The Arena’s First Trial

After everyone had chosen their weapons, Light took a moment to survey the crowd. It was a habit of his—he'd always felt more like an observer than a participant, even back in school. Most of the people here looked fairly ordinary, some around his own age, others possibly in their mid-twenties. It made sense that these aliens wouldn't pick frail or elderly hosts. They needed bodies that could fight.

Light's eyes lingered on the guy who'd rebelled earlier—the one whose alien forced him to smash his own crotch. He'd had no chance to buy a weapon and was now yelling at the guards to reopen the Arsenal. Of course, they completely ignored him. Next, Light noticed that most people had chosen pretty standard gear: swords, axes, simple armor. He couldn't help but wonder why so many opted for heavy metal suits that would kill their mobility.

There was only 3 people Light was interested in. The first one was a man with long white hair. Light wasn't sure if his hair was dyed or not. He was about 180 cm in height and had a slender build, but you could see his defined muscle structure on his arms. He had no armor like Light, but the weapon he chose was a bow. There was a handful of men with a bow, and the only one who looked like he could handle a bow was this man.

I eyed this white-haired guy. He stood calmly off to the side, away from the chaos. His posture was relaxed, but something about the way he held himself—back straight, shoulders poised—suggested real skill. Maybe a former athlete or a martial artist. My gut told me he wasn't someone to underestimate.

Light shifted his gaze to a woman—or should he say a girl? She was small, but she was the same height as Light? No, Light refused this thinking and cut it short. The girl had messy black hair and her face looked like she needed sleep and some bathing. The girl looked innocent and not dangerous at all, but the weapon in her hand was special. She had a chained spikeball as big as a human head. Light gulped and shifted his gaze to a fully black clothed young man that was approximately in his age. He had nothing special about him, just a katana and a black neckband as a utility accessory. Light was interested in what the neckband was for, but before he could go up to him, he was interrupted by a voice that followed him since middle school 1 class.

"Yo, Light! Fancy seeing you here, buddy. What wind blew you into this shithole?"

Light's eye twitched. You bastard... He turned to see Ramis, that infuriating sports teacher who was the reason Light was even on this cursed journey. Ramis looked as carefree as ever, like this was just another day at the gym.

"You did, you jerk," Light hissed.

Ramis blinked, feigning confusion for a moment, then brushed it off. "So, what weapon did you pick, Light? Bet it's something puny."

Light started to summon his spear from its tattoo form, ready to show off, but Ramis barreled on without letting him answer. "Check these out!" Ramis spun two nunchakus in a flashy display, nearly whacking Light in the face. Rolling his eyes, Light sidestepped the swirling weapons. He'd had enough.

At that moment, the tall woman shouted again and said that they would need to be in a group of 4 to enter the first competition. The deadline was just 5 minutes. Light went to search for a group. He thought that the best choice would be to get the strongest people in his team, but there are quite a few problems. First of all, you can't really know who is strong and who is weak. Because the power system here is about the weapon you choose, but that doesn't mean that a strong physicality isn't a factor. Light knew that he was here one of the strongest, saying that the spear said "You know, with all these clueless meatbags around, you're basically a superstar, short stuff." Light smiled and said "you bastard can read my mind too." Despite my annoyance, Astral Fang wasn't wrong. I did feel like I might be stronger than most here. The second thing is that Light didn't know what type of competition it would be—maybe having a strong group could be a bad move.

Suddenly, time was up. Light found himself grouped with three others:

The big man with the broken crotch (still scowling, but apparently recovered).

The white-haired archer.

The messy-haired girl.

Without warning, the world around them shimmered. The floor beneath their feet vanished, replaced by a new setting—an arena, circular walls rising high all around. Light blinked in confusion, adjusting to the abrupt teleportation.

Silence fell as the four of them took each other's measure. The archer stood calmly, expression neutral. The girl's face was unreadable, though she clutched her spiked ball with ease. The big man, of course, broke the tension by pounding his chest like an ape.

"Alright, losers," he roared, "I'm obviously the leader. You—" he pointed to the white-haired man, "you're my sniper. And you—" he jerked a thumb at the girl, "you can cook for us or something. Might as well be useful."

I felt a surge of irritation. Cook? She had a giant spiked ball that could flatten a car, and he wanted her to be the cook? I glanced at her, trying to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained as unreadable as the archer's.

Then he turned his gaze to Light. "And you, you'll be my side chick."

Light's jaw clenched. He could feel anger bubbling up, especially after everything that had happened. His spear tattoo started to glow, and Astral Fang materialized in his hand. The big man's eyes widened, realizing he might have crossed a line.

Before Light could teach him a lesson, a robotic voice echoed through the arena. "First task: You have five minutes to kill one of your teammates. Failure to comply will result in unknown consequences."

A grin tugged at my lips. So that's the kind of game we're playing. I glanced at the big man. A dark thought flitted through my mind: Maybe you just volunteered yourself as the target.

A tiny, almost childlike voice piped up. It was the messy-haired girl, and she spoke in a sweet, babyish tone that didn't match her lethal-looking weapon at all. She cocked her head at the big man and said:

"Aww, look at the big baby. Didn't you already lose one 'head' to your own fist? Maybe you wanna lose the other one, too?"

I nearly snorted. The big man's face turned an alarming shade of red. He opened his mouth, but no words came out—maybe he was too angry or embarrassed to respond. The archer let out a tiny smirk, and I realized he might be enjoying this.

Meanwhile, my mind was racing. We have five minutes to kill one of our teammates. Do we really have to do this? Is there a way out? What happens if we don't comply? My alien—Xyrr—was silent, but I could feel a certain… anticipation under my skin, like it was ready for blood.

Astral Fang's voice hissed in my head, sounding amused. This is going to be fun, short stuff. Which one will it be?

Five minutes. One teammate had to die. Light could almost taste the tension crackling in the air. The girl's little joke only highlighted the absurdity of their situation—and the dangerous reality that they were now each other's targets.