Crimson Sands, Crystal Skies.

Carlon – Grand Colosseum, Year 8002 A.A.

At dawn, Carlon woke to the slow thunder of drums rolling across black stone and silk-hung towers. The first light of day poured over the city like molten bronze, catching on a thousand banners embroidered with the dragon-serpent devouring its own tail. The banners stirred on balconies, rooftops, and in narrow alleys where incense-smoke curled upward from bronze braziers.

And there, at the city's heart, stood the Grand Colosseum: vast, ancient, built of obsidian black as midnight, its walls scrawled with runes older than Carlon's first crown. When dawn crowned the colosseum, the runes shimmered as if drawing breath, and the entire structure seemed to wake, shaking free centuries of dust to taste new blood.

The air grew heavy. Traders packed their stalls tight against the avenues leading to the colosseum gates. They called out odds and names with voices sharpened by desert winds: the Crimson Prince, undefeated for a century; the Monkey Lord of Narn, the trickster with a glass-eyed smile. Sand burned beneath the feet of barefoot children, who ran laughing through drifting clouds of colored petals. In the backstreets, hushed voices whispered of the gods and their thirst—how Ferez, the Inexorable, demanded sacrifice dressed in pageantry.

Inside, the seating tiers of the colosseum rose like rings of a petrified tree. At the lowest tier, the common folk pressed shoulder to shoulder, sweat and prayer mixing in the morning heat. Midway up, merchants reclined under awnings of silk dyed in ochre and carmine, passing bronze cups of citrus wine among hands that counted coins as often as blessings. And highest of all, where the desert wind barely reached, the nobles lounged behind jeweled masks. They spoke in low voices, smiles hidden in shadow, watching as history walked the sand below.

At the colosseum's apex, beneath gold-latticed canopies that filtered sunlight into drifting motes of fire, the Trisoc sat enthroned. His robes, heavy with jewels and embroidered dragons, spilled across the throne's ivory arms. Fat and opulent, his tusks caught the morning light in glints of ruby and sapphire, and his scent—a sharp perfume that mixed with sweat—hung thick around him.

Beside him, Azubuike Toran, Panther King of Kürdiala, sat poised, back straight and gaze unwavering. The emerald robe upon his shoulders shimmered faintly with sewn mana-crystals, breathing with his every slow breath. His black-and-white fur shifted only with the wind, but his violet eyes, calm and deep, watched everything.

At Toran's side stood Ekene Çelik, silent and statuesque. The cheetah's robe of black silk moved only when the breeze dared touch it, and the crimson sash at his chest, embroidered with ancient runes, pulsed faintly with warding spells. His paw rested upon the hilt of his sheathed sword, but his gaze lay far from steel—down on the sands where destiny gathered.

"Your people build well," Toran murmured, his words as soft as drifting ash. "Stone that remembers glory… and drinks blood equally."

The Trisoc rumbled with laughter, deep and oiled. "Blood, glory, faith—Ferez demands them all. Today, Carlon feeds its god with the finest cut."

He stood. The mana-crystals woven into the obsidian pillars flickered, catching his voice and hurling it across the colosseum so even those in the dust-choked alleys beyond could hear.

"Children of Carlon! Today we praise Ferez the Inexorable—he who binds kingdoms in blood, who speaks through steel, whose mercy is only conquest! Let the Grand Tournament begin!"

And the colosseum roared, a single voice born of thousands—cheers tumbling into curses, prayers bleeding into laughter. The banners overhead rippled, gold and crimson catching the morning sun, as though even cloth bent to the god's hunger.

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Iron gates groaned open. From the shadowed tunnels emerged the first wave: warriors wrapped in bone and bronze, their footfalls shaking red sand into small spirals. Some wore painted masks; others bore scars older than the youngest child watching from the lowest tier. Weapons gleamed, sweat traced dusty skin, and breath fogged in the cool dawn air that had not yet surrendered to the day's heat.

Amidst them, Trevor Maymum stepped forward with unsettling ease.

He wore no armor but loose desert robes bound with faded cords. His bare feet barely scuffed the sand. His staff spun lazily in his right paw, as though it were little more than a reed plucked from riverbank mud. The spiral-marked headband, the Arya of Derision, shimmered on his brow, and his amber eyes—magnified behind polished glasses—glinted with something closer to amusement than dread.

A brute in iron lunged for him, spiked club swinging. Trevor moved like drifting silk. His staff rose and fell once, catching the attacker's wrist, turning momentum to air. The brute staggered, and Trevor, smirking, tapped him on the chest. The man fell, wind knocked from lungs older than his courage.

Another opponent circled, seeking an opening. Trevor didn't even glance his way. The staff's end jabbed backward, striking the man in the sternum with force enough to crack bone. As the second man collapsed into red sand, Trevor's smirk widened, and he flicked his glasses higher on his snout.

From above, Ekene leaned closer to Toran, voice a breath across stone. " May I suggest that you tell Lord Maymum to end this fast. He hasn't even drawn upon his true pace."

Toran's gaze stayed fixed, tail still. "And when he does?"

Ekene's answer was silence.

Across the arena, crimson eyes burned in the shadow of the gates. Prince Erezhan emerged not as a warrior, but as something elemental. His tusks, plated in red-gold, curved outward like scythes. Bare hooves struck the sand with force enough to tremble the earth. His red gaze swept the field not for equals—only prey.

A YakTracient leapt at him, mane ablaze with desert dyes. Erezhan's fist rose in a motion too swift for many eyes to track. When it fell, the yak lay broken against the black glass that ringed the arena, ribs split like old wood. Cheers rose from the upper tiers, rippling down through Carlon's noble bloodlines. Erezhan moved on, already seeking another victim.

The first round was not a duel. It was culling.

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The gongs rang—deep, ancient. The arena emptied until only twelve fighters remained. The morning heat had risen; the scent of iron and sweat hung thick, and red sand clung wet to fur, scale, and skin.

Second round: duels. Short, brutal.

Trevor's opponent came fast, spear darting like a striking viper. Trevor did not retreat. He stepped closer, inside the arc of the strike, staff turning in a blur. A single flick, wrist loose as wind, struck the spear's haft, twisting it from the attacker's grip. Another turn, another strike—gentle as a tap—and the fighter dropped, dazed, into the sand. Trevor bowed, glasses sliding to the tip of his snout, his smirk sharp as a drawn dagger.

Erezhan's opponent raised a shield, voice lost in a cry of desperation. Erezhan's arm moved once. The shield cracked, the fighter crumpled, and Erezhan walked on, crimson eyes never flickering.

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The gongs tolled again, echoing through stone and soul alike.

High above, the announcer rose on a platform of floating obsidian etched with silver runes. Mana crystals pulsed around him, amplifying each syllable.

"Now! The final duel of blood and glory! Two remain!"

"Hazël #2, the Trickster of the Sands, the Monkey Lord of Narn—Trevor Maymum!"

Trevor stepped forward, robes brushing red sand, staff resting lightly against one shoulder. The lower tiers exploded in cheers, children's voices shrill with delight. Painted faces mimicked his smirk; small paws lifted imaginary staffs into the air.

"And his opponent! Undefeated champion for over a century! Prince of Carlon! Scourge of the Ring—EREZHAN!"

Erezhan marched forward, the arena seeming to shrink around him. Dust stirred in his wake. His gaze locked on Trevor, and there was no challenge in it—only certainty.

Trevor lifted a paw, palm outward. "Nice of you to dress up," he drawled, grin sharp enough to cut. "Your sweat even matches the sand."

The words barely left his lips.

Erezhan struck.

Trevor's body blurred—a smear of movement—and then he flew backward, staff spinning from his grasp, sand spiraling around him like blood in water. He landed hard, rolled, and rose onto one knee, breath caught somewhere between shock and calculation. Then he collapsed.

The crowd's roar was a living thing, surging around him. Dust curled upward, momentarily veiling Erezhan's silhouette.

Above them, Toran's paws clenched at the throne's armrest. Ekene's jaw tightened, the runes on his sash pulsing once, faintly.

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Carlon – Contestant's Tent, Nightfall

Night pressed against the silk walls of the tent, the scent of oil lanterns and bruised skin heavy in the air. Trevor sat shirtless on a low cushion, one paw braced on his knee. A deep bruise, purple and angry, marred the line of his jaw. Ekene dabbed at it with cloth soaked in chilled water, each motion precise as a surgeon's cut.

Toran paced, claws clicking against the stone floor, emerald robes pooling around his feet like a living shadow. His violet gaze smoldered. "You're Hazël #2," he growled, voice a low rumble. "And you let yourself get thrown like a sand thief?"

Trevor adjusted his glasses, voice faintly hoarse. "Needed to feel it. See if the rumours were true."

Ekene paused, cloth hovering above bruised fur. "You let him?"

Trevor nodded, expression sobering. "It's not just strength. His Arcem drags you inward, like the world folds around his fist. I tried to slip the pull—but still got caught. It's not natural control. It's too clean."

Toran stopped pacing. "Rotary-based manipulation… A Spiral type Arcem. Thought lost when Amaia Kurt faced Carlon's past Trisoc. Even then, none wielded it so silently."

Ekene's gaze darkened. "If Erezhan truly inherited it…"

Trevor's brow furrowed, the smirk gone. "He shouldn't be able to hide it. Arcem that heavy bleeds mana like blood. But I didn't feel the release of Mana. Not until I flew."

Ekene lowered his paw, mana flickering over Trevor's skin, dulling pain. "Something amplifies him—and veils the aura."

Toran's tail lashed. "Then tomorrow, we draw the serpent into the light. No masks. No games."

The bruised edge of Trevor's smirk returned, softer now. "Guess Hazël #2 was only stretching his legs."

Outside, night wrapped the colosseum in darkness. Above, the stars blazed sharp against endless sky—silent, ancient watchers. And below, on crimson sand, two forces prepared to collide once more: one born of shadows and hidden blood, the other forged by laughter, will, and an unbowed spirit.

And the colosseum waited, hungry.