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Chapter 35: The Arena Calls.
Esgard held its breath.
The streets, normally alive with noise and flame, were hushed—like the city itself feared what was to come.
No carolers, no merchants.
Only the wind, whispering through alleyways, and the distant toll of iron bells.
Today, the coliseum would drink.
And the gods of blood would be sated.
Ian stood unmoving as the carriage slowed. The arena rose before him as though it were the corpse of a god—immense, rotting with memory, carved from stone that remembered every scream it had ever heard.
He’d seen worse.
Lived through worse.
Survived worse.
It were better even than the pits and it’s dungeons.
Inside, the stench hit harder than any blow—sweat, rust, piss, and something older.
Death that never quite washed out.
Eli led the way through narrow corridors that coiled like intestines beneath the coliseum’s flesh. They stepped onto the noble tier—a place high enough that blood couldn’t stain silk.
The princess was already there, dressed in a regal crimson cloak, her silver hair tied in a braid that fell over one shoulder. She nodded as they approached.
"Sit," she said simply.
Ian took a seat beside Eli, overlooking the killing grounds below. The crowd roared around them—nobles in silk and gold sipped wine while commoners packed the stands, faces lit with savage anticipation.
The first match was being announced. The fighters stepped out—condemned men in rusted armor, faces tight with fury and despair.
As was tradition, they raised their weapons.
"We who are about to die, salute you!" the fighters roared, and the battle began.
The fight was brutal.
Axes cleaved through flesh. Limbs were hacked off. One man crushed his opponent’s head with a stone hammer, only to be gutted a moment later by a third.
There was no magic.
No grace. Just raw, feral survival.
Ian watched it all unfold, silent.
"Brutal, isn’t it?" Eli said beside him, arms folded.
"I’ve seen worse," Ian replied.
Eli chuckled. "That’s exactly why you’ll survive this place."
He leaned closer, voice lowering just enough to be heard over the crowd’s cheers. "You’ll see a lot of power on display here, but very little of it is true magic. The arena favors strength, but when mages enter the pit... it’s a different game."
Ian’s gaze shifted toward Eli. "Then explain it to me."
Eli nodded. "Let’s start from the top. Mages are ranked by circle. Each circle represents more than power—it defines what kind of spells you can cast, how much mana your body can contain, and how you manipulate it."
Ian nodded slowly. "I’ve heard the ranks before, but what makes someone break through?"
"Training, battle, refinement and mana affinity," Eli said. "But most importantly—your bloodline."
He gestured to the arena. "Not all mages are created equal. Some are born with bloodlines that attune them to a specific type of mana. Fire, water, shadow, light... the stronger the bloodline, the greater their natural affinity. The rarest ones are called Extinct Bloodlines. Bloodlines thought lost to time, too dangerous or powerful for the world to handle."
Ian didn’t react. But he felt the weight of that truth. Extinct bloodline, the system called it. He’d heard the term before—never out loud.
Eli gave him a look.
"There are bloodlines tied to the elements. Beast bloodlines. Some linked to celestial bodies, and even one rumored to be tied to time itself. But none remain, and if they do they are tightly guarded by the ancient factions or the imperial family."
The crowd began to cheer again as another match started.
This time, the fighters seemed more organized. One even summoned a flame whip from his palm. It danced wildly as he sliced through his opponent’s defenses.
"You see that?" Eli nodded at the mage. "That one’s probably second circle. Maybe third if we are generous. Fire affinity. His core’s developed enough to let him manifest a minor construct. A real mage."
The man eventually won, incinerating the last of his foes with a blast of fire that left only charred bone behind.
Ian said nothing. But his thoughts deepened.
Just then, a sneering voice rang out from the seats beside theirs.
"Well, well... If it isn’t the Lady of Corpses herself."
The princess didn’t react as a man dressed in rich violet robes approached. His face was lean and angular, with eyes that burned with quiet malice.
"Duke Alric of House Volmir," Eli murmured with quiet distaste.
The man smiled thinly. "I see you’ve returned from the forest, Eli. Alive, to the surprise of many."
"Disappointed?" Eli asked dryly.
"Not at all. I admire your stubbornness. But really... who have you brought this time?" His gaze shifted to Ian. "Another pretty-faced corpse to be fed to the Duke of Lugard’s butcher?"
Ian didn’t answer. He merely met the man’s gaze with a lifeless stare.
Alric smirked. "Silent. Well, he’ll be screaming soon enough."
He turned to the princess. "You should give up your seat, Highness. Your House is finished. This arena is not yours anymore."
The princess took a sip from her glass, unbothered. "Enjoy your show, Alric. It will be your last pleasant one."
Alric scoffed and returned to his seat.
More fights passed. Blood continued to flow. And then, finally, the crowd quieted as a booming voice echoed across the coliseum.
"For the final match of the day, fighting to qualify for the league of champions...!" the announcer’s voice echoed through the coliseum. "From the House of Lugard—comes the undefeated slayer... Varn the Dreadwolf!"
A monstrous figure emerged into the arena.
Towering, armored in dark metal, carrying a greatsword that looked more like a slab of iron than a weapon.
The crowd roared.
"And now... who fights in the name of House Elarin?"
Silence.
Whispers spread like wildfire across the stands.
"Has she finally given up?"
"Is the princess conceding?"
"About time."
In the noble stand, Ian remained seated, his expression unreadable.
A servant approached the princess and whispered something. She gave a slow, pleased smile.
Then she turned.
"Ian," she said.
"Your grace," he replied.
"Go kill that bastard."
Ian stood. "As you wish."
Without another word, he stepped forward—and with a single, effortless movement, he leapt from the noble platform, descending the full height of the viewing tier.
He landed in the sand with a dull thud, knees bent, and straightened with eerie calm.
The crowd erupted in gasps and murmurs.
"It seems... House Elarin has made a move!" the announcer bellowed. "And what’s this? A new face!"
The coliseum’s attention was now fully on him.
Across the arena, Varn grinned behind his iron helm.
"So you’re the one they sent?" His voice was gravel and arrogance. "You don’t seem like much. I can barely perceive mana from you."
He stepped closer, greatsword dragging through the sand like a plow.
"You’re barely a mage, are you?" Varn sneered. "Just a rat with a death wish."
Ian didn’t speak at first.
Then, slowly, he raised both hands—and from thin air, the twin daggers appeared in a shimmer of dark mist. The blades glowed faintly, eager.
Ian’s voice was cold, quiet, and without any hesitation.
"Aren’t you babbling too much... for a man about to die?"
