Where Legends Are Forged
The blinding, antiseptic white light of the teleportation pod finally faded, replaced by a sensory assault so sudden it made George's head spin. The deafening, rhythmic roar of a crowd—hundreds of thousands strong—slammed into them. George, Nana, and Kayn stumbled forward, their boots striking a surface far different from the metal grating of the Factory.
They blinked, shielding their eyes as they adjusted to the colossal spectacle. They stood upon a massive, circular stage at the epicenter of a world-class arena. The ground beneath them was polished obsidian, gleaming like a dark mirror under the vibrant, artificial glow of colossal arcane lights suspended miles above. Around them, a dizzying panorama of tiered seating rose toward the sky, a vertical sea of humanity packed into every available inch of the stadium.
Banners emblazoned with the proud crests of noble houses and the vibrant colors of various nations fluttered from ornate poles. Each snap of the fabric in the wind sent a fresh shiver of electric energy through the air. The very atmosphere hummed, thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy, intoxicating pressure of raw power.
At the heart of the stage, atop a colossal dais crafted from the same midnight-black obsidian, stood Grandmaster Gold-crest. His golden robes shimmered with an inner light, casting long, regal shadows across the stage. As he raised a single, steady hand, the deafening roar of the crowd didn't just stop—it softened instantly into a fervent, expectant murmur.
His voice, amplified by unseen magic, began to echo off the arena's vaulted heights, resonating not just in the air, but through the very ground and into their bones.
"Welcome, all you magnificent finalists!" Gold-crest's voice boomed, carrying a weight of authority that demanded absolute attention. "Let me be the first to extend my sincerest congratulations. From an initial thirty thousand aspiring Harvesters, only thirty-two of you have endured the trials. You have proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt—to your nations, to your families, and most importantly, to yourselves—that you are truly worthy of the title of Mage."
George glanced at Nana and Kayn. They looked small in the vastness of the arena, their clothes still tattered and stained with the dust of Zone C. The transition from the somber silence of the Factory to this explosion of fame was jarring.
"So, cast your gaze skyward," Gold-crest continued, his eyes sweeping across the thirty-two survivors. "Recognize that the seeds of your destiny are about to be sown. I ask you now: will you blossom into greatness, or will you wither away into obscurity? Today, you will have the unparalleled opportunity to demonstrate who among you is the strongest!"
A collective intake of breath caught in the throats of the finalists.
"You will be drawn at random to face off against each other in a series of one-on-one battles," the Grandmaster declared. "The world is watching. For now, rest, recuperate, and recover your strengths. Prepare yourselves to be called."
As Gold-crest lowered his hand, a ripple of low conversation broke out among the finalists—a volatile mix of shivering relief and sharpened anticipation. George gripped the hilt of his sword, feeling the hundreds of thousands of eyes pressing down on him. The forest was behind them, but a different kind of survival had just begun.