The Arena of Aethelburg
Liam stood in the center of the Aethelburg Grand Colosseum, a vast stone bowl packed from
the floor to the highest spire with tens of thousands of screaming Eldorian citizens. The air was
thick with the stench of sweat, cheap ale, and ozone—the lingering residue of the dimensional
discharge. It was, Liam noted with clinical detachment, a highly efficient control environment: no exits, maximum deterrence.
He was no longer in the simple linen tunic. A trio of silent, armored assistants had outfitted him in the official gear for the Trials: a thick, dyed leather breastplate, iron shoulder pauldrons, and
heavy leather gauntlets.
On his right hand, however, was a specialized piece of gear gifted by Sir Kaelen: the Iron TalonGauntlet. It was a brutal piece of craftsmanship—dark, heavy steel with three serrated spikes
extending from the knuckles, designed to turn a punch into a ripping wound. Liam flexed his
fingers. The gauntlet felt like a natural extension of his arm, another tool for external control.
"Champions, look to your rivals!" Sir Kaelen's amplified voice boomed, rattling the stone beneath Liam's feet. "Remember the rule: Ten survive, forty perish. Survival is all that matters!"
Liam stood amidst the other forty-nine champions, studying them. They were a menagerie of lethal intent.
Vara, the Shadow-Step: A woman clad in dark, oiled leathers, armed with twin sickle-like blades. She moved with predatory stillness, her eyes never leaving Liam. He cataloged her as the
primary threat: speed, precision, and visible confidence.
Grak, The Granite: A man mountain, seven feet tall, with a massive square shield and a maul that
looked like a boulder on a stick. He wore minimal armor, trusting his sheer mass. Slow, powerful, and likely relying on knockdown force.
The Magesword: A slight, agile figure who wasn't using a sword but a staff that shimmered with contained electrical energy. They were breaking the "No Magic" rule, but no one was calling
them out. A wildcard.
The sun touched the western spire, marking the start of the trial. The crowd's roar became a physical wave.
The moment the gong sounded, the chaos erupted. The fighters didn't pair off; they exploded
inward, a brutal melee where initial advantage was everything. Grak immediately slammed his
shield into a nearby champion, crushing him against the stone wall. The Magesword staff flared, instantly incapacitating two others with a silent burst of static.
Liam, following his academy training, moved immediately to the edge of the central fray. He sought a tactical position, letting others cull themselves first.
Vara, however, had other plans. She moved with blinding speed, appearing suddenly at Liam's flank, her sickle aimed at his neck.
Liam didn't flinch. He registered the movement, dropped into a low block, catching her blade on his pauldron. The metal screamed, and a spike of hot, stinging pressure registered on his
consciousness—not pain, but the mental note of impact stress.
Vara, expecting a reaction, was visibly thrown off by his stillness. She retreated slightly; her eyes narrowed. "No sound? Are you mute, foreigner, or just dead already?"
Liam didn't waste breath on a reply. He lunged, driving the Iron Talon Gauntlet straight at her
center mass. She dodged, but the serrated spikes caught the thick leather of her shoulder armor, ripping a wide strip away.
As Vara spun back, the Magesword champion shot a burst of electricity at Liam's back. It hit him square on the spine. Any normal human would have seized up. Liam simply felt a rapid, deep vibration—a powerful, unpleasant sensation. He didn't even stumble.
The Magesword stared, his mouth agape. Liam turned, ignoring Vara for the moment. The Magesword had been eliminated in his mind: too reliant on a single trick.
Liam focused on the nearest active threat: Grak. The massive man was swinging his maul
indiscriminately. Liam needed to demonstrate not just survival but absolute, unnerving mastery.
He sprinted straight at Grak. The Granite champion roared and swung the maul in a wide,
crushing arc. Liam ducked under the swing, letting the maul skim the top of his head. He drove his gauntlet up, smashing the spiked knuckles directly into Grak's jaw.
Grak, for the first time, staggered. Liam, seeing the opening, pulled the secondary weapon
Hidden in the gauntlet: a short, weighted knife that slid silently from the side of the forearmsheath. He thrusted it, using his full body weight, into the unprotected armpit joint of Grak's
shoulder.
Grak dropped the maul. He didn't scream, but a choked, gurgling sound escaped him. He fell, asilent behemoth.
The fighting stopped around Liam. Five others had fallen, leaving twelve total. The two
The remaining rivals—Vara and the Magesword—stared at him not with hatred, but with a profound, dawning fear. He was not a warrior; he was a catastrophe in uniform.
Liam calmly pulled the weighted blade from Grak's shoulder, wiping it clean on the dead man's tunic. He checked the status of the Iron Talon Gauntlet: one spike slightly bent, no visible
damage to the sheath. Efficiency confirmed.
The ten survivors were chosen. Liam was one of them, standing tall over the carnage, his
forearm weeping fresh blood onto the obsidian floor—a slice he hadn't noticed taking. The ten survivors were chosen. Liam was one of them, standing tall over the carnage, his
forearm weeping fresh blood onto the obsidian floor—a slice he hadn't noticed taking. The ten survivors were chosen. Liam was one of them, standing tall over the carnage, his
forearm weeping fresh blood onto the obsidian floor—a slice he hadn't noticed taking.