The tournament had begun.
John stood with the other participants at the edge of the vast arena, his boots pressing into sand that had seen blood, triumph, and defeat across countless seasons. The arena itself was a marvel beyond imagining: tier upon tier of carved stone steps rising in a perfect circle, holding tens of thousands of spectators. The sheer scale of it made his chest feel small, like he was no more than a drop in an ocean of faces. Pennants of crimson, gold, and azure fluttered in the high wind above, and beams of sunlight spilled down from the open sky, turning the air alive with dust and anticipation.
The walls soared up in pristine grandeur, forged not merely for war but for spectacle—arches decorated with carvings of beasts and heroes, columns etched with battle scenes from ages long past. Above it all rose the grand balcony, a structure of polished marble and ivory inset, where the most honored gazes were set upon the ground below.
Two thrones stood there.
On one sat Elyndra, gleaming in golden armor and light that seemed half divine, her posture commanding as stone yet softened by eyes that still carried the weight of last night’s vows to guide John. Beside her, more solid and imposing than any statue, sat the king in his regalia, an aura of majesty filling the air around him with silent authority.
Surrounding them, elven dignitaries, high-born humans in fine silks, and grim guards in steel plate lined the space. Mages in layered robes sat apart, scrolls and rods at their belts, talking in hushed tones but casting quick glances at the combatants below.
And down on the arena floor stood John himself, one among many.
When he looked around, recognition sparked through the crowd of participants:
- Eleonor, her proud face cold but steady, her aura flickering like steel drawn halfway from its scabbard.
- Eryndor and Serenya, the twins from the Enclave, one with his easy smirk, the other with quiet composure, both radiating dangerous, honed confidence.
- Serapha, the towering woman whose sheer monumentality marked her as an Aura Knight—her every breath seemed to weigh with a discipline tuned through endless battlefields.
- Isabel Vallistor, the princess herself of House Aurethane, cloaked in silks of midnight blue and silver threads that danced in the sunlight. Even with her elegance, she radiated a subtle flame of spirit that no crown could disguise.
And yet they were not alone. Arrayed among them were others whose names John did not know: heavy-browed youths with eyes burning too sharp, aura knights whose very stillness threatened violence, and hooded mages with obsidian staves who whispered spells to themselves even here. Their robes marked them as coming from other schools, perhaps even distant enclaves—competitors trained under disciplines John had not yet studied.
The sand seemed to vibrate beneath John’s feet, not from sound alone but from fate itself coiling tight, like a bowstring waiting to loose. Flags rippled above, and somewhere a horn blared.
From the balcony, the king raised a hand. Silence thundered down through the arena, as heavy as a storm bell.
John looked once more at his soon-to-be-opponents, his eyes lingering on Isabel’s royal bearing, Serapha’s mountain-like calm, the twin’s quiet readiness… and then on Elyndra, her gaze resting upon him. For a flicker of a moment, it was as if her eyes held only him among the host, reminding him of what she had told him nights before—You are human, and yet not bound as humans are bound.
The sand was theirs now. The age-old circle of combat had opened, and the kingdom of Aurelia watched.
A hush fell over the arena as the king rose from his throne. Sunlight caught on the gilded trim of his mantle, casting a long shadow over the circle of sand below. His voice, deep and measured, carried not only across the colosseum’s stone tiers but into the hearts of every participant standing on the battlefield floor.
“Champions of every school, warriors of every bloodline—welcome.”
His hand swept across the circle where the hundred chosen stood, his gaze sharp, his tone half-welcome, half-warning. “You have gathered here not merely for glory, nor for the favor of your peers. Today is a trial. Today, you and the world shall weigh the measure of your resolve against the endless tide.”
The murmurs of the crowd quieted to reverent silence. Beside him, Elyndra sat upon her throne. Her eyes gleamed as if she could already see every possible outcome, her lips set in an inscrutable line. Around them, a few elven dignitaries and several human of noble rank leaned forward, caught by the gravity of what was being unveiled.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The king lifted his scepter, and the runes etched along the walls of the arena blazed to life. The earth shook. From the iron gates studding the circumference, guttural howls and bestial roars thundered in response. The spectators gasped, their voices rising like a wave before crashing into silence.
“Ten thousand beasts have been gathered,” the king declared. “A crucible carefully prepared: one tide of fangs and claws, enough to drown even the boldest. Eight thousand of the creatures bear the strength of level twenty, fierce but not insurmountable. Another thousand and five hundred are level thirty, hardened predators. Four hundred more roar with the fury of level forty. Eighty of them stalk as level fifty-tier I, and fifteen blood-soaked elites stand as level fifty-tier II.”
The silence grew heavy. Even the mages on the balcony leaned back at the enormity of the task.
But the king continued, his voice colder still:
“Beyond them, only a handful. Four horrors of level sixty. And one… one only, of level seventy—a beast whose presence alone can smother courage. All these, together, make your trial—ten thousand monsters for a hundred warriors. Nothing less.”
The gates trembled as the beasts beyond slammed into them, growls echoing like thunder trapped in a hollow mountain. John felt like he should have been more afraid but these levels seemed low to him after his hunts next to the tigresses and his further enhancements later on.
The rules were then made simple, yet cruel:
- Every kill counted as one point.
- When defeat came, it meant immediate disqualification—if the healers and field-retrievers could save the fallen in time.
- There was no surrender beyond exhaustion, only the choice of how much to challenge. The measure of each warrior was not simply to win, but to know the limit between courage and folly.
The king fixed his gaze on those below, and finally, the command came:
“Let the youngest begin.”
The words struck John like arrows. He felt every gaze upon him—some curious, some pitying, some expectant. His heart thundered, though his training and his system-won focus steadied his breath.
John stepped forward across the sand. The crowd murmured his name, some half-mocking at the thought of a boy beginning such a trial, others whispering with uncertain awe, knowing rumors of his unnatural feats.
He could request as many monsters from the ten thousand as he dared. One, for caution’s sake. Dozens, if he wished to prove himself. Or… a hundred, to set the pace and shake the arena. The choice was his.
The king’s voice deepened, thunder rolling behind his words:
“John of the easternmost Mage’s Enclave. Choose your number. Let the world witness your measure.”
John smiled.
It was not the smile of recklessness alone, nor the grin of a child boasting in front of his elders. It was something sharper, colder—the curve of lips belonging to one who felt the instincts of a predator stirring in his blood.
Common sense screamed against it.
The rules were clear: every monster defeated counted as a point, but if one fell, defeat meant disqualification—if not worse. Choosing too many was suicide. Choosing more than five thousand and one was already needless—since that was enough to secure unmatched victory, no matter how the others fared afterward.
But something in John’s bones whispered otherwise. The Sovereign of Paradox within him begged not for safety but for challenge. Numbers meant nothing. Danger meant nothing. His will demanded everything.
He raised his voice, steady and sharp as a blade:
“Ten thousand.”
The words rolled across the arena like thunder. At once, the lively hum of the crowd died. Silence fell—heavy, suffocating, as though the very air had frozen in place.
The king leaned forward, his regal composure cracking, his voice weighty with warning.
“Boy… you asked for all of them?” His eyes, so used to measuring warriors, narrowed. “Ten thousand beasts, gathered from across the kingdom? Even the greatest aura knights alive would balk at such folly. Reconsider.”
The monstrous roars from beyond the gates suddenly seemed to press closer, answering John’s defiance with their guttural hunger.
From the balcony beside the king, Elyndra stirred. Normally a mask of calm fire, her features tightened just slightly, unease flickering across her eyes. She knew his talent, his resilience, the impossible strength he bore despite his age. Yet—even she felt the dangerous edge glimmering beneath that declaration. To pit not just spirit but survival against ten thousand monsters… even her certainty faltered.
Still, John stood unmoving, his gaze locked upward on throne and mentor alike. His voice, young but unyielding, cut through the silence as though it were a second blade:
“Ten thousand.”
This time, no hesitation.
The silence deepened yet further, the audience holding its collective breath. Nobles clasped their arms in disbelief. Mages whispered hurried protections under their breath. Some of the participants who would fight later sneered, already certain the boy had doomed himself. Others—the ones whose instincts were keen enough—felt a ripple of dread in their spines, seeing not madness in the boy’s eyes but something stranger, more ancient. A wolf’s hunger beneath a human shell.
The king’s jaw set. His hand tightened on his throne’s armrest. Yet tradition bound him, and the rules did not allow refusal. The horn would sound, and John would face his choice.
From the corner of his vision, John caught Elyndra’s eyes once more. She said nothing—yet in her stillness was an unspoken question: Are you truly ready?
John’s smile did not waver. His blood was singing. The paradox within him whispered its law—defeat is meaningless, only breaking the impossible is worthy.
The silence broke when the king’s hand swept downward like the fall of a headsman’s blade.
“So be it. Ten thousand.”
The other challengers left the arena, leaving John alone and the gates separating him from his future prey began to open.