THE GAME BEHIND THE WAR

The Astrian Colosseum had never been louder.

The ruling of a draw should have ended the tension—but it only made it worse.

Whispers spread through the arena like wildfire. The warriors of Squad Five and Squad Two exchanged tense glances, their captains standing in silence.

And in the highest seat, King Aldric Ignis Astria remained completely still.

But his eyes… his burning orange eyes lingered on one man.

Commander Malakai Voss.

The leader of Squad Two—the man who had ended the battle between Xeraniel and Dante with a single decree.

His smirk was still there, carved into his face like something unnatural, something wrong. That eerie smile—the kind that saw further, knew more, and enjoyed every second of the chaos he had just created.

Bran's fingers twitched near his sword.

The Premiere exhaled through his nose, his amusement fading.

They both knew.

This wasn't just a battle decision.

This was a move in a much bigger game.

The corridors beneath the Colosseum were eerily quiet. The sound of the crowd above was distant—muffled by stone, swallowed by something heavier.

Bran and the Premiere walked with purpose.

Ahead of them, Commander Malakai stood alone.

The moment they approached, his smile widened.

Bran stopped, his gaze sharp. "What the hell are you playing at?"

The Commander chuckled. "Such hostility." He tilted his head slightly. "I simply ruled the fight as I saw fit. Two warriors pushed to their absolute limits, an unstoppable force and an immovable object… neither yielding. What better conclusion than a draw?"

The Premiere's smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Cut the act."

Malakai's smile never wavered. But his eyes darkened.

"Fine," he murmured. "Then let's speak as men who understand what's coming."

Bran's fists clenched. Something about this man was wrong.

Malakai took a slow step forward. "Tell me, Bran… why do we fight?"

Bran's eyes narrowed. "To win."

Malakai laughed. "Ah, how simple. How childish."

His gaze flickered to the Premiere. "And you?"

The Premiere sighed. "Survival."

Malakai's smirk widened. "Closer. But still so… small-minded."

He exhaled.

"War is not about winning or surviving." His tone lowered, colder. "It's about control."

The air seemed to shift.

"You see, people like you… warriors… you still believe strength determines fate. But strength is just a tool. The real war?" He tapped his temple. "It's fought up here."

Bran's voice was a low growl. "You think you control this?"

Malakai chuckled. "Not yet. But soon."

Bran took a slow step forward. "You marked Squad Five today."

Malakai tilted his head, his smile never fading. "Squad Five was already marked. I simply made sure the whole kingdom saw it."

The air felt heavier.

For the first time, Bran truly understood.

Malakai Voss was not a warrior.

He was a strategist. A manipulator. A man who saw every battle as a piece of something bigger.

And right now, Squad Five was in his game.

"Enjoy the tournament," Malakai said, turning away. "It'll be one to remember."

Then, just before he vanished into the corridor's shadows—

He laughed.

---

Arden sat beside the bed.

His hands were clenched, his jaw tight. The soft hum of mana-infused medical equipment buzzed in the background, dimly lighting the infirmary.

Xeraniel lay motionless, his breathing steady but weak.

His face was unusually calm. No smirk, no sharp gaze filled with madness—just a boy who had pushed himself beyond the brink.

Arden exhaled, rubbing his face.

"Damn you," he muttered.

His fingers twitched slightly. Not out of fear, not out of hesitation—but out of something else. Something unfamiliar.

The battle replayed in his mind. The moment Xeraniel collapsed. The way his body simply shut down.

He hated it.

Arden didn't know why. But he hated it.

And for the first time, he realized something.

He wasn't worried about Squad Five losing a fighter.

He was worried about Xeraniel.

And that pissed him off.

---

THE NEXT HUNT BEGINS

The Colosseum was alive again.

The echoes of the previous match had barely faded before the next battle was about to begin.

The announcer's voice boomed, shaking the very ground.

"NEXT MATCH—FENRICK OF SQUAD FIVE VS. DANTE OF SQUAD TWO!"

The crowd erupted.

Two warriors who had been watching from the sidelines. Two monsters.

One, a silent executioner, his fists wrapped in death itself.

The other, a fanatic of lightning, devotion burning in his veins.

The battlefield awaited them.

And then—Fenrick stepped into the ring.

His entrance was not grand. No theatrics. No slow intimidation.

He just walked.

But the moment his feet touched the cracked concrete—

The air changed.

His golden eyes flickered.

His fingers curled into fists.

Dante, standing across the ring, smiled.

"This should be fun."

Fenrick exhaled. Then cracked his knuckles.

"No. It won't be."

TO BE CONTINUED.