The air trembled with noise.
It wasn't just loud—it was overwhelming, a collision of emotion, desperation, and spectacle.
Cries echoed from every corner of the encampment.
The hoarse weeping of broken slaves mixed with the laughter and jeering of nobles, while the hum of curious, murmuring civilians buzzed like static from beyond the transparent barrier walls that separated this twisted arena from the rest of the city.
Everywhere one looked, the camp boiled with tension.
Slaves were being moved and herded like livestock, forced into lines and groups with no order, no kindness.
"H-Heek!"
*Crack!
"MOVE, Slave!"
Some resisted and were struck.
Others stumbled from exhaustion, only to be dragged across the dirt by armored hands.
Meanwhile, nobles casually returned to their balconies and platforms, some laughing with glasses of wine, others wiping blood from their gloves—hands still red from whatever had been done before.
The whole place was alive with whispers.
"Is that him?"
"Hey, that's the one they say is Venedix's apprentice…"
"No way. That's just a kid."
"They were escorted by Lady Merilyn herself—I saw them walking down the high street earlier!"
And like moths drawn toward the glow of flame, eyes began to converge on a new group of arrivals.
Jinn and his companions had entered the encampment.
The whispers followed them like shadows.
Their arrival shifted the atmosphere.
Something unseen yet undeniable rippled through the crowd.
Their steps were measured, calm, and unshaken by the chaos around them.
They didn't carry themselves like cattle—but like sharpened blades.
Like those who had tasted fire and walked out of it stronger.
Then came the bells.
*GONG!
A heavy ring boomed through the encampment—deep and thunderous, shaking dust from the stone walls.
*GONG!! *GONG!!
The sound echoed again, a slow rhythm that carried the weight of ritual and finality.
It silenced some.
Others shivered.
A warning, a signal, a reminder.
The second ritual was about to begin.
Inside the vast holding grounds of the arena, thousands of slaves had already been assembled.
They were packed tight into clusters—faces pale, shoulders hunched.
Many whispered words from forgotten faiths, prayers to gods who no longer answered.
Others simply stood still, vacant-eyed and hollow, as if their souls had long since fled their bodies.
And now, moving among them, was Jinn and his group.
They didn't speak.
Their silence was more powerful than words.
There was a presence to them—a weight that could be felt in every step, in the posture of their bodies, in the way they walked with quiet control.
They were no longer the same frightened captives from the days before.
They were survivors of something brutal, something transformative.
The result of relentless training and the painful awakening of the eidra within them.
Power now pulsed beneath their skin—unrefined, yes, but unmistakably there.
Jinn's eyes rose to the sky and settled on the elevated noble platforms built above the encampment's walls.
Gilded railings, stone balconies, and floating glass platforms allowed the wealthy to watch from a comfortable distance.
Nobles dressed in silken robes and glimmering jewels stood sipping exotic drinks, leaning on railings as they observed the scene below with disinterest or perverse amusement.
His gaze lowered once more—and then froze.
There, just ahead in the crowd of slaves, stood a figure impossible to miss.
Broad-shouldered, towering, arms folded over a chest that looked carved from stone.
"There's Biyo," Jinn muttered, pointing toward the man with narrowed eyes.
He turned to his companions. "Come on."
With a wordless nod, the group pressed forward—threading their way through the crowd of ragged, worn-down bodies.
The stench of sweat, dirt, and despair filled their lungs.
Shoulders brushed past them.
Whispers clung to their ears.
But they kept going until at last they reached him.
"Hoho!" Biyo's deep voice rang out like a war drum, full of mirth and warmth.
He grinned wide, stepping forward as he opened his arms.
"Jinn! The rest of you! You've grown—hah! Tougher, sharper… I can see it in your eyes."
"Of course," Hector replied calmly, voice steady and sure, one hand resting on a cloth-wrapped object secured at his hip.
There was pride in his tone—not arrogance, but earned confidence.
"We have to be strong," he added, "if we want to survive what's coming."
"You're right about that…" Vox murmured, adjusting his glasses with a flick of his fingers.
His gaze was cold, analytic, yet burning with thought.
"We'll need more than just strength to survive this trial. Strategy… control… adaptability."
Jinn crossed his arms, his eyes scanning the viewing platforms again.
The sunlight was barely visible through the gray sky, but what little gleamed through bounced off the polished platforms above.
The nobles gathered in far greater numbers now than during the first ritual, as if this trial held greater promise for spectacle—and for blood.
"There's more nobles than before," Jinn muttered. "Seems they're expecting a show."
"Mhm. It's the second trial, after all," Biyo replied with a grunt.
"You seem to know a lot, old man," Orin said, arching an eyebrow with subtle challenge. "Mind telling us what we're walking into?"
Biyo ran a thick hand through his beard, the hairs rustling like dry leaves in wind.
His brow furrowed in thought, eyes scanning the group slowly.
"If what my war-mother told me still holds true…" he said, pausing for gravity, "then the second ritual is one of survival."
"Not very specific," Verhedyn muttered dryly, crossing his arms with a faint scoff. "Could mean anything."
"Regardless, we should do what we did before—stick together," Ophelia said.
Her voice was calm, smooth, but carried a quiet steel behind it. "Coordination increases our chances of success tenfold."
"That much is obvious," Jinn nodded, giving her a side glance.
"We've grown. We've changed. Let's make sure it wasn't for nothing."
Kain stood beside them in silence, eyes firm and grounded.
He remembered every word his mentor had drilled into him—how to steady the heart, how to listen beyond fear, how to stand tall even when knees threaten to buckle.
Those lessons clung to his mind like mantras.
Meanwhile, Verhedyn's lips curled faintly with irritation as he remembered his own mentor—a figure more predator than teacher.
He had been hunted for days, forced to run, dodge, and survive without rest.
It was less like training and more like cruelty dressed in lesson.
"Tch," Verhedyn scoffed internally. "Mentor? More like a damned sadist."
Still, even if he hated it, he couldn't deny—he was faster now.
Sharper.
He could feel it in his bones.
Ophelia clenched her fists gently as her thoughts wandered back to her homeland—
the Holy Seraphim Empire.
A sacred place of history and strength… now far behind her.
Amaron had taught her to focus, to use her power wisely.
But now, inside enemy walls, surrounded by those who hated her bloodline, the pressure was immense.
And yet, amidst the anxiety, something deeper stirred.
Resolve.
I won't falter, she thought.
Not for me—but for them.
Hector stood still, hand on the wrapped object tied to his waist.
For a moment, the shadow of his father returned—unwanted, unwelcome.
But he crushed it beneath focus.
Not now.
This isn't the time.
His friends were here.
His new family.
He would protect them.
No matter what.
And then, as if on cue, the voice returned.
A booming sound, familiar and theatrical.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" the announcer bellowed, his voice projected across the camp through a microphone enchanted to carry miles.
"ARE YOU READY?!"
*ROARS OF CHEERING!!!
"Here we go again…" Verhedyn groaned.
"The time has come! The bells have rung! The slaves are gathered! The second ritual shall now commence!"
Floating projections burst into life above the arena.
Massive panels made of condensed light flickered into place, displaying a single repeating image:
Forests.
But not just any forests.
Dark.
Dense.
Twisted.
Each screen showed a different part of the same world—trees that pulsed like veins, undergrowth that moved when unwatched, and red mist that lingered like breath from a beast.
"For the second ritual… as requested by Her Highness, the Princess herself… the battleground is the cursed planet of Gravemarch!"
*ROARS OF CHEERING AGAIN!!!
Biyo's face contorted.
"Tch. Gravemarch. They're serious about killing us…"
Jinn turned sharply. "Should we be worried?"
Biyo nodded grimly, his eyes locked on the projection.
"Very. Gravemarch is home to the Zaeth—creatures that drink blood and live in shadow. Beasts bred for war and torment."
"Sanguine beasts?" Ophelia asked, her voice tense.
"Exactly," Biyo said, his tone serious. "Monsters born from ancient blood, twisted by suffering. They don't just kill—they feed."
"Well… shit," Verhedyn muttered, eyes narrowing.
And so it began.
The next trial.
The dead forest awaited.
*End of Volume I