---
The sun beat down on the worn stone of the Gelber Colosseum, but the heat from the crowd was even more intense. A cacophony of cheers, bets, and vendor cries created a wall of sound that vibrated in Sarah's bones. The flier in her hand felt like a ticket to her future.
"TOURNAMENT OF THE COLOSSEUM! GLORY AND RICHES AWAIT IN GELBER TOWN!"
Kenta peered over her shoulder, his shadow providing a sliver of coolness. "Huh. A tournament. It's a half-day's walk from here. A predictable event for a backwater town like this."
Sarah's eyes, however, were alight with a fire he knew all too well. "It's perfect! It's not just testing our skills, Kenta. Look at this crowd. Every mercenary, rogue, and traveler for miles is here. The rumors, the information… it's a goldmine. One of them might know something about the Emperors' movements."
"You think you'll just ask them over a friendly drink?" he grumbled, his voice a low counterpoint to the surrounding frenzy. "Your 'sense of adventure' is a beacon for trouble."
"And your sense of caution is a blanket smothering a campfire," she retorted, nudging him with her elbow. "Live a little! Besides, I saw your eyes flicker. You're interested."
"You and your observations will get us both killed one day," he sighed, though the faintest ghost of a smile touched his lips. He could never stay truly annoyed with her for long.
"Too late to back out now!" she declared, grabbing his wrist and pulling him through the bustling gates.
---
The colosseum's interior was a world of its own. The air was thick with the smells of roasted nuts, spilled ale, and the sharp, clean scent of oiled steel. Their bickering faded into the background as the scale of the place dawned on them. It wasn't just a fighting pit; it was an ecosystem.
Sarah's heart hammered a rhythm of pure, unadulterated excitement. Kenta, in contrast, moved like a predator forced into a marketplace, his calm demeanor a fortress against the chaos. His eyes continuously scanned—the exits, the guards on the high walls, the composition of the crowd.
"Still buzzing with childish excitement?" he asked, not even looking at her as he noted a particularly heavily armed group from the northern clans.
"Of course!" she said, her voice breathless. "I can feel it, Kenta. This is where things change. We win here, people notice."
"And there it is, that blinding ambition," he murmured. "It makes you overlook the daggers in the shadows."
"Shut up. You're just jealous my name will be called from the royal box and yours won't," she retorted, poking him in the arm.
"Jealous? Hardly. I have no desire to be a court jester performing for nobility," he said, but his gaze was drawn to the large, gilded rewards board. His stoic expression didn't crack, but Sarah saw the subtle shift in his posture—the slight lean forward, the narrowing of his eyes.
TOURNAMENT REWARDS:
· 1st Prize: 100,000 Gold Coins & 10,000 Silver Coins
· 2nd Prize: 50,000 Gold Coins
· 3rd Prize: 10,000 Gold Coins
· Special Honor: A chance to receive a divine blessing from the King and Queen, granted to any warrior who uniquely impresses Her Highness, Princess Alessia. The nature of the blessing is a secret of the royal house.
Sarah let out a low whistle. "That's not just sweet loot. That's 'never-work-again' loot."
"100,000 gold could fund our travels for two years," Kenta agreed, his voice low and practical. "We could buy information, proper equipment, safe passage anywhere."
But Sarah's attention was welded to the "Special Honor." A divine blessing? The words echoed in her soul. This is it, she thought. This is the key. A real power, not just the slow grind of my System. Something that could let me stand against them. A mischievous, determined grin spread across her face. "What do you think 'uniquely impresses' a princess means?"
Kenta finally tore his eyes from the gold. "Beats me. Probably a flawless recitation of poetry while balancing a sword on your nose. Courtly nonsense. The gold is real. The blessing is a fairy tale."
For Sarah, however, the gold was the fairy tale. The blessing was the only reality that mattered. The tournament had transformed from a distraction into a critical mission.
---
Their debate was severed as they entered the fighter's preparation area. The roar of the crowd was a muffled thunder here, the air thick with the scent of sweat, fear, and sharpening stones. Warriors of every conceivable build—hulking brutes, lithe duelists, mysterious mages—occupied the space.
A grizzled man with a scar bisecting his eyebrow and a clipboard marched over. "You two! You look lost. Registration is that way," he said, jerking a thumb.
"Ready to compete," Sarah declared, her voice ringing with a confidence that made a few nearby fighters snicker.
The man, whose nameplate read "Boris," looked them up and down. "You look a bit… fresh. The sands out there have tasted more blood than you've probably ever seen. This isn't a game for children."
Sarah's fists clenched. "We're not children. We've seen more than you know."
Boris chuckled, a dry, rasping sound, and turned to Kenta. "And you, the quiet one? You don't seem as… loud as your friend."
Kenta met his gaze, his own eyes like chips of flint. "The loudest tool in the shed is rarely the sharpest."
A slow, genuine grin spread across Boris's face. "A philosopher-warrior. I like it. Fine, you're in." He scribbled their names. "First round is an opening melee. All versus all. Last twenty standing advance. Don't get trampled in the first minute."
"But we're ready now!" Sarah insisted, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
"Patience," Kenta said, his hand landing on her shoulder, a familiar, steadying weight. "He's right. Observe the field first. Let the hotheads eliminate each other."
Sarah sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders. "Yeah… yeah, you're right."
"Wise," Boris nodded, before moving on to the next group.
---
They found a slightly quieter alcove. Sarah paced, a torrent of restless energy. Kenta leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, but Sarah knew he was mapping the room through sound and scent alone.
Suddenly, she froze. Her eyes locked onto a group of five figures who had just entered. They moved with an unnerving, fluid synchronization, their faces hidden by deep, grey hoods. No banter, no bravado. A cold, grim aura seemed to radiate from them, making the fighters nearby instinctively shift away.
"Kenta," she whispered, her voice tight. "Look. By the far pillar."
Kenta's eyes snapped open. He followed her gaze, and his relaxed posture coiled into readiness. "You're right. They're not here for glory or gold. They move like assassins. Their formation is defensive, tactical. They're here for a purpose."
Before they could speculate further, a deep, resonant gong sounded, its vibration crawling up from the stone floor into their very souls.
"COMBATANTS! ENTER THE SANDS! THE GELBER GAUNTLET COMMENCES NOW! ALL VERSUS ALL! THERE ARE NO RULES EXCEPT SUBMISSION OR DEATH! THE LAST TWENTY STANDING ADVANCE!"
A massive iron gate groaned open, revealing the blinding sunlight of the arena.
Sarah's heart felt like a war drum. This was it.
"Stay close to start," Kenta commanded, his voice low and sharp. "We watch each other's backs. Let the chaos come to us."
A fierce, wild grin spread across Sarah's face. "Let's go get our blessing."
They stepped out of the gloom and into the roar of the crowd.
The arena was vast, the sand already churned from previous battles. Fifty, maybe sixty fighters fanned out, eyes filled with bloodlust, fear, or grim determination. For a heartbeat, there was silence, a collective intake of breath.
Then, with a wordless roar, the melee began.
It was not a duel; it was a storm. A mountain of a man charged them immediately, swinging a spiked club. Sarah didn't meet him head-on. She dropped low, using her smaller size to slide between his legs, tripping him with a deft hook of her ankle. As he stumbled past, Kenta was already there, the pommel of his sword striking the back of the man's head with a precise, non-lethal thud. He crumpled.
They moved as a unit. Sarah was the darting, unpredictable viper, using her speed and the System's subtle prompts to disrupt and unbalance. Kenta was the immovable rock, the precise and devastating counterpunch that neutralized every threat she drew in. They were a whirlwind of coordinated motion, a dance they had perfected through countless trials.
They thinned the herd around them, a growing circle of groaning bodies their testament. But Sarah's eyes kept drifting back to the hooded figures. They had formed a tight, rotating circle, their movements economical and brutally efficient. They didn't seek fights; they ended them. Any fighter who came near was disabled with a single, fluid motion—a joint lock, a nerve strike, a disarming maneuver followed by a knock-out blow. They were a machine, and they were easily carving their path into the top twenty.
"We need to thin their numbers," Sarah hissed to Kenta as she parried a wild axe swing.
"Too risky," Kenta grunted, disarming her attacker with a flick of his wrist. "We don't know their full capability. Our goal is to advance, not pick a fight with the most dangerous group here."
"But they're—"
Her words were cut off as the battlefield shifted. The number of combatants had halved. The initial chaos was condensing into smaller, more deadly skirmishes. And then, as if sensing a stronger threat, two of the hooded figures broke from their circle. Their path was direct, unwavering. They were heading straight for Sarah and Kenta.
The crowd sensed the shift, the roar intensifying. This was no longer random violence; this was a targeted hunt.
The lead hooded figure, taller than the rest, stopped ten paces away. He didn't speak. He simply raised a hand and pointed a single, gloved finger at Sarah. Then, he curled it in a "come here" gesture. A challenge. An insult.
Kenta's jaw tightened. "It seems the fight has chosen us."
Sarah's competitive fire, once bright with excitement, now burned with a colder, harder flame. This was no longer about impressing a princess. This was about survival. She met the hooded figure's gaze, though she could see nothing but shadows.
"Fine by me," she said, her voice dropping to a steely whisper. She settled into her fighting stance, the System's HUD flickering at the edge of her vision, calculating angles and probabilities at a dizzying speed. "Let's show them what happens when you pick a fight with the main characters."
The two hooded figures charged. Their speed was breathtaking, a blur of grey that closed the distance in an instant.
The battle was joined.
Kenta met the taller one's first blow, a sweeping kick that cracked like a whip. The impact reverberated up his block, numbing his arm. Incredible strength, he thought, his mind racing. This was no ordinary brawler.
Sarah engaged the other, a lithe fighter who used a strange, open-palm style. Her attacks were meant to disarm and disable, not cut. Sarah weaved and dodged, the System feeding her data on the opponent's patterns. Pressure points. Targeting joints. Efficiency over power. She was good, but Sarah was unpredictable. She feinted high, then dropped, sweeping a leg. The hooded figure leaped back, but a sharp stone on the ground twisted under their foot.
It was the opening Sarah needed. She lunged, driving her shoulder into their chest, sending them stumbling back towards the wall.
A triumphant cry erupted from her lips. But it was premature.
The taller figure, seeing his companion in trouble, disengaged from Kenta with a shocking burst of speed. He didn't attack Sarah; he threw a small, crystalline orb at the ground between them.
BOOM.
A flash of blinding white light and a concussive wave of force erupted, not of fire, but of pure, stunning energy. Sarah was thrown backward, her ears ringing, vision swimming. She hit the sand hard, the wind knocked out of her.
Kenta, caught on the edge of the blast, was staggered, his defenses down for a critical second.
The tall figure didn't press the attack on Kenta. He moved to his downed companion, helped them up, and with one last, unreadable look from the shadows of his hood, they both melted back into the remaining fray, abandoning the fight as quickly as they had started it.
The gong sounded.
"THE MELEE IS OVER! THE TWENTY STANDING ADVANCE! CEASE COMBAT!"
The sudden silence was deafening. Sarah pushed herself up onto her elbows, coughing sand. She saw Kenta standing a few feet away, his chest heaving, a look of cold fury on his face as he stared at the retreating hoods.
They had advanced. They were in the top twenty.
But it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a warning. They had been tested, and for a moment, they had been found wanting. The hooded figures had achieved their goal: they had assessed the competition, and they had learned that Sarah and Kenta were a threat worth noting.
As the crowd cheered and medics attended to the wounded, Sarah got to her feet, her body aching, her pride wounded. She looked at Kenta, and the same grim realization passed between them.
This tournament was not about glory or gold. It was a nest of vipers, and they had just been marked.
The real battle had only just begun.