THE FANGS OF A MONSTER

The air inside the Astrian Colosseum was heavy, thick with tension, the scent of blood and steel clinging to the cold concrete floor. Thousands of spectators leaned forward in anticipation, their voices rising like a storm as the first real battle of the competition began.

Fenrick stood motionless in the center of the ring.

His dark cloak billowed slightly from the shifting air currents, but his body was still—too still. His golden eyes burned like smoldering embers beneath his shadowed brow, their unnatural glow sending an unspoken message to the man standing before him.

Roland of the Black Lancers.

A noble-born warrior, built like a war machine, draped in arrogance and decorated with empty victories. His black cloak bore the emblem of a warhorse, a sign of his squad's relentless power. He had never lost. And judging by the smirk curling at the edge of his lips, he didn't believe today would be any different.

"You look like a stray dog," Roland sneered, cracking his knuckles. "A mutt with no name, no status. Step aside before you embarrass yourself."

Fenrick said nothing. He didn't need to.

Instead, he simply lifted his chin slightly, his glowing eyes narrowing—an unspoken warning.

Roland's smirk twitched. "Tch. Ignoring me? You'll regret that."

The signal rang.

And Roland charged.

---

Roland moved like a tank, a wall of muscle and brute strength, each step cracking the concrete beneath his boots. His right arm flexed as he pulled back for a devastating punch, the air around his fist distorting from sheer force.

Fenrick didn't move.

The punch came like a cannon blast.

BOOM.

A cloud of dust erupted as Roland's fist connected—or so it seemed.

The moment the smoke cleared, Fenrick was gone.

A flicker of black. A blur of movement.

Then—pain.

Before Roland could react, a fist crashed into his ribs with crushing force, lifting him off his feet and sending him skidding backward. His boots dug into the concrete, leaving long, jagged trails as he struggled to steady himself.

His eyes widened. He barely saw it.

Fenrick stood where he had just been, his posture completely relaxed, one hand still raised from the punch. Like he had barely even tried.

A whisper ran through the crowd.

Roland gritted his teeth, his pride flaring. "You… bastard."

He lunged again, his mana surging around him, making the air ripple from sheer pressure.

But it was useless.

Every attack he threw, every desperate strike—Fenrick dodged effortlessly. Not with speed alone, but with complete control. His movements were minimal, calculated, his footwork perfect.

Roland swung wide. Fenrick stepped in.

Before Roland could even register what was happening, Fenrick's knee drove into his gut with brutal force.

Roland choked, his body folding as the air was violently ripped from his lungs. His vision blurred as another strike followed—a backhand across his jaw so fast and precise it sent shockwaves through his skull.

He staggered, his ears ringing.

He couldn't keep up.

His enemy was a ghost—no wasted movement, no hesitation.

Roland barely managed to regain balance before he saw them—those glowing, golden eyes, staring at him like he wasn't even worth killing.

Fear gripped his throat.

And in that moment, he knew.

He had already lost.

---

Fenrick finally moved.

One step. One shift in weight.

And then—he struck.

The moment his fist connected, the entire colosseum trembled.

BOOM.

A shockwave erupted from the impact, the ground beneath them splitting, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the sheer force of the blow. Roland's body twisted violently, lifted clean off the ground before he crashed into the far end of the arena, his back slamming against the stone barrier.

Silence.

Roland's form twitched, but only slightly. His mouth opened as if to speak—but no words came.

His body refused to move.

Fenrick exhaled slowly, lowering his fist. His glowing eyes dimmed, returning to their usual color. Without sparing Roland another glance, he turned and walked away.

The match was over.

The referee, who had been frozen in shock, finally found his voice.

"Winner—Fenrick of Squad Five!"

The crowd erupted into chaos.

Some cheered. Some fell into stunned silence.

And in the royal balcony, the king of Astria narrowed his eyes.

Fenrick exited the ring without a single word, passing his squadmates as if nothing had happened. No arrogance. No pride.

Xeraniel let out a low whistle. "Damn. That was brutal."

Bran chuckled, shaking his head. "He's only getting started."

But Modred wasn't looking at Fenrick.

His crimson eyes were locked on the ring—because now, it was his turn.

The voice of the announcer echoed once more.

"NEXT MATCH—MODRED OF SQUAD FIVE VS. CASSIAN OF SQUAD FOUR!"

The atmosphere shifted.

Modred exhaled slowly, stepping forward, his dark cloak swaying behind him. The air around him seemed to pulse, as if the arena itself was responding to his presence.

Across from him, Cassian, a warrior from the Iron Enforcers, stepped into the ring. His silver cloak draped over his form, and the emblem of an iron gauntlet gleamed on his back.

Unlike Roland, Cassian wasn't arrogant. He was disciplined, precise, and—most importantly—dangerous.

The tension in the air thickened.

As Modred took his place, the battlefield itself seemed to quiet.

His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

And then—he smirked.