Opening Ceremony I – The Crown Watches

The roar of the crowd grew louder with every step. What had once sounded like distant thunder now echoed clearly in the marble corridors ahead — a living, breathing wave of noise that wrapped itself around the coliseum.

Kazuo couldn't help but slow down as the full arena finally came into view.

It was massive.

The coliseum towered above everything else in the capital. Tiered walls of white stone rose high, packed with flags, seats, balconies, and the glittering outlines of thousands of nobles, spectators, and guards. From the central arch flew banners of the crown.

In the sky, enchanted birds made of light circled the upper ring, trailing sparks as they followed flight paths set by ancient glyphs.

Sora let out a low whistle. "Alright. That's more people than I expected."

Tetsu looked like he might pass out. "Statistically speaking, you won't die today. today is only the opening ceremony."

"We'll be fine," Kazuo said, his throat drier than he'd admit.

They approached the outer checkpoint — a silver archway guarded by royal soldiers in dark cloaks and mage-woven armor. The lead guard stepped forward.

"Participants only. Your squad members may proceed to the observation tiers."

Sora gave Kazuo a playful flick on the shoulder. "You got this, first impressions matter the most."

Tetsu nodded, signaling that he agrees with Sora.

"You two go cheer loud," Kazuo muttered, offering a small smile. "Louder than the nobles."

"We will," Sora said — then she glanced at Setsuna. "Take care of him."

Setsuna didn't respond, but he gave the smallest nod.

Sora and Tetsu turned and vanished into the side passage — the one leading to the private stands for squad members. Sora raised two fingers in the air as they left, a quiet, cocky farewell.

Kazuo stepped forward.

He handed over the sealed envelope — the invitation stamped with the royal crest and wax-sealed with Cedric's mark.

The guard inspected it, then nodded and stepped aside. "You may enter. Room one."

Setsuna followed silently beside him.

The corridor narrowed — torch-lit, quiet, echoing with the distant roar of the coliseum above. As they passed room after room, Kazuo noticed each door had a different symbol carved into it — the squads' marks, sharp and varied. Only his bore nothing at all.

Room one was empty.

A single wooden bench. A jug of water. A smooth floor of polished stone. No windows. Just a door on the far wall, still closed — the one that would eventually open to the arena floor.

Kazuo stepped inside.

Setsuna leaned against the wall near the entrance, arms folded, silent.

They were alone.

No sound but Kazuo's quiet breathing, and the faint, muffled pulse of the crowd beyond.

"Stop tensing up," Setsuna said calmly. "You'll cramp before you even step out there."

Kazuo didn't respond.

Setsuna shrugged. "Whoever they are… they're just people. Same as you."

He paused, then added with a smirk, "Except you've got me. They don't."

Kazuo let out a shaky breath. "That's… both comforting and terrifying."

"Good," Setsuna said. "Means you're awake."

This was it.

He would wait here… until his name was called.

The sun above the coliseum reached its zenith, casting the inner arena in an unrelenting light. Dust shimmered in the heat, dancing above the sand like ghosts of battles yet to come.

And still, the crowd grew louder.

From the noble balconies, laughter and wine flowed freely. Golden fans fluttered. Parasols bobbed like colored petals in the stands. From the commoner tiers, thousands leaned over the railings, voices raised in eager anticipation. Every eye — whether beast, elf, or human — was locked on the center ring.

Then, a magical boom cracked through the air.

Glyphs along the coliseum walls flared to life — sigils of sound amplification burning bright blue.

The announcer's voice exploded into the arena.

"People of the Crown — nobles, warriors, and citizens of this great capital… we welcome you to this year's Tournament of Nobles!"

The response was deafening.

"This year's tournament arrives sooner than expected, under the personal command of His Majesty — to test, to witness, and to remember."

"For today, the finest captains of the realm have each chosen one champion to represent them. One name. One fighter. One chance."

Trumpets blared from the upper walls.

The banners of the elite squads rose higher, catching wind and sun.

"But first —All rise…for His Majesty, King Cedric of the Inner Crown — and Her Grace, Lady Elyria."

The entire coliseum erupted.

From the highest balcony, beyond layered curtains of silver thread and golden trim, two figures stepped into the light.

King Cedric moved first — dressed in white and gold, silver Tiara upon his brow and his presence heavier than any metal could bear. His wings moved like silk, and his boots echoed like thunder on polished stone. He raised one hand — not high, but enough — and in that instant, the crowd fell silent.

Beside him stood Lady Elyria, regal in a deep green dress embroidered with silver leaves matching her flower crown. Her face remained composed, almost cold, but her eyes flicked sharply across the crowd — watching, calculating. Searching.

She leaned slightly toward her father as the silence settled.

"You never cared for spectacle," Elyria murmured, her gaze fixed on the roaring crowd below — but her eyes slowly drifted sideways toward her father."Moving the tournament up this early… that wasn't tradition. That was you."

Cedric said nothing. He stood like a statue, posture regal, gaze locked on the arena gates.

Elyria's voice lowered, sharper now. "It's because of him, isn't it? The boy with the mismatched eyes."

She turned her head just slightly, casting him a cool side glance."What are you planning, Father?"

Cedric didn't answer. Not with words. Not with the faintest movement.

His expression remained the same — sharp, unreadable, and completely still.

Elyria's lips pressed into a line, but she didn't push.She simply followed his gaze…

…to the sealed gates.…to the waiting rooms hidden in silence.…to the boy on the other side, who should have never existed.

The stage was set.

The pawns were moving.

The battlefield stood at the heart of the coliseum like a sacred stage — a massive elevated platform, carved from pale, rune-etched stone, wide enough to host entire skirmishes and high enough that even those in the highest seats could see every movement.

It was perfectly circular, polished to near-reflection, with intricate geometric lines faintly glowing beneath the surface — ancient enchantments that reinforced the stone against destruction. No railing. No borders. Just open air around the edge, and a sharp drop to the lower wards.

At the very center, the platform was marked with a single, silent crest — the royal sigil, flanked by eight subtle runes that pulsed faintly with each participant's presence.

Ring-out elimination was real. One misstep — or a well-placed spell — and you'd be thrown from the platform and disqualified.

The distance from one end to the other was staggering — almost the size of a town plaza. It wasn't just a space for dueling; it was a space for strategic warfare, for showcasing the scale of elite-level magic, and for reminding everyone watching: these weren't street brawls. These were battles meant to be remembered.

Dust shimmered in the heat above the platform. The crowd surrounded it on all sides — a full 360° wall of roaring voices, eyes, and judgment.

And yet, with all the banners, cheers, and magic in the air…the platform remained silent. Waiting.