---
The concussive blast of the strange crystal orb still rang in Sarah's ears as she pushed herself up from the sand, her body protesting. The gong's echo declared the melee over, but the real fight, she knew, had just been announced.
"THE MELEE IS OVER! THE TWENTY STANDING ADVANCE! CEASE COMBAT!"
Around them, the victors panted, bleeding and bruised. But on the far side of the arena, the five hooded figures stood unruffled, their grey robes untouched by dust or struggle. The tall one who had challenged Sarah turned his head slightly in their direction, a silent promise of a future confrontation, before his group melted away through the competitor's gate.
Kenta was at her side in an instant, his hand on her arm, his gaze sharp. "Are you hurt?"
"Just my pride," Sarah coughed, spitting out a grain of sand. "What was that? They didn't even try to win the melee, they just... probed us."
"A reconnaissance," Kenta confirmed, his voice low and grim. "They identified the strongest competitors. We were among them. That flash wasn't meant to defeat us; it was to disorient and retreat. Professional. Dangerous."
The initial excitement of the tournament had curdled into a cold, hard knot of apprehension in Sarah's gut. This was no longer a game.
---
The organizer, Boris, herded the twenty survivors into a stone chamber beneath the stands. His earlier bravado was gone, replaced by a weary tension. "Listen up! The main event is a battle royal. All of you, in the arena at once. Last one—or one team—standing wins. There are no rules beyond submission or death." His eyes scanned the group, lingering on Sarah and Kenta, and then on the hooded figures who stood apart, silent and imposing. "The gods help you all."
A hulking brute from the northern clans spat on the floor. "No teams! I fight alone!"
One of the hooded figures, a lithe woman, spoke for the first time, her voice like scraping ice. "The rules state 'one or one team.' The interpretation is clear." Her hidden gaze swept over the other fighters, a silent challenge that made several look away.
Boris just shrugged. "She's not wrong. Sort your own alliances out. You have one hour."
As the room erupted into a frenzy of desperate deal-making and threats, Sarah and Kenta retreated to a corner.
"This changes things," Kenta murmured, his eyes closed as he mentally cataloged every fighter in the room. "The 'team' clause is a loophole for the powerful. Those hooded ones will act as a single entity."
"And they've already marked us," Sarah finished, her jaw set. "So we do the same. We watch each other's backs. It's us against them."
A faint, approving smile touched Kenta's lips. "Always."
---
When the massive iron gates groaned open for the final event, the roar of the crowd was a physical wall of sound. The sun was higher now, baking the sand. The royal box was occupied, a splash of vibrant silks and jewels, but Sarah's focus was razor-sharp. The time for sightseeing was over.
The organizer's voice boomed across the colosseum. "Let the Grand Tournament of Gelber begin! It is all versus all! The last one, or one team, standing wins!"
For a moment, there was a tense, silent standoff. Then, with a collective roar, the chaos erupted.
It was a storm of steel and spell. A mountain of a man charged them, 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 polished scabbard of his katana striking the back of the man's head with a precise, non-lethal thud. He crumpled.
They moved as a single, devastating unit. Sarah was the darting, unpredictable viper, using her speed to disrupt and unbalance. Kenta was the immovable rock, the precise and devastating counterpunch. He was a artist of motion, his blade, Hikari no Ha, still sheathed, using only the scabbard and the flat of the blade to disarm and disable opponents with breathtaking efficiency. He had effortlessly defeated a dozen men, his breathing still even.
"Look at the duo, Sarah and Kenta!" the organizer's amplified voice cried, and the crowd cheered for the underdogs. The energy, the synergy—it was captivating.
And in that moment, Sarah felt it. A surge of warmth, a unlocking of potential deep within her core. The System's interface, usually passive, flickered brightly at the edge of her vision.
[SYSTEM: Threshold of combat exceeded.]
[SYSTEM: Adversity catalyst recognized.]
[LEVEL UP!]
[All S-Rank skills upgraded to High Grade.]
New strength flooded her limbs. Her senses sharpened, the world moving in a slightly slower, more perceptible frame. She moved faster, a blur of motion, her defensive spells now bursting with retaliatory force, throwing attackers back.
But while the crowd watched the rising stars, the true predators made their move.
On the arena's edge, untouched by the frenzy, stood the six hooded figures. They had not yet engaged a single opponent. Their leader, a stern, commanding presence they would later know as Eclipse, gave a silent, almost imperceptible signal.
The cult moved as one. This was not a fight; it was an extermination. They didn't target individuals; they changed the very environment. Mirage, her calculating eyes now glowing with pale blue light, raised her hands. A wave of crystalline ice magic erupted from the group, not aimed at the fighters, but at the ground itself.
The arena floor flash-froze. A glacier spread from their feet with terrifying speed, encasing defeated and still-struggling competitors alike in solid, opaque ice. The chaotic battle was silenced in an instant, the roar of the crowd cutting off into a stunned, horrified gasp. The temperature plummeted.
In seconds, only three groups remained unfrozen: Sarah and Kenta, standing back-to-back in a small island of sand; the six hooded figures, now revealed as the Glazier Cult; and a single, terrified spearman who dropped his weapon and fled through the gate.
Panic erupted in the stands. The organizer, pale and trembling, scrambled for his microphone. "P-please remain calm!" he stammered, his eyes darting between the cult and the royal box. He was a man who understood power, and he saw in the cult a cold, absolute authority that promised death. In a desperate attempt to appease them and avoid a full-scale massacre, he shouted the only conclusion possible.
"The winners... by the last-standing rule... the Glazier Cult team!"
A stunned silence fell over the colosseum, broken only by the terrified whimpers of the crowd.
"First place: The Glazier Cult! Your reward is an audience for divine blessings in the royal castle and a rare item from the treasury!"
He rushed through the rest, his voice shaking, trying to impose normalcy on a scene that was anything but. "Second place, Kenta: 100,000 Gold Coins! Third place, Sarah: 10,000 Silver Coins!"
The announcements were meaningless. The cult had no interest in gold or silver. They had won exactly what they wanted: sanctioned, public access to the royal castle and the princess.
As the crowd murmured in confusion and fear, Sarah and Kenta stood ready, their eyes fixed on the six figures. The cult members ignored their proclaimed prizes. Instead, one of them, Phantom, turned his gaze directly to Kenta. Though his face was hidden, a covetous, hungry energy radiated from him, his focus locked on the second, still-sheathed katana at Kenta's hip—Yami no Hikari. He could sense the dark power slumbering within, a power he desperately desired.
The tournament was over. It had been a sham, a means to an end. As the Glazier Cult was escorted from the sands, their true mission now in motion, Sarah and Kenta were left standing in the frozen wasteland of the arena.
They had the gold. They had the crowd's adoration. But they had lost the prize that mattered—the access to the princess—and had gained something far more valuable and dangerous: the unwavering attention of a deadly enemy. The real battle was no longer in the colosseum; it was marching directly toward the heart of the kingdom.