Theater of Giant Puppets
The Apex Colosseum was not a sports stadium. It was a political statement carved from stone, a monument to a fragile ceasefire.
The massive structure sat right at the intersection of three districts, a giant circle combining the aesthetics of the three nations in a deliberately provocative way, as if challenging whose foundation would crack first.
The Northern side was built from Valdor's brutalist concrete, with black iron pillars jutting out sharply like giant broken ribs. The Eastern side was clad in Aurum's smart glass panels constantly projecting scores, betting ads, and the faces of popular students. The Southern side was carved from Aethelgard's white marble, adorned with reliefs of weeping martyr statues, giving a sacred cemetery feel to this slaughterhouse.
And in the middle, tens of thousands of students flooded the entrance gates like ants entering an enemy nest.
I walked in, feeling like a drop of black ink in a noisy sea of colors. The noise hit me—a dizzying cacophony. Military command shouts from the Valdor block, artificial laughter and digital notification sounds from the Aurum block, and the low hum of religious hymns from the Aethelgard block. The air here was heavy, smelling of teenage sweat, burning engine oil, ozone from leaking magic circuits, and nauseating expensive perfume.
I pressed my Smart-ID to the scanner panel at the main entrance gate. BEEP. The light flashed green, not red.
[ACCESS GRANTED. SECTOR: NEUTRAL / VIP BALCONY]
"VIP?" I raised an eyebrow. "Of course."
A penthouse came with penthouse seats. The Senate's pet dog couldn't possibly be told to sit on the floor.
I wasn't directed to the stone benches below with the crammed first-year students like sardines, but to a gravity lift that took me up to the observation balcony on the top level. A quiet place, separated from the masses. A perfect place to do what Weaver commanded: Observation.
I walked along the cold stone corridor, then stepped out onto the balcony.
From here, the view was incredible... and terrifying. I could see the social anatomy of this school laid bare clearly.
The arena below was divided into three seating zones separated by thin, softly hissing energy fences. Perfect segregation. No mixing. No unity.
To the left: Iron Bastion. Thousands of students in steel-gray uniforms sat in perfectly rigid military formation. No one spoke. No one moved. They sat upright, fists clenched on their knees, staring straight ahead at the podium. Their aura was heavy and oppressive, like a storm held back behind a dam. The Mana vibrations there felt rough, hot, and sulfurous—Fire and Earth affinities dominated their ranks.
To the right: Gilded Spire. Total contrast. Their zone was like a chaotic cocktail party. Students in purple-gold uniforms sat casually, some even lying down. Some had little Automaton servants bringing cold drinks. They were loudly betting on who would faint first during the speech. The air there vibrated with static electronic signals and the restless whispers of Lightning and Wind affinities.
Across: Sanctum of Grace. A silent, frightening white zone. They sat cross-legged on the floor, not on benches, forming a giant lotus flower pattern. Heads bowed, lips moving, reciting silent prayers that created a hum in the ears. No one dared to meet their gaze. The aura there felt damp, cold, and narcotic—Flora and Water affinities controlled with terrifying precision.
And in the crevices of the stands stood the Arbiters. Student police in gray robes with black Nullification rods in hand. They watched with expressionless silver-masked faces, ready to strike anyone who dared reach beyond the energy fence boundaries.
"A melting pot," I murmured, leaning on the balcony railing, staring at the sea of people below. "They call this a school? This is a time bomb."
DONG... DONG...
The sound of a giant bell reverberated, its vibrations traveling through the Colosseum stone, silencing the arena's uproar instantly. Even the Aurum kids stopped laughing.
Spotlights turned on, slicing through the darkness of the arena, focusing on the floating podium in the center of the field. A metal platform descended slowly from the ceiling, carrying four figures sitting on their respective thrones.
My eyes narrowed. My instincts sharpened. My Gauntlet vibrated softly, once, long.
[TARGETS IDENTIFIED]
I held my breath. So this was the meaning of that message. "Them Four" wasn't just the schools. But their leaders. The Suzerains. Avatars of power itself.
I activated the zoom feature on the tactical contact lenses connected to my gauntlet. The world around me blurred, my focus locked on the faces on the podium. Data flowed across my retinas as I observed them one by one.
Target One: North. A giant man sat on a black iron throne that seemed too small for his body. He wore pitch-black Exoskeleton armor that made him look more like a war machine than a human. His face was hard, full of unhealed burn scars—a badge of honor in Valdor. His jaw was as square as granite. He didn't sit casually; he sat like a general evaluating his troops before sending them to die. Heat seemed to radiate from him, distorting the air around him. [DATA: IMPERATOR TITUS. AFFILIATION: VALDOR. STRENGTH: BUNKER PROTOCOL.]
Target Two: East. A slender woman with asymmetrically cut metallic silver hair. She sat with crossed legs, her eyes hidden behind sophisticated visor glasses that streamed stock market data at high speed. Around her, three micro drones hovered like protective flies, emitting a faint hum. She looked bored, her fingers tapping the armrest with an impatient rhythm, as if this event was wasting her precious money-making time. [DATA: DIRECTOR VIANNA. AFFILIATION: AURUM. STRENGTH: SIGNAL BLACKOUT.]
Target Three: South. A young man with a deceiving angelic face. He wore a pristine white robe with intricate gold embroidery depicting creeping vines. His eyes were closed, but a thin, friendly smile was carved on his lips—a smile that didn't reach his eyes, a wax statue smile. In his hand, he twirled a fresh Moon-Lily flower. Its sweet, nauseating scent even wafted faintly to my balcony, piercing through the arena's sweat smell. [DATA: PONTIFEX SILAS. AFFILIATION: AETHELGARD. STRENGTH: SANCTUARY.]
And Target Four: Neutral. Sitting slightly apart from the other three, a man in a plain gray robe and a black cloth blindfold covering his sight completely. He carried no weapon, but his posture was the most dangerous. He sat still, upright, without the slightest movement, as if he could hear the heartbeat of every person in this arena. There was an emptiness around him, as if Mana was afraid to approach. [DATA: JUSTICIAR KAEL. AFFILIATION: ARBITER. STRENGTH: CIVIL FORFEITURE.]
Four little kings. Four future tyrants playing house.
And in the midst of them, stood someone holding a microphone. The Grand Praetor. The current Senate leader. A third-year student about to graduate, looking dwarfed among the egos of the four giants behind him.
"Welcome, Sons and Daughters of Orbis!" his voice boomed through magical loudspeakers, acoustic amplification enhanced by wind runes, making each syllable hit the chests of thousands of students like a physical blow.
"In Zero Point, your past is ash. Your old identities—general's child, heir, or temple orphan—no longer have exchange value here. This place is a melting pot. A place where the raw ore of your souls will be burned, forged, and hammered until only the strongest remain."
He paused for a moment, letting the echo of his voice fade, a classic oratory technique to build tension. His hand pointed dramatically upward, towards the Tether Tower piercing the clouds.
"Look up! Towards Aetheris! That is where our Sovereigns, the Guardians of our Universe, watch day and night. They are the ones holding back the walls of reality from collapsing, consumed by Dead Zones. They are the ones guaranteeing rain falls in Aurum and the sun rises in Valdor. And what do they ask in return for this divine protection? Not gold. Not empty prayers."
His eyes swept the arena, sharp and accusatory. "They demand Proof. Proof that humanity is still worthy of being protected. You are here not to learn. You are here to prove the value of your existence through competition, blood, and ambition. Only those who reach Zenith-Zero are worthy of being called True Humans!"
Cheers erupted. A deafening roar of fanaticism.
I listened to his speech not with enthusiasm, but with the cold detachment of an analyst dissecting enemy propaganda. Every sentence coming from his mouth was sweet poison wrapped in the gift paper of patriotism.
Unity? That was code for "Total Obedience." Forget your loyalty to friends or family, your loyalty now belongs to the System. Forging? A gentle euphemism for systematic trauma. They would break your spirit and call it 'character building'. Devotion to the Sovereign? That was the funniest part. It was just a polite way of saying "Prepare to become Fuel."
I felt a wave of specific disgust rising in my throat. That term reminded me of the expensive egg I just cooked. They didn't see us as future warriors or heroes. In the eyes of this system, we were just calories. Units of energy that could be counted, exchanged, and consumed. I hated how they turned human lives into a logistical matter. It felt like seeing a permanent price tag stuck on the forehead of every student here—some expensive, some cheap, but all for sale.
I observed the crowd's reaction. It was disgusting yet fascinating. When he shouted the word "Strength," the Iron Bastion block puffed out their chests, their armor clanking as if ready to charge into hell. When he mentioned "Value of Existence," the eyes of the Gilded Spire students shone greedily, imagining the Credit and social status awaiting them. And when the name "Sovereign" was uttered, Sanctum of Grace students shed tears of ecstasy, as if they had just been touched by an angel.
This Grand Praetor was not a leader. He was a livestock broker praising the quality of his own merchandise. And his instruments were thousands of teenagers brainwashed to believe that killing each other was the highest form of worship.
Cheap propaganda. But very, very effective.
My eyes weren't on the Praetor. My eyes were on the four Suzerains behind him. They weren't looking at each other. But the tension between them was so palpable you could cut it with a knife.
Titus tapped his iron fingers on the armrest, creating a metallic clang sound. Impatient to destroy something. Vianna typed something in the air, her lips slightly pursed. Planning how to monetize this crowd. Silas still smiled gently, his head slightly tilted as if hearing a sound no one else heard. Hiding poison behind honey. Kael... Kael was just silent. Waiting for someone to make a mistake.
I realized something right then. Weaver's message wasn't just passive observation. It was a warning. Those four weren't just student leaders. They were nuclear bomb triggers. And if they exploded, this entire city would crumble to dust.
"You see it too, don't you?"
A voice suddenly came from beside me, breaking my concentration.
I turned sharply, my hand reflexively moving to my waist—reaching for a sword that wasn't there. I thought I was alone on this VIP balcony.
There, leaning casually against a shadowy pillar, stood a girl. She wore an academy uniform modified to the extreme—sleeves rolled up haphazardly, many roughly sewn extra pockets, and thick goggles hanging around her neck. Her hair was short, cut messily, a dull copper color stained with engine oil.
She wasn't looking at me. Her sharp brown eyes looked down, towards the four Suzerains on the podium.
"See what?" I asked flatly, wary. My muscles tensed.
The girl turned her head, grinning sideways. There was a black oil stain on her cheek, contrasting with her pale skin. "The threads," she said hoarsely. "You can see how they're choking each other's necks. One wrong move, one small provocation, and... boom." She mimicked an explosion with her hands, her fingers blooming like sparks.
My eyes narrowed. Who was she? How could she enter the VIP area undetected by door sensors? No visible ID on her clothes.
"Who are you?" I asked, my tone cold.
The girl shrugged, a fluid, careless motion. "Just a lost rat looking for free cheese." She glanced at the badge on my chest, then smiled wider. "Wynter Ash. Senate Guest. Wow, a cold name for someone whose gaze feels like it's burning the arena."
She knew my name. Of course.
"Don't tense up like that, Prince," she said casually, then grabbed a shrimp canape from the untouched buffet table behind us. She chewed it with relish. "I just wanted to say... be careful with the White one." She pointed at Silas with the shrimp tail.
"Why?" I asked, curiosity momentarily overriding caution.
"Because the others will kill you to your face, with explosions or debt bills," she whispered, her eyes suddenly serious, losing their playful glint. "But that Priest? He'll make you thank him while crying as he slowly slits your throat."
She winked one eye, then jumped—literally jumped—over the waist-high balcony railing.
"Hey!"
I ran to the edge, looking down. She landed on the level below with a perfect parkour roll, then disappeared into the general stands crowd, blending into the shadows before I could react.
I stood frozen, hands gripping the cold balcony railing.
Weaver's message. Four Suzerains ready for war. And now a mysterious girl warning me about the Priest.
I looked back at the arena, towards Silas still smiling gently on his throne. My hairs stood on end.
The ceremony had just begun, but for me, the war had already started. And I, the amnesiac who just had an expensive egg for breakfast, somehow was already standing on the front lines without a shield.