The Grand Arena of Aetheris was a cauldron of noise and heat.
Sunlight speared down through the open dome, glinting off mythril armor and the crystalline barriers that ringed the combat circle. Twenty thousand spectators—nobles in floating boxes, cadets in tiered stone seats, merchants hawking glowing charms—roared as another prodigy sealed a contract with a B-Class storm spirit.
Ye Xuan knelt in the center of the circle, palms flat on the scorched sand.
Blood dripped from his nose and pooled between his fingers. His uniform—once crisp Academy gray—was torn at the shoulder, soaked with sweat and shame.
"**Contractor Rank F-99.**"
The proctor's voice boomed, amplified by rune-magic. He held the evaluation slate high so every eye could see the glowing red sigil. "**Ye Xuan. Age nineteen. Zero successful bindings. Zero resonance. Zero potential. Expelled.**"
Laughter crashed over him like a wave.
He didn't look up. Couldn't.
His ears rang with it—sharp, bright, *endless*.
From the cadet benches: "Trash can't even bind a slime!"
From the noble boxes: "The Ye Clan must be weeping blood."
From somewhere high above: a girl's voice, soft with pity, "Poor thing…"
Ye Xuan's fingers curled. Sand scraped under his nails.
Across the arena, two figures watched in perfect, untouchable silence.
**Lirien, the Frostblade Valkyrie.**
S-Class Battle Deity.
Silver hair braided tight, falling like a glacier over one shoulder. Armor of white mythril—light as silk, hard as starsteel—clung to her body like a lover's hands. The plates curved over full breasts, dipped at a narrow waist, flared over hips that had ended wars. Her sword, **Glacier's Lament**, rested across her back, its edge humming with killing frost.
She was contracted to Prince Aris, the Emperor's heir. Untouchable. Unbreakable.
Her eyes—pale, glacial blue—flicked over Ye Xuan once. Dismissive. Cold.
**Seraphine, the Dawnlight Saintess.**
S-Class Healer.
Golden hair spilled in soft waves to her waist, catching the sun like liquid metal. Her robes were white silk, high-collared, modest—yet they clung to every gentle curve: the swell of her breasts, the dip of her spine, the flare of hips that promised warmth. A circlet of dawnstone rested on her brow, pulsing with soft, healing light.
She was the Church's living miracle. Contracted to no one—*devoted to all*.
Her gaze lingered on Ye Xuan a moment longer. Not pity. Curiosity. Then it was gone.
Both goddesses.
Both **S-Class**.
Both **impossible**.
The proctor's boot nudged Ye Xuan's shoulder. "Up, failure. You're done."
Ye Xuan stood.
His legs shook. His lip split wider.
He met the proctor's eyes—then swept his gaze across the arena.
Every laugh. Every sneer. Every noble fan fluttering like a blade.
"One day," he said, voice raw but steady, "I'll bind goddesses like *them*."
He jerked his chin toward Lirien and Seraphine. "And no one will laugh."
The arena **exploded**.
Lirien's lips curved—just slightly. Amusement? Disdain?
Seraphine's hand rose to her mouth, eyes wide.
The proctor backhanded him. Hard.
Ye Xuan hit the sand again.
"**Escort him out.**"
---
They dragged him through the service tunnels beneath the arena—dark, damp, reeking of beast blood and old magic.
His wrists were bound with cheap null-cuffs. The guards shoved him into the expulsion dormitory: a crumbling stone box on the Academy's edge, reserved for the *truly* hopeless.
The door slammed.
The cuffs dissolved.
Ye Xuan was alone.
He sat on the cot—moldy straw, one thin blanket—and stared at his hands.
Calloused. Scarred. Empty.
Nineteen years.
Orphaned at seven.
Taken in by the Ye Clan out of pity.
Tested at twelve: *"Latent resonance: negligible."*
Trained anyway.
Failed anyway.
He laughed once—bitter, broken.
Then he punched the wall.
Stone cracked. His knuckles split.
Blood smeared the gray.
That night, the storm came.
Not outside.
**Inside**.
It started as a burn beneath his sternum—hot, sharp, *alive*.
Ye Xuan tore open his shirt.
A sigil bloomed across his chest: **black gold, twin spirals, infinite loops**.
The **Twin Contract**.
He'd read about it once, in a forbidden archive.
A myth. A glitch. A *mistake*.
One soul. **Two** bindings.
And the system's voice—female, velvet, ancient—whispered in his mind:
> **"User: Ye Xuan. Contract Cap: ∞. Limit Break Confirmed. Begin."**
His breath caught.
The sigils pulsed.
Power—raw, endless—flooded his veins like molten starlight.
He stood.
The dormitory walls cracked.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
"No limits," he whispered.
His bloody knuckles healed.
His split lip sealed.
His eyes—once dull brown—flared **gold**.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Inside, Ye Xuan smiled.
Tomorrow, the Border Wars began.
The Academy's elite—Lirien, Seraphine, the Prince—would be there.
And Ye Xuan, the mocked failure, would step onto the battlefield.
With **two** S-Class goddesses in his sights.