The morning air was cold.
Ilias stood in the staging area outside Arena 3, surrounded by other students from Batch 7, and tried to calm his breathing. His Resonance hummed weakly in his chest—15%, maybe 20% on a good day—and the thought of stepping into that arena made his hands shake.
Around him, students were doing the same. Some stretched. Some meditated. Some whispered prayers to gods Ilias didn't know.
Tamir stood nearby, arms crossed, face unreadable. Zael leaned against the wall, eyes closed, looking more relaxed than anyone had a right to be.
"You nervous?" Ilias asked.
Zael cracked one eye open. "Nah. You?"
"Terrified."
"Good. Means you're smart." Zael closed his eye again. "Just don't die. That'd be inconvenient."
Ilias almost laughed.
Almost.
The doors to Arena 3 opened.
A voice boomed over the intercom: **"Batch 7. Enter."**
---
The arena was packed.
Students filled the stands—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—all watching, waiting. The noise was deafening. Cheers. Jeers. Bets being shouted across rows.
And in the center of it all, standing alone on the crystal floor, was Vyra.
She looked even bigger up close.
Six-foot-seven. Maybe taller. Four arms crossed over her chest, four eyes scanning the incoming students like she was deciding which one to break first. Her slate-gray skin gleamed under the arena lights, and when she moved, it was with a predator's grace.
Ilias felt his stomach drop.
Above the arena, in a separate viewing box elevated high above the crowd, the faculty watched. Ilias caught a glimpse of Professor Eron, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Other teachers sat beside him—some Ilias recognized from orientation, others he'd never seen.
They were *studying* them.
A referee stepped forward—a tall woman with silver markings traced across her skin, her presence commanding enough that the crowd quieted.
"Welcome, Batch 7," she said, voice amplified by Resonance. "Today, you will be assessed by Vyra Thane, fourth-year Blessed and one of the Academy's finest students. This is not a test of victory. This is a test of *how you fight*. Show us your skill. Show us your resolve. Show us what you're made of."
She gestured to Vyra, who didn't move, didn't smile, just stared.
"First match: Tamir Xeo versus Vyra Thane."
Tamir stepped forward.
---
Ilias had never seen Tamir fight.
Didn't know what to expect.
But when the referee called "Begin," Tamir *moved*.
Fast.
Vyra swung with two arms—a blur of motion that should've connected—but Tamir ducked, spun, drove a fist into her ribs hard enough that the impact echoed through the arena.
Vyra stumbled.
Just slightly.
The crowd *erupted*.
Tamir didn't stop. Pressed the advantage. Another hit. Another. Moving like water, like they'd done this a thousand times, like they *knew* how to fight someone bigger and stronger.
For a moment—just a moment—it looked like Tamir might actually win.
Then Vyra stopped playing.
Her lower arms shot out, grabbed Tamir by the torso, and *slammed* them into the ground so hard the crystal cracked.
Tamir gasped, tried to roll away.
Vyra didn't let them.
Grabbed them with all four arms, lifted them overhead, and *threw* them across the arena like a ragdoll.
Tamir hit the wall. Slid down. Didn't get up.
The referee raised a hand. "Match over. Tamir Xeo: *Passed*."
Medics rushed in, helped Tamir to their feet. They were limping, bleeding from a cut above their eye, but they were smiling.
They'd passed.
Ilias swallowed hard.
"Next match: Zael Orin versus Vyra Thane."
---
Zael walked onto the floor like he was taking a stroll.
Hands in his pockets. Expression blank. No tension in his shoulders.
Ilias frowned. "What's he doing?"
The referee called "Begin."
And Zael *changed*.
It wasn't gradual. Wasn't subtle.
One moment he was relaxed, almost lazy.
The next, his eyes went cold. Empty. His posture shifted—lower, tighter, predatory.
He moved.
*Fast*.
Faster than Tamir. Faster than Ilias expected.
Vyra swung.
Zael ducked under it, drove an elbow into her knee joint, spun, kicked the back of her other leg hard enough that she *buckled*.
The crowd gasped.
Zael didn't stop.
Hit her again. And again. Precision strikes. Brutal. Efficient. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
He was a *machine*.
Vyra snarled, lashed out with all four arms at once.
Zael dodged three.
The fourth caught him in the ribs, sent him skidding across the floor.
He rolled to his feet. No pain on his face. No emotion at all.
Just... cold.
He charged again.
For a full minute, Zael pushed her harder than anyone Ilias had seen. Harder than Tamir. Harder than should've been possible for a first-year.
But Vyra was stronger.
She caught him mid-strike, locked two arms around his torso, and *squeezed*.
Zael's face twisted—the first sign of pain—and he gasped, thrashing.
Vyra lifted him, slammed him into the ground once, twice, three times.
Then dropped him.
He didn't get up.
"Match over. Zael Orin: *Passed*."
Medics helped him off the floor. He was conscious, breathing hard, but his eyes were still that cold, empty thing.
Ilias stared.
*What the hell was that?*
Zael limped past him, didn't look at him, just muttered under his breath: "Everyone has their own secrets."
---
Three more students fought.
All lost.
All passed.
Then the referee called his name.
"Ilias Venn versus Vyra Thane."
The arena went quiet.
Ilias stepped onto the crystal floor, heart hammering.
Vyra turned to face him.
And for the first time, she *smiled*.
Not friendly.
Not cruel.
Just... *interested*.
She'd seen his points. Ilias knew that now. In the cafeteria, when their eyes met, she'd been sizing him up. Wondering if the miracle everyone whispered about was real.
Wondering if he was worth testing.
The referee raised her hand. "Begin."
Vyra didn't waste time.
She *charged*.
Four arms swinging, fast and brutal, closing the distance before Ilias could think.
He dodged the first strike.
Blocked the second.
The third caught him in the chest, knocked the air from his lungs, sent him stumbling.
The fourth hit him in the ribs.
He went down.
*Hard*.
The crowd murmured.
"Nothing special."
"Just another first-year."
"She's gonna destroy him."
Ilias tried to get up.
Vyra tackled him.
Drove him into the ground with all her weight, pinned him with her lower arms, and started *pounding*.
Fist after fist after fist, crashing into his face, his chest, his ribs. The world blurred. Pain exploded through his body. He tasted blood.
She wasn't holding back.
Not even a little.
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
Each hit drove him deeper into the crystal floor, cracks spiderwebbing beneath him.
He couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't—
*The Entity.*
---
*Darkness.*
*Tendrils wrapping around him, squeezing, pulling him down into the void.*
*"You cannot escape me, Ilias Venn."*
*The Entity's voice, cold and endless, echoing in his skull.*
*Trying to possess him. Trying to take control.*
*He couldn't move. Couldn't fight. Couldn't—*
---
*No.*
His Resonance *flared*.
Not weak. Not flickering.
*Burning*.
Vyra's fist came down again.
Ilias caught it.
Her eyes widened.
Then he *pushed*.
---
Vyra flew backward, off-balance, shock written across her face.
Ilias surged to his feet—no, not Ilias.
Something else.
His eyes were cold. Empty. His Resonance crackling around him like a living thing.
As Vyra stumbled, Ilias moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
He grabbed her lower left arm with both hands and *stepped on her abdomen*, pinning her in place.
For a heartbeat, they locked eyes.
Then he *ripped*.
The sound was sickening.
Flesh tearing. Bone snapping.
Vyra's lower arm came free in his hands, and she screamed—half pain, half *shock*—as she flew backward, crashing into the arena floor.
The crowd went silent.
The teachers leaned forward.
Even the referee froze.
Ilias stood there, holding Vyra's severed arm, blood dripping from the torn end.
He looked at her.
Tilted his head.
And smiled.
"Need a hand?"
---
Vyra stared at him.
Then she started laughing.
Not mockery. Not anger.
*Joy*.
She pushed herself upright with her remaining three arms, blood pouring from the stump where her lower left had been, and her grin was *feral*.
"Finally," she breathed. "Someone interesting."
She charged.
Ilias didn't flinch.
Vyra swung with all three remaining arms—a whirlwind of violence, each strike fast enough to shatter stone.
Ilias saw them in slow motion.
Ducked.
Dodged.
Moved like water, like he'd done this a thousand times, like the world had slowed down just for him.
And when she overextended, he *swung*.
Her own arm.
Cracked her across the jaw so hard her head snapped to the side.
She stumbled.
He hit her again.
And again.
"Stop hitting yourself," he said, voice flat and cold.
The crowd was losing their minds.
Vyra snarled, threw a desperate punch with her upper right arm.
Ilias *grabbed* it mid-swing.
Used her momentum to swing himself *up*, vaulting over her arm, pulling himself face-to-face with her.
For a heartbeat, they hung there.
Her four eyes wide.
His two empty.
She didn't see a student.
Didn't see a human.
Saw something *else*.
Then Ilias swung her own severed arm like a club and hit her so hard she *flew*.
Crashed into the far wall with a sickening *crack*, dust and debris exploding outward.
He didn't stop.
Followed her. Landed on her. Kept *beating*.
Again.
And again.
And *again*.
"ENOUGH!"
The referee's voice cut through the chaos, amplified so loud it shook the arena.
"ILIAS VENN, *STAND DOWN*!"
Ilias froze.
Arm raised.
Vyra beneath him, unconscious, bleeding, broken.
Slowly—too slowly—he lowered the arm.
Dropped it.
Stepped back.
His Resonance flickered.
Died.
And he swayed.
The referee appeared beside him, hand on his shoulder. "You've passed. Get off the floor. *Now*."
Ilias stumbled.
Tried to walk.
His legs gave out.
Hands caught him.
Zael.
"Dude," Zael hissed, slinging Ilias's arm over his shoulder. "What the *hell* was that?"
Ilias tried to answer.
Couldn't.
His vision blurred. His chest burned. Everything hurt.
"Help me," he managed. "I'm gonna fall..."
"I got you," Zael said, half-dragging him toward the exit.
The crowd was screaming.
Some cheering.
Some booing.
Some just *staring*.
And in the stands, Vyra's fanclub watched him leave, eyes blazing with fury.
Zael glanced back at them, then leaned in close.
"Congrats," he muttered. "You just made enemies on day one."
Ilias didn't answer.
Just let Zael carry him out of the arena, away from the noise, away from the blood, away from whatever the hell he'd just become.