The sound of steel came before the city itself.
Clashing metal. Cheering crowds. The low hum of bloodlust that rolled across the wind like thunder. Kael and I followed that sound for half a day until the gates of Draveth City came into view—stone walls tall enough to scrape the clouds and banners fluttering in the wind, marked with the sigil of a lion biting its own tail.
But it wasn't the city's grandeur that caught our eyes. It was the colosseum that loomed behind it—an enormous ring of white stone, engraved with runes, vibrating faintly with life energy. From inside came the rhythmic thud of battle.
Kael grinned beneath her dark scarf. "You hear that, Sam? Sounds like opportunity."
"Or trouble," I muttered, though a small part of me agreed with her.
We'd been traveling for months—fighting beasts, gathering data, and refining our resonance with the life energy that surrounded everything. Our yellow cores pulsed steadily, perfectly attuned to our bodies and souls. We had power, yes—but growth had slowed. No amount of training or meditation could push us further. We'd hit a wall.
Until now.
The arena wasn't just a stage—it was a crucible. The perfect place to test what we'd learned.
The streets near the Colosseum were chaos—vendors hawking roasted meat, gamblers waving coins, mercenaries boasting about kills. Everyone here wanted either coin, glory, or blood. Sometimes all three.
We made our way to the registration stand beneath a rusted iron arch. A bored clerk leaned against the desk, lazily recording names. "Fighters?" he asked without looking up.
"Yeah," I said. "Iron level."
"Names?"
"Kane Vale," I said.
Kael hesitated a moment, then smirked. "Lyra Windwell."
The man scrawled the names, handed us two dull gray badges, and pointed to a board filled with names and match times. "Win or die. Lose and you sit out a week. Iron level's not for show-offs."
"We're not here to show off," Kael replied, sliding the badge into her belt. "We're here to learn."
Our first match came that evening.
The Iron ring wasn't grand like the main Colosseum—it was smaller, rougher. A dirt floor surrounded by wooden bleachers, maybe two hundred spectators. But the energy… the energy was wild. People shouted, bet on fighters, and laughed when someone fell.
When the announcer called, "Kane Vale and Lyra Windwell!" we walked out to silence. New names. No reputation. That was fine. The fewer eyes on us, the better.
Our opponents were veterans—two men easily a head taller than me, muscles built from years of battle. Their auras shimmered with the solid light of high-level yellow cores—stronger than ours.
Kael's hand brushed mine briefly. "Think we can handle it?"
"If we can't, we'll learn," I said simply, adjusting my grip on my sword.
The bell rang.
They came at us like a storm—one with a massive cleaver, the other with twin short spears. Their coordination was tight; they'd fought together before. Kael spun aside, her twin blades flashing silver. A whisper of wind followed each step as she manipulated the air subtly, boosting her speed without revealing the technique's depth.
I engaged the cleaver wielder head-on. His strikes were brutal, heavy, but slow. I deflected the first blow, the vibration running through my arms like an earthquake. My body moved on instinct—muscles guided by months of training and the faint hum of my core.
Every step. Every twitch of his hand. Every breath.
I could feel them before they happened.
I'd learned to extend my senses through my telekinesis—not to move objects, but to sense pressure, air displacement, and motion. It wasn't obvious to the eye, but it gave me the slightest edge in reading his attacks.
A swing. A pivot. A feint.
I stepped in under his guard, slamming my pommel into his ribs. He grunted, staggered, and I twisted my blade in a downward cut that tore a line across his shoulder plate.
Meanwhile, Kael was a blur—her wind-enhanced movements leaving faint trails of dust and sound. She deflected a spear thrust, spun low, and swept the man's legs out from under him. The crowd roared as she kicked his weapon away and pressed a blade to his neck.
The cleaver man turned to help his partner, but I caught his wrist, pivoted, and brought my sword down with precision. The flat of my blade struck his temple. He collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The crowd went silent—then erupted.
Two unknowns had just taken down two veterans.
That night, we won again. Then again.
Each battle was harder. Some opponents used elemental techniques—small bursts of fire, streaks of stone. Others relied purely on strength. But no matter how tough it got, we adapted.
Kael used the arena to refine her control. Her wind wasn't just for dodging anymore—it was movement, acceleration, and attack in one fluid rhythm. She could create microbursts to push opponents off balance or shift her momentum mid-air.
As for me, I practiced precision. My telekinesis remained hidden, acting as an invisible sense. Every vibration in the air, every twitch in my opponent's aura, I felt it. Sometimes, when I exhaled, a faint pressure emanated from me—enough to unsettle weaker opponents. It wasn't just a trick of the mind. It was the natural extension of my will, projected through my core.
They called it Presence in some places. I called it control.
By our fifteenth victory, whispers started.
"Who are they?"
"Too fast to be rookies."
"They fight like they've bled before."
We ignored it. Fame wasn't our goal—growth was. Every battle refined our synchronization. I could feel Kael's rhythm even when I wasn't looking at her. When I stepped left, she already knew to strike right.
The crowd began cheering our fake names. "Kane! Lyra! Kane! Lyra!"
Strange how quickly anonymity can turn to legend.
On our twenty-fourth match, things changed.
Our opponent was a man called Roth the Red Blade, an Iron veteran known for having burned through a dozen challengers. His sword shimmered faintly with flame—a low-tier fire technique, but potent in close combat. His aura was dense, the kind that came from years of refinement.
As the match began, the air grew hotter. Roth swung his sword, and flames arced through the space between us, forcing Kael and me apart.
"Watch his left foot," I murmured, circling him. "He anchors before he swings."
Kael nodded, eyes narrow. "Got it."
He lunged at her, sword ablaze. She jumped back, wind twisting around her legs, cushioning her retreat. I darted in, blade aimed low, but Roth spun faster than I expected, parrying with a ringing clash.
The heat singed my sleeve. My sword felt heavy, his strength pressing down on mine. For a moment, it was all I could do to keep up.
Kael used the chance to flank him—two slashes, quick and precise—but he blocked both, flames licking up her blades. She hissed, backing off.
"This guy's not ordinary," she said.
"Yeah," I replied. "He's the test before the door."
We changed our rhythm. I pressed from the front, keeping his attention, while Kael circled wide, using gusts of air to stay light on her feet. I waited—timing every strike until he overextended.
Then Kael struck.
A sharp burst of wind hit his legs from the side. His balance faltered just as I stepped forward, my sword flicking upward. The edge scraped his armor, cutting deep into his side.
He gasped, tried to counter, but Kael was already there—her twin blades crossing before his neck.
The bell rang.
We'd won again.
Twenty-four victories.
One away from breaking the Iron rank.
That night, in our small inn room below the arena stands, Kael sat by the open window, wrapping her wrist. "One more," she said quietly. "Then we reach Bronze."
"Yeah," I said, staring at my sword. The metal was scuffed, the hilt dented. "And that's when the real fighters show up."
She tilted her head. "You sound worried."
"Not worried," I replied, running my thumb along the blade's edge. "Just cautious. The next match won't be random."
Kael frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I overheard the matchmaster talking," I said. "Our streak's drawing attention. Too much, maybe."
She stood. "So who's next?"
I met her gaze. "A Natural. Mid-tier. Probably a test—to see if we're worth recruiting… or eliminating."
Silence filled the room.
Kael tightened her bandages, her expression unreadable. "Then we give them a show they won't forget."
Outside, the arena bells began to toll for the next day's matches.
The crowd would cheer. The nobles would watch.
And we would step into the ring against a true Natural.
For the first time in years, I felt it again—that thrill of uncertainty, that whisper of danger that meant growth or death.
Either way, tomorrow, everything would change.
To be continued…