things.
Vane’s physical evolution was Kinetic Density—he could temporarily make his bones and skin as hard as forged steel.
“Morgan.”
Kael looked up.
Toris was standing over him, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
“I don’t know how you got your name on the roster, trench rat,” Toris said quietly, leaning in.
“But Sebastian sends his regards.
Vane has specific instructions to make sure your first match is also your last.”
Kael finished tying off the tape on his knuckles.
He stood up, completely ignoring the instructor, and walked past him toward the dark tunnel leading to the arena floor.
“Hey,” Toris snapped, grabbing Kael’s shoulder.
“I’m talking to you.”
Kael didn’t turn around.
He just looked down at the hand on his shoulder.
“Instructor, if you don’t let go of me, you’re going to miss the show.
I hear it’s going to be a very short match.”
Toris scoffed and shoved Kael forward.
“Walk, brat!
Let’s see how lucky you really are.”
The tunnel was dark and smelled like ozone and stale blood.
At the end of it, a massive archway spilled blinding sunlight onto the sand of the arena floor.
The sheer scale of the stadium was staggering.
Thousands of students, faculty, and government liaisons packed the circular tiers.
Above them, in the suspended glass VIP boxes, the Academy’s elite sat with their drinks.
Faster Brain immediately scanned the VIP box.
He spotted Mori standing rigidly behind her father, her dark eyes locked dead onto the arena floor.
Across the blinding white sand, the heavy gates of the opposite tunnel ground open.
Vane Harker stepped out.
The C-rank was built like a moving mountain.
He wasn’t wearing a standard uniform; he wore heavy leather training gear, cracking his massive knuckles as he grinned at Kael.
The crowd roared their approval, chanting the brute’s name.
Kael stood entirely still in the center of the arena, the blistering sun beating down on his gray shirt.
He had no weapon.
No armor.
Just a rapidly processing mind and a perfectly healed ribcage.
The familiar translucent blue screen snapped into existence right between him and Vane.
[Analysis Complete: Opponent possesses high kinetic resistance and terrible breath.] [Survival odds resting at a generous 4%.] [Would you like me to draft a will, or are we going to do something incredibly stupid?]
Kael let out a sharp, quiet laugh.
He settled into a low, completely relaxed stance he had pulled directly from the Beginner Swordsmanship data, ignoring the fact that his hands were empty.
Let’s do something stupid.
The stadium announcer’s magically amplified voice boomed across the sand.
“MATCH FOUR.
BEGIN!”