The Velarium dimmed. The bowl roared like a storm.
A lone figure rose on the Oath Dais along the Engine Spine. Cloak pinned with the seal of the Congress. Hair silvered at the temples. Eyes steady.
He lifted one hand.
"Silence."
The word went out as a pure tone. The lower tiers faltered, like a wave meeting rock.
"Silence."
A second tone cut across the mid-bowl. The sound folded the air. Banners stilled mid-whip.
"SILENCE."
The last strike hit the sky. Spirit thrummed through stone and steel. Two hundred twenty thousand throats closed at once. The Magnara Grand Amphistad held its breath.
The Oathmaster smiled into the hush. When he spoke again, his voice filled every seat without a shout, like a bell struck inside the bones.
"Citizens of Janoah. Guests of every nation. Sponsors, guilds, veterans, and the young who dream with both eyes open. Welcome to Magnara. Welcome to the Mercy Colosseum. Welcome to the Trial by Mercy."
The Colos-Lens ring flared alive. His image stood ten stories tall. The crowd did not yet dare to answer.
"This is our second sun. Once every cycle, we light it. We gather to measure will. We gather to witness the next names who will chart maps, carry laws, build engines, heal cities, paint murals on ruined walls, and hold lines when others run."
He turned, hand sweeping the bowl.
"Chun. Show us machines that think and hands that guide them. Rajistan. Show us flame that listens to prayer. Britannia. Show us light disciplined as a blade. Vinlan. Show us rune and ash and winter iron. Zirael. Show us dream made true. Africanus. Show us the choir of your ancestors walking with you. The Tsar. Show us the quiet mind that does not break. Germania. Show us the rigor that does not lie. Americana. Show us the jungle's courage. And Janoah—"
He let the name hang. A heartbeat. Two.
"Show them we do not pray to gods. We build them."
A rolling thunder tried to start. He lifted two fingers. The thunder died on cue, like a well-trained horse.
"You know the law. No killing. Fight until yield or inability to fight. Two Anchors. One Oath. One Witness."
The line rippled through the tiers as a reverent murmur. He let it settle.
"Seekers in the field. Stand straight. Face your world. Let them see your faces before they see your power."
On the Mercy Deck, the gates irised. Lines of competitors emerged at a measured pace, boots on composite sending a pulse through the bowl. Halo Team among them. Starfall. Dragon. Boundless. Royal Aqua. Artist. Blade. Tropic Thunder. Qwasar. The ground seemed to breathe under their steps, and the crowd held its inhale.
The Oathmaster's voice gentled, and somehow it grew larger.
"You walk into history. This is the ledger you write with your breath. This is the mercy you prove with your hands. May your Sight be clear. May your Steel not fail. May your Sovereignty be just."
He turned toward the Congress and the skyboxes, then raised his palm to the south gallery.
"Magnara. Your President."
The bowl erupted as lights chased up to the Sigil Tier. A balcony awoke in gold. Johnny Joah stepped forward, hand on the rail, the Steel Flame pin bright over his heart. He waited for the roar to crest, then lifted his wrist. The sound fell like rain finishing.
"Janoah," Johnny said, voice warm and certain through the Oathmaster's sound-net. "From Flame, We Rise. Today the world watches. Today we show them what that promise means."
He looked down at the field. To the faces. To the future.
"Welcome to the Trials."
The bowl held that last note of the President's voice, then let it fall like a curtain.
A single chime pulsed from the Engine Spine. The Colos-Lens went dark, then traced one bright branch over the Mercy Deck:
Match 1 — Kai Xander (Halo) vs Carlos (Tropic Thunder)
On the field, Aria bumped Kai's shoulder. "You got this." Her smile flashed. "Earn that kiss," she whispered
Rin set two fingers against Kai's wrist. "Don't lose cause I want to fight you the most." he smiled
Lila squeezed his hand once. "Make it quick. I'll see you at four."
Kai nodded. "I've got it."
Floor marshals fanned them off the field.
A referee strode to the center in official Seekerwear—navy and gunmetal with white-gold piping, mantle banded in black. A gold-rank badge winked at his collar.
"Hillary Black," someone breathed from the press pit. "Gold Seeker."
He raised a steady hand. "Field clear."
The crew swept the deck fast. Gates irised. Lines broke.
Aria and Rin were waved to hold positions in the tunnel to watch. Lila peeled toward the north access with a med tech. Up in the skybox, William watched—hands folded, jaw easy, eyes level—while the crowd's bass rolled under the glass.
On deck, Hillary Black lifted two fingers to the Oath Dais. "Mercy Deck green. Anchors hot. Match One to the center."
"Competitors," he called. "Walk."
Kai stepped into the roar. Carlos emerged opposite in Tropic Thunder cords, braids tight, jungle marks at his wrists. The bowl shook under their boots.
They faced. Bowed.
Kai's tone was simple. "Goal."
Carlos didn't blink. "Put Tropic Thunder on the map. Bring my river home lights."
Kai nodded. "Win. Prove mercy isn't soft."
Hillary's hand cut down.
"Begin."
They launch.
Fists blur.
Forearms bite.
Kai frames the head and drives. Two hard steps.
Carlos posts, shoulders low, slips out, snaps a hook over the ear.
Thock.
Kai bites down, answers centerline—straight, straight.
Carlos rides the first, slips the second, digs rib. Short, mean.
Clinch.
Head position fights chin.
Hands pummel for inside.
Kai bumps the crown under Carlos' jaw—pop of space—knee to thigh. Again.
Carlos grins through it. He stamps the instep.
Kai twists the hip for a trip—almost—Carlos cartwheels off the catch and lands cat-soft.
Back in.
Jab-jab from Kai. Touches. Measures.
Carlos slaps-parries like paws, then whips a tight elbow over the top.
Glove catches it. Shock numbs fingers.
Kai answers with a short hook that kisses the cheekbone. Skin splits. Red beads.
They circle. Dust skates.
Carlos feints high. Drops level. Comes up with a shovel hook.
Kai shells. Takes it on the elbow. Pain files itself.
He steps in. Smothers.
Left hand clamps tricep. Right frames jaw.
Hip turn—shoulder-bump dump.
Carlos rolls through, handspring up, and swings a spinning backfist out of the rise.
Kai ducks by a hair and rips the body twice. Drum-thumps. Air barks out of Carlos; he laughs anyway.
Break.
Both reset on the seam. Feet light. Eyes sharp.
Kai switches southpaw.
Touch. Touch.
Left cross walks Carlos back a step.
Carlos prowls lower now. Stutter steps. Head off-line.
He darts in, rakes a hook across the nose.
Pop. Hot metal.
Kai blinks sweat, steps forward instead of back.
He tapes a jab on the guard to blind.
Right hand spears the middle.
Carlos slips inside and answers with a slick uppercut that clips the chin.
Flash.
Kai eats it, clinches, turns.
Forearm digs neck. Foot reaps. Carlos' heel skids. Not enough.
They grind.
Carlos grinds back—brow across cheek to open the cut. Ugly. Smart.
Kai swims for double underhooks; Carlos whizzers hard and steals one back.
Short elbow from Kai.
Short knee from Carlos.
Both land. Both grunt.
Reflections of teeth in sweat.
Break.
Low kick to the calf from Carlos. Thud.
Shin checks from Kai. Dull shock up the spine.
Kai steps in behind the check—
Hook to temple.
Cross to nose.
Chop elbow on the exit.
Carlos' head snaps, but the feet hold. He hits back on reflex—
Hook.
Hook.
Nothing fancy. All hate.
They trade. Tight. Nasty.
Gloves thud off bone. Sweat sprays halos in the light.
Carlos changes levels like a cat slipping under a fence.
He shoulder-rams ribs, then uses that contact to pivot around to Kai's back.
Hands fight the hands.
Kai scrapes off the wrist, turns with him, refuses the back-take, stamps Carlos' foot to freeze him—
Hip toss feint—no throw—just enough to make him post.
The post comes.
Kai replaces it with a hook the instant it leaves.
Smack.
Carlos staggers sideways. Stays up. Smiles thin now.
"More," he rasps.
"Come get it," Kai.
They crash again.
Kai drags the lead hand down with a parry and threads a straight through the tunnel.
Carlos slips by atoms and clips his ear with a whipping hook—bell ring.
Kai spins off the sting—sprawl-fake into a knee lift.
Carlos palms the knee aside midair and answers with a corkscrew uppercut from the hip.
Glove grazes chin.
Kai's head snaps. He plants. Won't back up.
He steps in chest-to-chest.
Bumps. Turns.
Short right to the ear.
Carlos' legs go sea-sick for a beat. He stabs a knee to gut to buy breath.
Break. Two paces. Hands up.
Blood ropes from both noses now. Cutting talking. Chests heave.
Kai points center.
Carlos nods.
They sprint the last step.
Jab from Kai.
Paw parry from Carlos.
Both right hands fire over the top at once.
Crack.
Heads kick opposite ways.
Shoes skid on stone.
Neither falls.
A blink of quiet in the bowl's thunder.
Then they're moving again—
Kai cutting the angle, hunting the straight lane,
Carlos vanishing off it, carving hooks like claws,
and the stone floor drinks sweat as the next collision ignites.
They bite down. Step in again.
The bowl detonates.