Chapter 200: The Festival of Octavia

[26 August: 07:37 Ante Meridiem]

[The Grand Colosseum]

The Grand Colosseum stood as a monolithic titan among titans, a structure that seemed less like it was built and more like it had been willed into existence by Gods themselves. Its vastness was indescribable—an endless circular coliseum stretching into the heavens, its highest seats obscured by layers of mist, as if the very sky bent to accommodate its enormity. Millions upon millions of spectators filled the endless rows of seats, their roars and cheers rising in a deafening, living storm that surged across the stone and metal expanse.

The people of Verdantis, Vel'ryr, and Galadriel, along with foreign spectators from far-flung lands, had gathered here. They filled the stands in a kaleidoscope of color and culture, their garments ranging from the rich, fur-lined cloaks of the Verdantian north to the intricate, modern-stitched robes of Vel'ryr's and the golden-threaded finery of Galadriel's aristocracy. Among them were humans, demi-humans, beastfolk, and more.

Children sat on their parents' shoulders, wide-eyed and enraptured. Elderly warriors who had once fought in wars long past gripped their walking sticks with trembling hands, their gazes filled with nostalgia and yearning.

The entire structure was alive with excitement.

Banners bearing the sigils of each nation waved furiously in the wind, hanging from titanic arches of obsidian and enchanted marble, illuminated by floating braziers that burned with an ethereal blue flame. The Colosseum's floor, an expanse of immaculate white stone inlaid with golden veins, seemed to pulse with mana.

At its center, standing upon an ornate podium of levitating crystal, was the Announcer.

He was a commanding presence, clad in a regal blue and gold ensemble, his silver-plated microphone pulsating with mana as he raised it to his lips. His voice, once belonging to a mere man, had been enchanted to thunder across the entire colosseum, shaking the very stones beneath the feet of those who listened.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, CHILDREN AND ELDERS, WARRIORS AND SORCERERS, BEASTFOLK AND GOD-BLOODED—WELCOME TO THE GRAND FINAL OF OCTAVIA'S FESTIVAL!"

The cheers erupted like an earthquake, the very air vibrating with the sheer force of countless voices screaming as one. Magic burst into the sky, fireworks of violet, crimson, and gold illuminating the heavens in spirals, each detonation echoing like a drumbeat.

The Announcer raised his hands, basking in the moment before continuing, his voice unwavering, carried by magic to even the furthest reaches of the colossal arena.

"This is a battle of skill, a war of wits, a proving ground for the strongest! The greatest warriors, sorcerers, and legends from across Verdantis, Galadriel and Vel'ryr gather here today—to inscribe their names into history!"

The ground shook with the force of the applause.

Then, with a flourish of his hands, the Announcer gestured to the colossal floating screens—suspended by unseen magic, enormous beyond comprehension. The first crackled to life, displaying an elegant new Verdantian sigil—a silver wolf standing beneath a snow-laden tree.

Team Verdantis

"First, from the great snows of Verdantis, the iron-fanged nation of warriors, sorcerers, and unyielding faith! I present to you, their chosen champions!"

One by one, the massive magical projection shifted, revealing lifelike images of each contestant.

Dante.

Lyra Careworn.

Reynard Foxgrove.

Isabella Trune.

The names continued—each face displayed with breathtaking realism, their figures bathed in the glow of the floating projection.

Rowena Isadole.

Lilith Gwynek.

Reylthorn Gwynek.

Lyraeth Scrivener.

Aerinon Lacroix.

Vulcan Morton.

Maerwynn D'arce.

The Verdantian crowd erupted, banners waving as the competitors of the north stood in their designated area of the arena.

Team Vel'ryr

Next, the screen shifted, now displaying a mystical sigil, a serpentine dragon entwined around a crescent moon that seemed more like a glaring eye—the emblem of Vel'ryr.

"From the ever-shifting lands of Vel'ryr, where technology reigns supreme!"

The Announcer's voice hesitated—a subtle confusion creeping into his tone—as he read the next names.

"Grimm.

Mallory Verdoom.

Verence.

Aithne.

Aurélie, The Ancestor of Pestilence.

Britha, The Ancestor of Might.

Rhiannon, The Ancestor of Chaos.

Aelfric, The Ancestor of Wisdom.

Gisèle, The Ancestor of Malice..."

The crowd murmured—some in awe, some in uncertainty. The Ancestors names evoking fear and unease alike.

Then came the Von Auerswald's.

"Anuran.

Emilia.

Amaury.

Orion.

Selwyn.

And finally—

Beatrice and Ezerald."

A roar of cheers mixed with apprehensive whispers, as the Vel'ryr contestants stood in their own section.

Team Galadriel

And then—the final screen changed.

A radiant golden sigil—a lion wreathed in an unbreakable circle—the emblem of Galadriel.

"And from the heart of civilization itself, the unbreakable nation of Galadriel!"

First—

Mikoto Yukio.

A silence fell over the crowd for the briefest second.

And then—an eruption of cheers.

Following him—

Mirabella.

Lucinda.

Adrian Graves.

Agatha Gregory.

Victoria Eizenerg.

Fiona Achenbach.

Guinevere Fae.

Princess Astrid.

Mai Liu Yang.

Lukas Stark.

Cor'nella."

Each name was met with deafening applause, wild cheers, and shouts of admiration.

"AH—WHAT A LINEUP! WHAT A FESTIVAL! WHAT A MOMENT IN HISTORY!"

The floating screens shifted rapidly, flashing through the assembled champions of each nation, their names emblazoned in gilded text, etched with shimmering arcane sigils. The crowd roared with euphoric fervor, the seats shaking beneath them, but within Galadriel's designated area, a tense realization settled upon its assembled champions.

Mikoto was not here.

The realization came in waves, and the first to voice it—unsurprisingly—was Mirabella.

Standing near the front of the group, the princess crossed her arms. A frown tugged at her lips as she narrowed her eyes, scanning the assembled team, only to find one glaring absence.

Her brow twitched.

"Where the hell is Mikoto?" Her voice cut through the idle chatter, irritation seeping into every syllable.

A comment about Mikoto's blatant lack of tact sat on the tip of Lukas's tongue, but for once, he held back. Instead, it was Astrid who spoke, her voice carrying a slight hum of uncertainty.

"Hm, mayhap he awoke late?" she suggested.

Mirabella shot her sister a flat, unimpressed stare, and Astrid gave a small, sheepish shrug.

Lucinda, standing beside them, let out a soft sigh, crimson eyes flickering with a shadow of concern. Her gaze swept across the grand Colosseum floor, where millions of spectators gathered, waiting for the spectacle to unfold. Something felt off.

"He was supposed to be here already," she murmured, "Did something happen?"

Adrian cupped his chin, eyes narrowed in thought. "Maybe he's sulking," he mused, a wry smile playing on his lips. "He did not seem the type to like grandiose displays like this." His usual uniform was absent, replaced by black robes adorned with golden embroidery, the fabric seeming to absorb the light around him. He looked more like a noble sorcerer, yet the casualness in his tone contrasted the growing concern among his peers.

Fiona pursed her lips, arms folded in front of her chest. Unlike the others, she understood exactly what was happening with Mikoto. "Maybe he got lost. I'll—"

"—You'll do nothing," came the calm voice of Guinevere.

A heavy pause fell over them as all eyes turned toward the court mage.

Guinevere stood unmoved, her lilac eyes betraying no uncertainty, no hesitation. Unlike the others, there was no subtle worry in her stance—only a firm patience.

"This is not our battleground," she stated simply. The words were soft, yet they carried the weight of undeniable authority.

Astrid blinked. "What do you mean, lady Guinevere?"

Guinevere's gaze swept across them, her voice steady, composed. "This arena—it is a spectacle. A grand stage for the crowd to feast upon. But it is not the true battlefield." Her expression remained unreadable. "Do not let your confusion be known. We are Galadriel's champions. We must stand as if we know exactly what is to come."

Lucinda caught on immediately. She let out a slow exhale. "Right. We can't afford to look uncertain. Not with Vel'ryr's forces watching us."

Mirabella, though still irritated, clicked her tongue but did not argue further.

And then—

A sharp, unnatural pulse of mana rippled through the air, cutting through the Colosseum's grandiosity like a sword.

The temperature plummeted.

The space beside them twisted violently—dark, jagged distortions tearing through reality itself as a sickening crack reverberated through the area. The air bent inward, as if a great force was folding the very fabric of existence.

A surge of shadow flooded into their midst.

And then—

He was there.

No sound. No fanfare. No announcement.

Yet to those standing within Galadriel's ranks, his presence descended upon them like an oppressive weight.

Mikoto stood among them, clad in his obsidian-black armor, every inch of him wrapped in an aura that felt… wrong. His helmet remained firmly in place, hiding his expression, yet even without seeing his face, something about him was—different.

The silence that followed was not from shock at his sudden arrival.

It was because the air around him felt suffocating.

His stance was eerily composed. Too composed.

His presence was heavy, his aura thick with an unspoken malice that had never been there before.

Mirabella, recovering first, rolled her eyes and stepped forward.

"Took you long enough, Mikoto. Where the hell were you?"

Mikoto tilted his head slightly—as if he had to contemplate the very notion of answering.

Then, in a voice far colder than they had ever heard, he muttered, "If I wanted to hear the annoying screeching voice of a bitch so early in the morning, then don't you think I would have talked to you, Mirabella?"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Mirabella, usually the first to snap back, the first to meet hostility with her own, found herself frozen in place. Mikoto's words weren't just cutting—they were absolute, dismissive, as though she had never been worth acknowledging to begin with. It wasn't an argument. It wasn't banter. It was pure, effortless cruelty.

Her fingers curled into fists. A slow, creeping burn settled in her chest. Not anger. Something uglier.

Something like hurt.

For once, she didn't know what to say.

Lukas, however, did. "The hell is wrong with you?" His voice was sharp, demanding. His dislike for Mikoto had always simmered beneath the surface, but this? This blatant, callous disregard for everyone around him? This was different.

Mikoto finally turned his head, slow and deliberate, his hidden gaze falling on Lukas as though he were some insignificant thing that had just made noise. "That depends," he said, voice carrying amusement, "on whether you're actually asking because you care, or because it offends your delicate sensibilities."

Lukas's lip curled. "You think this is funny?"

Mikoto tilted his head slightly. "No," he admitted, "but your reaction is."

The sheer dismissal in his tone sent a flash of heat through Lukas's veins. His fists clenched at his sides. "You show up late, act like a complete bastard, and now you're—"

"—Late?" Mikoto repeated, cutting him off. A chuckle left him, low and mirthless. "You lot should be grateful I even showed up at all."

The words struck something deep.

Astrid stepped forward, her concern evident in the soft knit of her brow. "Mikoto, I don't know what's going on, but—"

"—Then don't pretend you do," Mikoto interrupted again, this time sharper. His posture remained relaxed, but the air around him felt heavier, oppressive. "I don't need your attempts at understanding, Astrid. And I certainly don't need your pity."

Astrid flinched. She wasn't used to hostility—especially not from someone she considered an ally, a friend.

Victoria found herself stunned into silence, a deep frown tugging at her lips. Mai remained quiet. Of course, she did not know the boy well enough, but even so, he did not seem the type to be so vulgar. Her mind raced back to when he risked himself for the princess; she compared that Mikoto to this one. They were entirely different people.

Lucinda's gaze sharpened, her red eyes flickering with something between concern and disbelief. Her eyes had remained steady on him from the moment he entered. And now, she finally spoke. "You should care," she said, her voice even, but not without weight. "Because we are your team. Your friends."

Mikoto was silent for a moment, before he let out a quiet hum. He turned his head slightly toward her, the way a predator acknowledges something just outside its immediate interest. "Is that what we are?"

Lucinda inhaled. Something in the way he said it unsettled her. "Yes," she affirmed, despite the unease settling in her gut. "We are."

Mikoto chuckled. "How quaint."

Adrian, who had been leaning against one of the pillars, hummed. "Well," he mused, pushing himself off, "this is certainly something." His auburn eyes flickered with intrigue. "I've seen you pull that sharp tongue of yours before, but this? This is new."

Mikoto turned his head toward him, slowly. "And?"

Adrian grinned. "And I think it's fascinating," he said, eyes glinting. "Seeing you stop pretending to be the charming, aloof boy everyone seems to root for. Watching you drop the act."

There was no baited breath, no pause in anticipation of Mikoto's response. Adrian knew how to poke at people, how to stir reactions, it was in his nature—but when Mikoto finally spoke, it wasn't with irritation.

It was with amusement. "You call it an act," Mikoto murmured. "I call it convenience."

That made Adrian pause.

Agatha exhaled sharply. "You've always been a tad condescending," she said, crossing her arms. "But this is different. What is wrong with you?" Mikoto was a friend, one of her very first and a dear one at that. Seeing him suddenly act like this was unsettling.

Mikoto finally turned fully toward her.

Then, he laughed.

"What's wrong?" he repeated, almost to himself. "What's wrong, Agatha, is that I am here. Stuck."

The words sent a ripple of unease through them all.

Lucinda's fingers twitched.

Agatha's eyes narrowed.

Even Mirabella, who was still trying to collect herself from his earlier words, found herself unsettled by the sheer venom in his voice.

"Mikoto," Agatha said, her voice measured, "You're different, just what is going on? This is nothing like how you usually act."

Mikoto took a step forward, the alloy of his sabatons hitting the stone with a weight that felt heavier than it should. "You wouldn't know a damn thing about me, Gregory," he said, his voice dropping into something dangerously quiet. 

Agatha stiffened, but she held his gaze. "And whose fault is that?" she shot back. "You shut everyone out, you act like you don't give a damn, and then you're surprised when no one actually knows what's going on in that head of yours?" The others looked at her in surprised. Not used to seeing someone so usually calm and collected this volatile.

Mikoto tilted his head slightly, but he didn't respond.

Mirabella swallowed. She should say something. She should snap at him, force him to argue. She should fight back the way she always did—but for the first time, she hesitated.

Because this wasn't Mikoto.

At least, not the one she knew.

"You're not acting like yourself," she finally said.

Mikoto was silent for a moment.

Then, with a quiet hum, he responded, "Maybe this is just who I've always been."

Victoria, for once, hesitated. "Are you… truly Mikoto?"

A deep cackle left him.

"Is that really the best conclusion you could come up with? By your Gods, if you're supposed to be our strategist, we're royally fucked, huh!?"

Agatha reached out. "Mikoto, I do not know what plagues you—"

A hand on his shoulder.

A single touch.

And in an instant, he slapped her hand away.

"Shut it, Gregory." His voice was cold. Sharp. "The last thing I wanna hear is some sappy-ass speech."

The air between them felt frigid.

And then, he folded his arms, tilting his head slightly.

"Listen, you fucks. You stay outta my way once we fight, and maybe—just maybe—I'll tolerate you."

Was this Mikoto?

That was what shattered them. 

The realization that, maybe, this wasn't just some foul mood. 

Maybe this was Mikoto. 

And they had never actually known him at all. 

Guinevere, who had watched everything in silence, finally let out a breath. ("It's begun.") 

Fiona, who had also remained silent, clenched her fists at her sides. ("Damn it, it is worse than I thought.") 

But neither of them spoke. 

Because they knew. 

They knew what was happening. 

And there was nothing they could do to stop it.

The weight of Mikoto's words hung in the air like the lingering scent of smoldering embers, scorching and suffocating, leaving everyone seared by his venomous indifference. The group remained in a state of stunned disarray—some reeling in wounded silence, others clenching their fists, gripping the edges of their emotions, struggling to mold them into something coherent. The tension remained suffocating, a weight heavier than steel pressing down on them all. Mikoto's words had not simply cut; they had burned, searing away any remaining illusions of camaraderie and trust with a venom so potent it left a scar upon their very beings.

It was not just the words themselves—it was the way he spoke them.

There had always been an air of mystery about Mikoto, an enigma wrapped in layers of complexity, but this—this was something else entirely.

Mirabella remained quiet, her lips parted. Astrid watched Mikoto with veiled concern, her expression tightening as though she were witnessing something beyond mere cruelty—something unnatural, something deeply wrong.

Lukas clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. His disdain for Mikoto had been simmering for a long time, ever since he heard how disrespectfully the boy had spoken to the King. But this? It was worse than arrogance. It was something inhuman.

And yet, Mikoto had already dismissed them all.

His unseen gaze—hidden behind that cold, dark visor—shifted toward the center of the Colosseum, locking onto the announcer, who stood on an elevated platform wreathed in golden light.

The man's voice boomed through the air, amplified by magic, carrying a grandeur that reverberated across the millions in attendance.

"AS ALL OF YOU KNOW… THIS IS NO ORDINARY FESTIVAL. NO, THIS IS THE VERY LAST FESTIVAL! AND THUS, BY HER DIVINE GRACE—THE GODDESS OCTAVIA HERSELF… SHALL DESCEND!" The World Shattered.

It was not a simple eruption of cheers.

It was pandemonium.

The Colosseum ignited with sheer, uncontrollable hysteria.

People screamed—not in fear, but in a state of worshipful ecstasy. Others fell to their knees, overcome by the sheer gravity of what had just been spoken. The air itself seemed to vibrate, as if the very essence of existence recognized the weight of those words.

The nobles, seated in their luxurious, elevated stands, reeled in shock. Some looked to one another, searching for confirmation that they had heard correctly. The hardened warriors—men and women who had faced death countless times—sat frozen, their minds struggling to comprehend the reality before them.

For millennium, the name of Octavia had been uttered in prayer. For millennium, her statues had stood as symbols of power, war, and guidance.

But never—never—had she descended.

Without warning—

A pillar of light, so vast, so blindingly immense, erupted from the sky.

It was not lightning.

It was not magic.

It was something beyond comprehension.

It pierced the heavens, a column of divine radiance so overwhelming that those who stared directly into it felt as though they were gazing into eternity itself.

The earth trembled.

The air fractured.

Reality bent.

Even the most fearless warriors took a step back, their instincts screaming at them that they stood in the presence of something beyond mortal understanding.

The blinding radiance held for what felt like an eternity—

And then—

Slowly—

It began to fade.

And in its wake—

She appeared.

Floating above the still-glowing stone at the center of the arena, the Goddess Octavia descended upon the world.

She was not a mere figure.

She was a force.

Her long, flowing white hair cascaded like strands of woven moonlight, each lock glowing faintly as though touched by the cosmos itself.

Her red eyes burned not with mere color, but with knowledge, with power, with the weight of time itself.

Her armor—white as the first light of dawn, laced with golden inscriptions that seemed to shift and shimmer like living scripture—radiated an undeniable presence.

A feathered helm, neither a crown nor a helmet but something that seemed to embody both, rested upon her head, marking her as both ruler and warrior, divine and absolute.

She levitated effortlessly, her presence defying all mortal logic.

For the first time since her name was uttered—

The Colosseum fell into true, suffocating silence.

No one spoke.

No one could.

Mirabella, Astrid, Lukas, Agatha, Adrian, Lucinda, Mai, Guinevere, Fiona—all stood wordless, breathless, motionless. Much the same for the contestants of Verdantis and Vel'ryr.

And yet—

Among them all, only four remained unmoved.

"Children of this world…"

A single sentence.

And every living being felt their souls tremble.

Her voice was not mortal.

It echoed through existence itself.

"This is the last festival. And so, I have come."

The weight of her words pressed upon the air like a storm.

"Only those worthy shall rise."

"For centuries, I have watched over you. Through war and through peace, through the rise and fall of kings and empires, through the trials that have shaped you into who you are today. This is the last festival. The final celebration of my name. And so, I come not to simply watch—but to witness, to guide, and to see what remains of the will of mankind."

Then, she spoke once more.

And the world listened.

"The Festival has always been a celebration of war, of magic, of navigation through the trials of fate itself."

Her voice, neither loud nor soft, was a decree upon the very fabric of existence.

"But today—"

The winds surged. The rivers pulsed. The monoliths gleamed.

"There will be no celebration."

Silence fell like an executioner's blade.

"Today is not a festival of merriment. It is not a time of feasts and dances. It is not a stage for empty spectacle."

The very world beneath them groaned under her words.

"Today is a test. The last test. And only those who prove themselves shall move forward."

She extended a single, slender, armored hand. A simple gesture. Yet it commanded the attention of all.

"You shall stand upon a battlefield not shaped by mortals, nor defined by kings or emperors. You shall stand in a realm that bends to my will, where no magic nor steel shall hold sway unless it is recognized by fate itself."

The revelry, however, was quickly swallowed by a sharp intake of breath from the spectators as enormous magical projections materialized high above the Colosseum. The illusions shimmered to life, vast panels of glowing mana displaying a world unlike anything seen before.

A wasteland.

An endless expanse of scorched earth, stretching far beyond the horizon, where jagged, towering mountains clawed at the sky like the ribs of some long-dead behemoth. The terrain was an ocean of dust and ruin, cracked and dry, bereft of life, as if the world itself had been abandoned by time.

In that moment, the crowd's cheers turned to stunned silence, the sheer enormity of the revelation overpowering their voices

"This shall be your battlefield."

A pause.

Then—eruption.

The stadium trembled under the sheer force of the crowd's disbelieving exclamations, gasps, and cheers. Even the most seasoned in the stands looked on in shock, their expressions caught between awe and apprehension.

For Galadriel's team, the reactions were immediate.

Mirabella's face twisted in open disgust. "Y-you've gotta be kidding me. That's the battlefield? It's a damned wasteland."

Astrid exhaled softly, her brows furrowing. "It's… inhospitable. I don't see how any could sustain themselves there."

Agatha narrowed her eyes, analyzing every aspect of the terrain. "It's not meant to be sustainable." Her voice was clipped, sharp. "It's meant to break us before the battle even begins."

Lucinda, silent and still, watched the wasteland with an impassive gaze.

Lukas, still seething, let out a sharp exhale. "This is insane."

Guinevere, Victoria, Mai and Fiona—neither spoke.

And Mikoto?

He remained still. Unfazed. Unmoved. Uncaring.

If anything, he seemed bored.

And then—

Without warning—

Octavia vanished.

A single flicker of golden radiance, as if the very light of the heavens had blinked out of existence for the briefest of moments.

Then—

A streak of divine luminescence slashed across the sky, a soundless arc of sheer speed, so absolute and so incomprehensibly fast that even the most seasoned individuals in the Colosseum failed to follow it.

Not even the knights of Galadriel and Verdantis.

Not even those blessed with heightened senses in Vel'ryr.

Not even those who wielded magic to enhance their perception.

One moment, she had been above them—an untouchable celestial being gazing down upon mortals.

And the next—

She was simply there.

Standing directly besides him.

Mikoto.

The shift was so sudden, so instantaneous, that the very air seemed to snap inward, as if reality itself had yet to comprehend her movement.

A Goddess now stood besides him, facing the opposite direction.

Her mere presence was a weight upon the world, warping the very air around her. The ethereal aura surrounding her form shimmered with unyielding divinity, a presence so vast, so unfathomable, that the very ground beneath her feet seemed to still in reverence.

The Colosseum felt it.

The very sky, once so vast and unshaken, seemed to press downward.

The air grew thicker.

A pressure unlike any before bore down upon every single soul watching.

It was not hostile.

It was not oppressive.

It was simply absolute.

And yet—

Mikoto did not react.

Not an inch.

Not a breath.

Nothing.

His gaze locked onto hers, unflinching. A mortal, clad in blackened armor, standing besides a Goddess.

And yet—

It was her gaze that was searching.

Not his.

Then—

Softly, but with a weight that transcended mere sound—

She spoke.

"Do you have what it takes to stand among the worthy, child?"

Her voice was neither mocking nor kind.

It was simply absolute.

It did not need to rise in volume.

It did not need to thunder like the roar of another God.

Because her words carried something far heavier than power alone—

Certainty.

They did not ask.

They did not plead.

They simply declared.

And in that moment, the entire Colosseum ceased to breathe.

The nobles—who had long since held themselves above others—felt their souls tremble.

The battle-hardened spectators, the elite individuals from around the world—felt their bodies tense.

The lesser contestants, the ones who had once believed they could rise to the challenge—felt doubt pierce their chests like a blade.

This was no simple question.

This was no mere inquiry.

It was a declaration of truth.

And yet—

Mikoto simply—

Scoffed.

A low, dry, dismissive sound.

Not one of anger.

Not one of rebellion.

Not one of defiance.

Just a sound of utter, unshaken disregard.

Like the sound of a boy brushing off a speck of dust.

Like the sound of someone hearing a question that did not deserve an answer.

The Colosseum trembled.

Not from magic.

Not from power.

But from shock.

Then—

Without a word.

Without even a moment's hesitation.

Without even acknowledging her presence as something worth his attention.

He walked past her.

Not as a challenger.

Not as a fool.

Not as someone blinded by arrogance.

But simply—

As if she did not matter.

Gasps.

Whispers.

A silence so deafening that it rang in the ears.

The people who had dedicated their lives to warfare, to honor, to the divine, could not comprehend what they had just witnessed.

Mirabella's jaw nearly dropped. "Did… did he just—"

Astrid's expression stiffened, her usually serene composure fracturing in sheer disbelief.

Lukas tensed, his hands curling into fists. "Unbelievable." His voice carried more than anger—there was something else. Something closer to… unease.

And yet—

Lucinda remained still.

Unmoving.

Her crimson eyes flickered with something deeper than mere shock.

Something that only she understood.

And—

Octavia only smiled.

Not in anger.

Not in frustration.

Not in offense.

No.

Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

One that held no pride.

One that held no disappointment.

One that simply understood.

Then—

With effortless grace—

With the same absolute control that made the heavens themselves bow before her—

She raised her hand.

And with a single, fluid motion—

She snapped her fingers.

And the world itself shifted.

A sudden surge of mana coursed through the Colosseum as the ground beneath them shuddered violently, glyphs igniting with an overwhelming brilliance. The arena floor was swallowed in an intricate, sprawling network of colossal circular glyphs, each radiating an otherworldly light.

Before anyone could react—

A flash.

Blinding.

All-consuming.

The air twisted, warped, reality itself folding inward, and in that instant—

They were gone.

The moment the light vanished, the first thing they felt was the sheer weight of the world around them.

An unnatural, oppressive atmosphere, like a force pressing against their skin, daring them to move.

The sky was a broken thing—vast and endless, yet somehow fractured, its hues an unnatural blend of ashen gray and deep crimson, as though the heavens themselves had been burned and left to smolder.

The ground beneath them was not solid in the way they expected. It was dry, cracked earth, stretching endlessly in every direction, yet when they stepped upon it, there was something… wrong.

It felt hollow.

Like the land itself was waiting to swallow them whole.

And the mountains in the distance? They were massive, looming structures that rose like jagged spears, their darkened surfaces etched with scars from some forgotten calamity.

The wind howled, bitter and merciless, carrying the distant echoes of something ancient, something unknowable.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then—

"What the hell is this place?" Mirabella's voice cut through the silence, her words faltering against the sheer, incomprehensible scale of their surroundings.

Astrid stepped closer to her sister, her brows furrowed. "This isn't just another battlefield… this feels…" She hesitated, struggling to find the words. "Different."

Lukas clenched his fists, his gaze scanning the horizon. "She threw us into that damn wasteland."

The group tensed.

And then—finally—Mikoto spoke.

His voice was calm, devoid of concern. "Another world."

The words were met with glances—some confused, some irritated, some outright furious.

But he didn't elaborate.

Instead, he turned his head slightly, his unseen gaze drifting toward the far distance.