And not just that—
teleportation.
Participants moved without transition.
Without delay.
Without visible casting.
At that moment—
Draven had understood something.
*That's not normal.*
Not even for high-level mages.
Because teleportation—true teleportation—
required precision.
Preparation.
Anchoring.
It wasn't something you could just trigger remotely like a toy.
Which meant—
*someone else was doing it.*
From somewhere else.
His crimson eyes darkened slightly.
That was why—
after finding Lucien's sister,
after confirming the airship's existence—
Draven's priority had shifted.
The airship was useful.
But this?
This was better.
*If I get that…*
The thought formed, sharp and deliberate.
*Distance becomes meaningless.*
No need for routes.
No need for travel time.
No need for exposure.
They could reach the Night Forest—
or anywhere—
instantly.
That was why—
he drank the man's blood.
Not for power.
For **information.**
And he got it.
Just not what he wanted.
Draven's fingers flexed slightly at his side.
The memories replayed—
clear,
detailed,
unavoidable.
The man—
had no idea how to create portals.
No knowledge of teleportation theory.
No casting method.
No formation process.
Nothing.
Just a worker.
A handler.
Someone who operated within a system—
not someone who understood it.
But even that—
was enough.
Because from those memories—
Draven had learned something else.
The teleportation circles—
were **pre-drawn.**
Fixed.
Prepared in advance.
And more importantly—
they were **remotely activated.**
Not by the man.
Not by anyone in the arena.
But from somewhere else.
Somewhere above.
Somewhere hidden.
His gaze slowly lifted—
past the arena,
past the scrambling spectators—
toward the deeper structure beyond.
Toward where control wasn't just observed—
but commanded.
"…So that's how it all works."
His voice was quiet.
Steady.
Because now—
the picture was clearer.
The "game" wasn't self-contained.
It was being **managed externally.**
The collars.
The barrier.
The teleportation.
All of it tied to a system—
one that existed beyond this arena.
And if the circles were pre-drawn—
then somewhere—
there had to be a **central point.**
A control.
A core.
Or—
a **mage capable of maintaining it all.**
Draven's lips curved slightly.
Not a smile.
Something sharper.
Because that—
was what he had actually been looking for.
"…A real one."
Not handlers.
Not guards.
Not disposable pieces.
But the one behind the system.
The one who could **open space itself.**
Below—
the chaos continued to spread.
Participants broke formation.
Some fled.
Some fought.
Some turned on each other now that the rules were gone.
Seryna's group had already begun moving—
using the opening exactly as intended.
Escape.
But Draven didn't move.
Not yet.
Because while everyone else saw freedom—
he saw something else.
An opportunity.
His eyes narrowed slightly, locking onto the deeper structure beyond the arena.
*If the circles are remote…*
Then whoever controls them—
is still here.
Or close enough.
A faint chain rattled at his side.
"…Good."
The word slipped out under his breath.
Because now—
he had a direction.
And unlike before—
he wasn't guessing anymore.
He was hunting.
Draven moved.
Not hurried.
Not reckless.
Certain.
Behind him, the control room still echoed with distant shouting—boots slamming, orders collapsing into panic.
But he was already gone.
A single step—
and he dropped from the shattered ledge.
Not falling.
Descending.
His body cut through the air, cloak snapping once before he landed against the stone platform below.
**CRACK.**
The impact split the surface, dust lifting in a low ring.
He didn't stop.
Didn't even glance back.
Because the arena behind him—
was no longer his concern.
Chaos had already taken root.
Participants clashed freely—some fleeing toward the exits, others turning on weakened survivors, some too lost in bloodlust to even realize the barrier was gone.
Screams rose.
Magic flared.
Steel rang.
But Draven walked forward.
Through it.
Unaffected.
A blast of fire tore across his path—he stepped through the edge of it, flames licking across his shoulder—
gone the next second.
A body slammed near him—rolling, bleeding—
ignored.
Someone ran past him—desperate—
not even registering his presence.
Because whatever instinct had told them to fight—
was now screaming something else.
*Run.*
Draven's gaze remained forward.
Locked.
Beyond the arena floor—
past the broken gates—
toward the inner structure of the facility.
Where the real system lived.
Where control wasn't visible—
but enforced.
His steps never slowed.
The moment he crossed the threshold—
the atmosphere changed.
Less noise.
Less chaos.
More control.
Corridors stretched ahead—stone reinforced with veins of metal, runes pulsing faintly along the walls.
Security.
Not for spectacle.
For containment.
Two guards appeared at the far end, weapons raised, mana already gathering.
"STOP—!"
They never finished.
Draven vanished.
Reappeared between them.
A hand rose—
then fell.
**THUD.**
Both bodies dropped instantly.
No scream.
No struggle.
Just silence.
He kept walking.
Deeper.
Further in.
The air grew heavier.
Not physically—
but… structured.
Like invisible threads ran through everything—linking, connecting, responding.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
*There.*
A faint pull.
Subtle—
but undeniable.
Like something in this place—
was feeding.
Or being fed.
Draven turned.
A different corridor.
Narrower.
Less guarded.
More important.
He stepped into it—
and the moment he did—
the walls reacted.
Runes flared.
A low hum filled the passage.
Then—
**CLICK.**
Barriers dropped.
Layer after layer.
Sealing behind him.
Cutting off retreat.
Cutting off escape.
Draven stopped.
Just for a second.
Then—
he smiled.
"…Finally."
Because this—
wasn't panic.
This wasn't chaos.
This was a **response.**
Someone—
somewhere—
had noticed him.
And instead of running—
they were trying to contain him.
Which meant—
he was close.
Very close.
Ahead, the corridor darkened.
The hum deepened.
Mana thickened in the air, dense enough to feel against the skin—
like stepping into something alive.
Draven rolled his shoulder once.
Crimson energy flickered faintly along his arm.
Not released.
Contained.
Ready.
"…Good."
His voice was low.
Satisfied.
Because the hunt—
was finally leading somewhere real.
And this time—
he wasn't chasing shadows.
He was closing in—
on the one pulling the strings.