Tempest and her companions moved with deliberate steps toward the Star Lexus Arena, the grand coliseum reserved for the first-year students. Its towering gates gleamed under the artificial starlight projected from the dome above, casting long shadows across the marble floors. The Arena was alive with anticipation—students pressed shoulder to shoulder, their voices a low hum of speculation, curiosity, and excitement. The air itself seemed to vibrate, thick with the scent of sweat, incense, and the faint metallic tang of beast cages hidden somewhere beneath the structure.
At the center of the Arena, two figures stood in stark contrast to one another.
The girl was built like a warrior forged in battle. Her body bore the marks of discipline and struggle: a muscular frame, short spiky black hair that bristled like a crown of thorns, and ember-colored eyes that glowed with a predatory sharpness. A scar ran jaggedly from her shoulder down to her wrist, a brutal reminder of a beast's claws. It was not the kind of scar one earned in training—it was the kind that whispered survival, the kind that told every spectator she had faced death and spat in its face. Her stance was smug, her hands planted firmly on her hips, her chin tilted upward as if daring the world to challenge her authority.
Beside her stood the boy, a figure of elegance and intellect rather than brute force. He was lean, almost fragile-looking, with long black hair cascading down his back like a scholar's robe. His broad shoulders and thin waist gave him a statuesque quality, but his aura was not one of dominance—it was of refinement. He carried himself with grace, every movement precise, as though he were reciting poetry with his body. His eyes, calm and calculating, seemed to measure the crowd, the Arena, and perhaps even the girl beside him. He looked like a man who belonged in libraries, not battlefields, yet there was something magnetic about his presence, a charisma that drew attention despite his lack of raw ferocity.
Behind them loomed a rattling cage, covered by a heavy cloth that quivered with each movement from within. The sound was unsettling—metal grinding against metal, claws scraping, a guttural growl muffled but unmistakable. The students leaned forward, their whispers rising like a tide. Everyone knew that whatever was inside was no ordinary beast.
The girl laughed suddenly, her voice booming across the Arena, silencing the murmurs. It was a laugh full of arrogance, a laugh that declared she was unafraid. She scanned the crowd, her eyes gleaming with challenge, wondering if any senior students or even masters might step forward to witness her triumph.
In the stands, Tempest narrowed her eyes.
"Bee," she whispered telepathically, her consciousness brushing against the familiar presence of her companion spirit. "How strong is a Fourth Level Mortal-ranked beast?"
Bee's voice resonated calmly in her mind. "Compared to cultivators, it would be on par with a Second Rank of the high realm."
Tempest's gaze sharpened. "And their cultivation levels?"
"The girl is Fifth Rank of the high realm. The boy is Eighth Rank."
Tempest frowned. "What are their chances?"
Bee hesitated, then answered with chilling certainty. "Slim."
Tempest's shock rippled through her. "Why?"
"Because taming beasts is never uniform. Each kind has its own temperament. The one they've locked up is a half-dragon. Half-dragons are no different from full dragons in pride and stubbornness. And this one… is volatile. Worse, it is pregnant. It will not submit. It will fight with the fury of a mother protecting her unborn."
Tempest's lips curved into a knowing smile. She crossed her arms, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Then let's watch a good show."
The Arena itself seemed to pulse with history. Star Azmin, the celestial body, was famed for its beasts—creatures rare and wondrous, some whispered to be born from the very breath of the cosmos. Beast tamers from this world were legends, their names etched into the annals of cultivation. To tame a beast here was not merely an act of dominance; it was a rite of passage, a claim to legacy.
Tempest turned toward her companions, her voice sly. "Won't you make a bet?"
Talia's eyes lit up instantly, her grin foolish and wide. Trevor, ever the opportunist, leaned forward with a spark of mischief. The others perked up, their curiosity piqued.
Whispers spread like wildfire through the spectators. The Arena, once hushed, now buzzed with speculation.
Trevor stepped forward, his presence commanding. His voice, smooth and charming, carried effortlessly across the Arena. "Everyone, everyone," he called, his tone calm yet magnetic. "With such a spectacle before us, why not make it even more thrilling? Place your bets! Will our smug beast tamer succeed in taming the creature—or will she fail?"
The crowd erupted, voices overlapping, wagers shouted from every corner. The tension thickened, the air charged with the thrill of risk.
At the center, the girl's smug smile faltered, her brow furrowing at Trevor's intrusion. The boy's calm demeanor cracked slightly, his lips tightening.
Trevor turned toward them, his smirk sharp as a blade. "So… are you confident enough to make the bet yourselves?"
The Arena held its breath. The cage rattled violently, the beast within roaring against its confinement. The cloth trembled, threatening to tear. The girl's ember eyes flared, the boy's scholar-like calm deepened, and the crowd leaned forward, caught between awe and dread.
Tempest's smile widened. The show had only just begun.