The medium-power bone spear erupted from the arena floor, shooting straight up toward Marybelle’s stomach. But Marybelle wasn’t about to let such an attack land so easily.

  With a swift, practiced motion, she shifted her body, jumping upward while her arm remained trapped in the skeleton’s grip. Her body twisted mid-air as she executed a standing front-flip, narrowly avoiding the bone spear that shot past her. She landed gracefully, her feet now perched on Fred’s shoulders. Her arm was twisted awkwardly, the strain evident, but her flexibility allowed her to endure it.

  Now elevated above the skeleton, Marybelle had a clear view of Enya, who stood just a few feet behind Fred. She reached into her pouch with her free hand, pulling out another dagger. She was about to wind up for a throw when—

  The world beneath her feet vanished.

  “Woah!” Marybelle yelped, her balance faltering as she tumbled to the ground.

  “Ah!” she cried out again as her back slammed against the stone floor.

  She winced, the sun glaring into her eyes, until the light was abruptly blocked by a shadow looming over her. The “clouds” above her weren’t clouds at all—they were the ribcage of Fred, the skeleton.

  Fred—stupid name, Marybelle thought bitterly—reappeared, his bony frame now hovering above her. Before she could react, his skeletal fist slammed into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. The impact cracked the stone beneath her, already weakened by the bone spike that protruded just inches away.

  Her tournament badge flashed a bright white, absorbing the brunt of the damage, but the force was still enough to make her gasp for air. The badge cracked with a loud, reverberating snap, before splitting straight down the middle, signaling her defeat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer’s voice boomed through the tournament grounds. “The fight on arena one has ended! The winner is the terrifying little necromancer, Enya Meltere!”

  Enya’s face lit up with triumph. She jumped into the air, her fist raised high. “Yes! I did it!”

  Above, in the stands, the audience’s reaction was mixed. Half of them—nobles and commoners alike—cheered enthusiastically, thrilled by the spectacle of such an eventful and dramatic match. The other half wore expressions of worry, disgust, or outright horror. Some pitied Marybelle, who had just been slammed into the ground. Others recoiled at the sight of Enya’s skeletal constructs, particularly Uglyface, which was now frolicking around with a dagger in its mouth like an overexcited dog.

  In the moments that followed, medical personnel rushed onto the stage, lifting Marybelle onto a stretcher and carrying her away. Enya, meanwhile, stood tall, her gaze sweeping across the crowd. She smiled at the cheers, her heart swelling with pride. “We did it, Fred! Uglyface!” She gave a high-five to Fred, and carefully pet Uglyface’s head as he whizzed on by.

  Her attention soon shifted to the other two arenas, where four other competitors were still locked in their own battles. If she returned to the waiting area fast, she could probably still watch their fights from the visual panels and learn more about how they fought.

  “Damn… nobles… looking down on us…!” Marybelle muttered, one hand clutching her stomach. As the two medical staff carried her farther from the arena, she made a split-second decision.

  Ignoring the pain and her better judgment, she reached into her pouch, pushed herself up on the stretcher, and hurled a dagger straight at the little noble girl who was twirling in victory.

  Enya, still caught up in the moment, suddenly felt a disturbance in her sensory field. Her Absolute Focus was fading but not yet fully deactivated. She could sense the shape of the projectile—another one of Marybelle’s daggers. She turned, ready to command Fred to intercept, but it wasn’t necessary.

  A loud, sickening crack echoed through the arena, sharp and commanding. In the same instant, the dagger flying through the air exploded. Not into shrapnel or fragments, but into nothingness. It simply disintegrated with a loud pop, leaving no trace behind.

  Enya, Marybelle, and a large portion of the crowd stared upward, their eyes drawn to the source of the sound.

  In the special section reserved for dignitaries, Headmaster Laventis stood, his fingers extended after a snap. His steely gaze bore down on Marybelle, his expression unyielding.

  “Part of the tradition at our academy,” he began, his voice smooth but commanding, “is accepting defeat when one knows they have lost. One does not grow stronger by refusing to acknowledge failure. Nor does one retain humility by denying it.”

  The arena fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. Even the fights on the other stages paused momentarily, the competitors and spectators alike captivated by the scene taking place.

  “You are hereby disqualified from the redemption matches,” the Headmaster continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You are also banned from applying to Lightway Academy for the next three years.”

  Marybelle’s face paled, her earlier defiance crumbling under the Headmaster’s stern gaze. She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, slumping back onto the stretcher in defeat.

  The crowd remained silent, the tension palpable. Headmaster Laventis closed his eyes briefly, as if collecting himself, before addressing the entire tournament.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “May the tournament resume.”

  With that, he gracefully took his seat once more. Beside him, Lord Clament’s expression remained stoic, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

  Seeing no further instructions from the Headmaster or the city lord, the announcer quickly stepped in to restore the energy of the event.

  “Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” he boomed, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “We still have two amazing fights going on! Let’s give our competitors the attention they deserve!”

  The crowd erupted into cheers once more, the tension dissipating as the focus returned to the remaining matches.

  Enya opened the door and stepped back into the waiting area. The room, once buzzing with chatter and nervous energy, fell quiet as the other participants turned to look at her. Their expressions were wary, their eyes filled with unease. These were the same looks she had grown accustomed to whenever she walked through the city with Pell or her other skeletons. As Pell had often reminded her, people were deeply wary of monsters, and their prejudice against necromancy was just as strong.

  It wasn’t a good feeling.

  Enya’s chest tightened as she walked further into the room, the weight of their stares pressing down on her. She kept her head high, her expression neutral, but inside, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness. She had just won her match, proven her strength, and yet here she was, being treated like some kind of outcast.

  Her gaze drifted to the spot where she usually sat. There, she spotted Risha, who was watching her with a complicated expression on her face. Risha’s usual grin was absent, replaced by something more thoughtful—almost conflicted.

  Enya’s heart faltered for a moment. Does she hate me now too? she wondered, her stomach twisting with anxiety. She had enjoyed talking to Risha, even though they had just met. Risha was loud, brash, and a little ridiculous, but she was also kind and fun to be around. Enya didn’t want to lose that.

  Hesitantly, Enya walked over and sat down beside her. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken questions and uncertainties.

  Finally, Risha broke the silence. “So… you’re a necromancer, huh?”

  Enya glanced at her, her heart sinking. “Yeah,” she said simply, her voice quiet but steady.

  Risha leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed. She didn’t look at Enya, her gaze fixed on the floor. “I mean, I kinda figured after you summoned those… things. But still, hearing it out loud is something else.”

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  Enya’s hands clenched in her lap. “Does it bother you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I mean, you told me right before your fight,” Risha continued quickly, “but it’s different actually seeing it. Everyone says necromancers are, you know…” She trailed off, fidgeting.

  Enya lowered her gaze. “Evil.”

  Risha winced. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you’ve heard, right?” Enya’s voice came out smaller than she wanted.

  Risha didn’t answer right away. “…Yeah.” She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I don’t want to believe those stories. I mean, you’re not like that. You don’t seem like the type to go around robbing graves or raising dead people just because you can.”

  Enya forced out a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Well, I do raise the dead.”

  “Yeah, but…” Risha frowned, struggling for words. “Not like—ugh, I don’t know. You don’t feel… bad, you know? You’re not like the scary necromancers in the stories. But I can’t just ignore what people have said about them.”

  Enya swallowed hard. So that was it. Risha wasn’t running away, but she was… uncertain. The idea of that hurt more than Enya expected.

  “You’re not… scared of me?” she asked quietly.

  Risha hesitated, her gaze flicking to the other participants, who were still watching them with wary eyes. “I won’t lie,” she said slowly. “It’s a little… weird. I’ve heard stories about necromancers—how they’re evil, how they kill people and steal corpses. But you… you don’t act like that at all. I mean, we’re both just kids.”

  Enya’s chest tightened again, but this time, it wasn’t just from fear. It was from hope. “I don’t want to be like the stories,” she said quietly. “I just want to be… me.”

  Risha was silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. Then, to Enya’s surprise, she reached out her hand.

  “I don’t hate you, Enya,” Risha said, her voice firm but kind. “I don’t know much about necromancy, and yeah, it’s a little scary. But you’re not scary. You’re my friend. Right?”

  Enya stared at Risha’s outstretched hand, her heart swelling with relief. Slowly, she reached out and took it.

  “Thank you,” Enya said, her voice trembling slightly. “I… I really like being your friend too.”

  Risha grinned, her usual energy returning. “Good. Because if you think I’m letting you go after all this, you’re crazy. You’re stuck with me now.”

  Enya laughed softly, the sound light and genuine. For the first time since returning to the waiting area, she felt some of the weight lift off her shoulders. The other participants might still be watching her with wary eyes, but for now, she didn’t care. She had at least one person in her corner.

  They continued to hold hands, gazes up at the visual panels, watching the remaining two matches. Right now, Risha was her friend.

  And that was enough.

  In a shadowed alleyway, tucked away within the heart of Talo, a woman stood cloaked in darkness. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, her long, raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders, obscuring much of her form beneath the tight-fitting cloak that seemed to mold to her frame. Her striking green eyes glimmered, but there was something unsettling in them—an emptiness, a gnawing unease that couldn’t be hidden.

  In her palm, she held a small, circular device. Each word spoken into it caused a faint flicker of mana to pulse from the object.

  “Yes. I have found a girl that matches the description you wanted, master,” the woman spoke in a cold, hollow voice. There was no inflection, no warmth, just an eerie monotone.

  A high-pitched, almost childlike voice crackled through the device. “Very good, Zerus. I knew getting those warpstones for all the major cities was a good idea,” the voice mused, sounding pleased with herself. “So? What is she doing?” the voice asked.

  “It appears…” Zerus’s voice trailed off, her body stiffening as if resisting the urge to speak.

  “Tch,” the girl spat, her irritation palpable even through the device. “Zerus. Ali Mera Fera Heltefinn Domi La-ehyt.”

  The incantation rolled off the girl’s tongue, each word laced with power. The moment the spell was spoken, Zerus’s body twitched violently, her limbs jerking as if controlled by invisible strings. Her expression remained blank, but her eyes flickered with a faint, almost imperceptible hint of pain.

  “Speak again. What is she doing?” the girl commanded, her voice sharp and unyielding.

  “Apologies, master,” Zerus replied, her tone now slightly more vibrant but still eerily monotone. “The girl is currently participating in the Beacon Tournament for admission into Lightway Academy.”

  A pause filled the air, followed by a sharp, disgusted sound. “A tournament?” the voice scoffed. “Why the bloody hells is that girl in a tournament in the second layer?” She paused, then let out an exasperated sigh. “Y’know what? Never mind that. I’ve already sent you to all the cities in the third and fourth layers. This is the first one that matches the description, and I don’t doubt your blood-tracking. Stay hidden until the tournament is over. Find a way to get her alone and capture her. I don’t care what happens to her—break her bones, tear her limbs off, just get her here alive. No excuses.”

  The woman’s response was soft but obedient, the word slipping from her lips without much emotion. “Yes, master. I will… do... as...”

  “Damn this magic,” the girl muttered, her frustration clear. “Too damn far from me, and it starts losing effectiveness. Zerus. Take another pill.”

  The woman’s body tensed. “Master… please… don’t—”

  “This is a command, Zerus,” the girl interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument.

  With trembling hands, she opened her cloak, revealing her body—a canvas of blackened sigils and lines that pulsed with cursed magic. At the center of her chest was an open glass chamber, within which her heart beat faintly, encased in a web of dark, pulsating chains.

  She reached into her inner cloak pocket and pulled out a dark purple pill. Inside the capsule, something squirmed—a living, pulsing entity trapped within the gel capsule. Reluctantly, she placed the pill in her mouth and swallowed it.

  The effect was immediate. Zerus’s body stiffened, her veins bulging as a wave of excruciating pain coursed through her. Her jaw clenched, and her hands balled into fists, but she made no sound. After a few agonizing moments, her body relaxed, her eyes now even duller and more lifeless than before.

  The girl’s voice crackled through the device once more, this time with a sigh. “I won’t repeat myself again. Just follow my commands, Zerus.”

  “Yes, master,” Zerus responded, her voice now devoid of hesitation.

  “Good. Report to me once you have her captured.” With those final words, the light of the device dimmed, and the connection was severed.

  Zerus tucked the communication device back into her inner pocket and closed her cloak, the cursed sigils disappearing beneath the fabric. She turned, walking deeper into the shadows, moving toward the tournament grounds with a single purpose in mind.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! The third round of the Youngling division has finished! Now, give your applause up for the the third round of the Advanced division!”

  The crowds cheered, roaring louder as another three-set of fights were about to take place again. A considerable amount of time had passed since Enya’s bout, and the audience had completely reset their enthusiasm back to their extremes.

  For some of the nobility, they were handed a list of fights for all matches that consisted of a noble participant vs another noble. This list was handed out retroactively, to ensure no family could give a heads up advantage to their own children. The reason for this list, was for a hidden event that occurred in the background as the tournament continued.

  Betting.

  Several noble families were scattered among the crowds, each able to place bets on either their own children, or other children in their own fights. This added a additional layer of excitement, and provided the academy with extra funding, alongside a guaranteed noble audience.

  “On stage one! We have Piere Lanwick vs Laya Marten!” spoke the announcer. “On stage two! We have Ashley Greaves vs Berry Merrick! And on stage three, we have Draven Shadelight vs Cecilia Holloway!”

  Up in one of the noble stands, a pair of voices could be heard. “Oh? There’s your daughter, Henry.”

  “Indeed.” Henry Merrick leaned back in his seat, a relaxed smile on his face, but his eyes, always sharp, betrayed a hint of wariness as he glanced toward the arena. His gaze briefly flickered to the bustling stands, settling on the spot where his daughter, Berry, stood. She was already grinning, jumping around excitedly as she waved at the crowd, her energy infectious. His heart tightened slightly, but he kept his expression neutral, just as always.

  “Well, she’s certainly enthusiastic,” the noble beside him remarked, chuckling as he glanced over at Henry. He didn’t seem to notice the brief moment of hesitation that had flashed across Henry’s face. “A bit too much for some of the more serious competitors, I’d imagine.”

  Henry’s smile didn’t falter. “Ah, Berry’s always been like that. You know how she is,” he replied smoothly, his tone casual, even a touch fond. “Never a dull moment with her around.”

  The noble laughed again, unaware of the layers of meaning in Henry's words. He took a sip of wine, enjoying the spectacle below. “A mercenary’s daughter, through and through. I’d say she has a real fire in her.”

  Henry’s expression softened for a fraction of a second as his gaze returned to Berry. Even at this distance, her bouncy movements and laughter were jovial. She wasn’t like the other competitors—focused, disciplined. She didn’t need to be. Berry had her own way of tackling challenges, even if it meant flinging herself into everything with an almost reckless enthusiasm.

  But Henry knew better. None of them could forget that day. Only Berry truly knew what had happened then. The way her bright, unguarded smile had disappeared, swallowed up by something that she didn’t talk about. Every time she was reminded, even slightly, of that event, she’d push everyone and everything else away. Even in this tournament—it was just something to occupy her mind. A place where she didn’t have to worry about anything else.

  It wasn’t to say that Henry didn’t trust her, or that he hadn’t tried to reach her. But there were some things he couldn’t fix as a parent, no matter how much he tried to.

  “Will she be alright?” The noble’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, a trace of concern in his words. “This tournament, I mean. It’s filled with all these other tough noble kids. I may have a title myself, but even I know not to send my own children here. I’m sending my own Lena to the school in the capital once she ages a bit more.”

  Henry chuckled softly, his tone a little lighter now, masking the tension that briefly surfaced. “Berry? She’ll be fine. She’s tougher than she looks. Always has been.”

  The noble beside him seemed to buy it, taking another sip from his glass, distracted by the match below. “Well, if she’s anything like her father, she’ll do just fine. You’ve made a name for yourself in this city, Henry. People trust you. You’ve built quite the reputation.”

  Henry smiled again, but this time, the warmth didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve made a living, at least. That’s all any man can ask for.”

  The noble didn’t seem to notice the subtle shift in Henry’s mood, and continued talking about the city’s growth and the new ventures they were planning. Henry let him. It was easier that way. Easier than acknowledging what lay beneath the surface, the things that his daughter kept hidden behind that ever-present smile. So, instead, he turned his attention back to the arena, focusing on Berry as she cracked her knuckles, her eyes locked on her upcoming opponent, ready for whatever came next.