The Royal Blood in the Mud
While Haru and Yuna fought for inches in the wreckage, Prince Wildane was facing a different kind of hell—a personal one.
He was running, not from Arena Beasts, but from the very men who had sworn loyalty to the throne of Wilderfall.
Wildane was a vision of fury: his golden hair was streaked with mud, and his ornate, royal-blue armor was scarred. He was fast, his speed powered by the wind magic that coursed through his noble blood, but he was outnumbered by his own former guards.
"Your Highness, stop this folly!" shouted Sir Gareth, his former Captain of the Guard. Gareth and four other royal knights were pursuing Wildane through a jagged canyon of black volcanic rock, their swords flashing under the ominous purple sky.
"Folly?" Wildane roared, his voice echoing off the canyon walls. "I am here to restore Wilderfall! You are here, in the pay of the Divine Judge, to kill your prince!"
Wildane knew the truth. His kingdom's destruction and his entry into the Arena were not accidents. The Divine Judge—the entity that ran this game—had orchestrated the fall of Wilderfall and manipulated his own guards into the competition, promising them survival if they eliminated the prince.
Gareth lunged, his heavy sword aimed for Wildane's back. Wildane didn't look; he simply twisted his body, and a sudden, violent Gust Barrier of wind magic erupted from his chest, deflecting the blow with a metallic CRANG.
"You were always too predictable, Gareth," Wildane snarled.
He spun, unleashing his signature move: Tempest King's Wrath. It wasn't just a swing of his blade; it was a focused vortex of high-speed wind slicing through the air. The attack struck Gareth, not with blunt force, but with the pressure of a small explosion, sending the captain flying into the canyon wall. Gareth's Crest instantly turned red, then vanished. Eliminated.
The remaining four guards hesitated. They were brave men, but Wildane's ferocity, mixed with his royal, devastating magic, was too much.
"He's killing our brothers! For a fallen kingdom!" one knight screamed, trying to rally the others.
"He's killing the traitors!" Wildane corrected, his eyes blazing with wind-infused fury.
The Price of Vengeance
Wildane knew he had to finish this. He couldn't afford to waste energy on former allies. He closed his eyes for a split second, feeling the wind currents around him, absorbing their raw power.
When he opened them, his blade, Aethel, glowed brilliantly.
"Tempest King's Wrath: Four Winds Retribution!"
He lunged, not aiming for a single person, but targeting the ground and the air itself. He executed four rapid strikes, each one launching a focused, horizontal blade of compressed wind.
WHOOSH... WHOOSH... WHOOSH... WHOOSH...
The air itself screamed as the wind blades tore through the canyon. They struck the four remaining knights simultaneously.
The results were brutally decisive. The force of the attacks didn't just knock them out; it splintered their armor and sent them flying, smashing them against the rocks with enough velocity to snap bone.
CRASH!!!!
Four Crests flashed red, then vanished. Wildane had wiped out five of his own former guards in under a minute, all eliminated, but none killed permanently. He'd shown mercy, a dangerous trait in the Arena.
Wildane stood over the scattered bodies, his chest heaving, his armor now scratched and dented. He felt no victory, only a deep, wrenching nausea. He had saved their lives by eliminating them, sacrificing their chances in the game so they wouldn't have to face death for the Judge's favor.
The cost of a throne is too high, he thought, gripping his blade until his knuckles turned white. But I will pay it.
He drank a quick health potion from his belt pouch, replenishing the massive spiritual energy lost in the Tempest King's Wrath. He needed to put distance between himself and the scene. Betrayal attracts predators.
The Fallen Goddess Plays
Hundreds of yards away, on a plateau overlooking a stretch of toxic, green swamp, Xyphira was orchestrating her own brand of elimination.
The Fallen Goddess was untouchable. Literally. Her Temptation Overdrive was active—a passive aura that amplified the desires and weaknesses of anyone near her, making them eager to prove themselves for her.
She was currently surrounded by three muscular, mid-tier male fighters, all vying for her approval. They were completely blinded by her seductive energy, seeing her not as a competitor, but as a queen to be served.
"My champions," Xyphira cooed, her voice like velvet and venom mixed, "look down."
They looked into the toxic swamp below. A small, naturally formed archway was visible, shimmering with the faint blue light of an Escape Point. Getting there would ensure survival past the 5,000 threshold.
"Only one of you is worthy to clear the path for your Queen," she purred. "Prove your strength. Prove your devotion. The weak one stays with me."
The fighters—a brawler, a spearman, and a swift assassin—looked at the archway, then at Xyphira, then at each other. They didn't see an Escape Point; they saw her approval. The Temptation Overdrive had eliminated their reason.
"I will clear it!" shouted the brawler, a massive man named Groll.
The assassin scoffed, his eyes glazed with desire. "You? You're too slow. The Queen needs speed!"
In a flash, the three champions were fighting each other, a ferocious, no-holds-barred brawl right at Xyphira's feet. They weren't using the Arena's elimination rules; they were fighting to kill, just to earn a single, fleeting smile from the goddess.
Xyphira watched the slaughter with bored pleasure. She didn't move. She didn't lift a finger. This was her power: manipulation as a weapon.
The assassin, quicker and crueler, managed to snap the spearman's neck with a hidden cord. The brawler, Groll, roared in fury and tackled the assassin, crushing him against the stone. Groll then stood, his face bloodied, his chest heaving, the last man standing.
He turned to Xyphira, expecting his reward. "My Queen... I won."
Xyphira tilted her head, her smile cold. "Did you? You wasted my time, Groll. I asked you to clear the path, not create a delay, stupid."
Before Groll could even drop his blood-slicked club, Xyphira moved. It was the first time she used physical force, and it was horrifying.
She didn't use her signature energy whips. She simply crossed the distance between them and drove the heel of her boot, enhanced with concentrated dark spiritual energy, directly into Groll's solar plexus. The sound was sickening, a wet, heavy thud.
Groll, stunned and gasping, collapsed. His Crest, still green, started to flicker red.
Xyphira leaned down, her face inches from his. "And as for the weak one... I'm afraid I have no use for you at all."
She then plunged a single, razor-sharp black claw—extended from her fingertip—into the center of Groll's forehead. It wasn't a clean kill. It was messy, cruel, and absolute.
Permanent Death.
The three champions were gone. Xyphira stepped back, wiping her claw on the mossy stone. She activated her Fallen God's Sight, confirming the Escape Point below. She didn't need to fight; she just needed to eliminate competition and keep her energy high.
She smiled, a true, satisfied smile. "The Trials are much more amusing when others do the heavy lifting."
With a graceful jump, she descended toward the Escape Point, confident that her path was clear.