Opening Ceremony III – The Wild and the Wicked

The announcer's voice returned, with a tone that now carried something heavier — something wild.

"Representing the Royal Guard's Third Division — the Beast-Warrior Captain himself, Garou the Greenfang — and his chosen combatant: Rhakka."

The crowd's roar was primal this time — whistles, foot-stomps, and guttural cheers erupting from the lower tiers where beastfolk and mercenaries gathered in full force.

From the southern gate, beneath a heavy green banner marked with the emblem of a roaring wolf's head, Captain Garou stomped forward.

Towering. Bare-chested. Muscles like boulders under his fur-lined cloak. His grayish-brown mane of hair was tied back in thick cords, his beast-like ears flicking slightly with each booming footstep. Tribal markings ran down his arms, and his green eyes scanned the field like a predator entering familiar territory.

At his side was his chosen fighter — a young man with rough-cut armor, a scarred jawline, and a cheerful wave that didn't match his brutish appearance.

Garou approached Setsuna's squad with zero hesitation.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Rice Cracker Squad," he bellowed, arms crossed, fangs gleaming.

Kazuo blinked, then actually laughed. "Wait, that's what people are calling us?"

Setsuna didn't respond.

Instead, he turned and punched Kazuo lightly on the top of the head.

"Shut up Kazu."

Kazuo winced. "Ow—okay, okay, sorry—Captain Rice Cracker."

Sora wheezed off to the side, nearly doubling over.

Tetsu muttered, "Your own fault for being a Rice Cracker addict"

Garou grinned wide, wolfish and proud. "I like this one," he said, jabbing a thumb at Kazuo. "Got some bite in him."

Then Garou looked over at Setsuna, grinning wide.

"But he's got no muscle. Mind if I borrow him sometime? Just to fix that body a little?"

Setsuna let out an exaggerated sigh, folding his arms.

"By all means. Just don't return him broken."

Garou barked a laugh, then moved on — stomping toward the platform like it was his den. His fighter followed with a wave at Kazuo, flashing a warm grin before the gates closed behind them.

The announcer's voice carried a steadier tone now — neither reverent nor uneasy. Just clear and direct:

"Representing the Royal Guard's Fourth Division — the Crimson Ascent, led by Captain Zahari Velan — and his chosen combatant: Kaien."

From the western gate, beneath a flowing red banner marked by the silver emblem of outstretched wings, two figures stepped into the light.

Captain Zahari walked first — tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with sharp green eyes and a crimson sleeveless coat fluttering behind him. A silver chain wrapped loosely around his wrist like an afterthought, and old scars trailed across his forearms like forgotten maps. Every step he took was calm, purposeful — the stride of someone who didn't need titles to prove authority.

Kaien followed quietly, almost half a pace behind.

He was lean and athletic, but not tense — just nervous. His brown hair fell messily over one eye, and he kept his head slightly lowered, avoiding the crowd. His cloak fluttered in the breeze, and his boots made almost no sound.

If not for the bright red uniform and tournament sigil, he might've passed for a lost squire.

Setsuna leaned toward Kazuo and smirked. "Now that's a proper entrance."

Kazuo blinked. "You are friends?"

"Zahari? Oh yeah." Setsuna nodded. "An Honest Man."

As Zahari and Kaien approached the center platform, Zahari turned toward Setsuna's squad — and cracked a rare, warm grin.

"Still hiding behind ice and bad posture, I see," he called.

Setsuna waved lazily. "Still pretending to be humble, huh?"

The two captains exchanged a fist bump without ceremony — just the quiet weight of shared respect.

Zahari then looked at Kazuo, his eyes measuring.

"So you're the water mage," he said calmly. "I never saw Water Magic. I can't wait to see it in action."

Kazuo nodded. "You're the first person to say that today."

Zahari gave a short chuckle and stepped aside, allowing Kaien to take the final steps forward. The younger fighter hesitated, then slowly offered his hand.

Kazuo took it gently.

"Hey," Kaien said quietly, eyes still averted. "Um… good luck."

"You too," Kazuo replied, a little surprised by the soft voice.

Then Kaien quickly shuffled back behind Zahari like a startled cat.

As they moved toward the center ring, Setsuna sighed with fondness.

The announcer's voice returned, quieter this time.

"Representing the Royal Guard's Fifth Division… the Master of Discipline, Captain Vaskel of the Crownblood Order — and his chosen fighter: Rulthan, the Bell Butcher."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the crowd — many nobles stiffening and many excited.

From the northern gate, the banner unfurled — a blazing yellow standard marked by the emblem of a silver chalice, wide-mouthed and pristine.

And then the doors opened.

But it wasn't the captain who emerged first.

It was a man — gaunt, naked, skin bruised and black-eyed. A slave. A metal collar clung to his throat, and chains rattled at his wrists. He walked slowly, barefoot across the hot marble, carrying a golden platform on his back — and sitting upon it, lounging like royalty, was Captain Vaskel.

The arena felt uneasy but many still cheered since this was still legal and law.

Sora's tail dropped, ears twitching uncomfortably. Tetsu looked down, adjusting his glasses without saying a word.

Vaskel descended gracefully once the platform reached the center line, wiping his hands with a perfumed cloth and stepping onto the marble floor like he hadn't just been carried by another human being. His elven features were pristine, high cheekbones, and blond hair tied in delicate golden rings — but there was nothing noble in his eyes. Only arrogance. And rot, dressed in silk.

Behind him followed Rulthan — a looming beast of a man, shirtless, scarred, his jaw clenched and eyes already scanning the crowd like a predator looking for meat. He cracked his knuckles as he walked.

Vaskel approached Kazuo with a soft, snake-like smile.

"Well, well," he said. His voice was smooth, syrupy — too gentle to be sincere. "You must be the little myth everyone's whispering about."

Before Kazuo could speak, Vaskel reached out — and touched his face.

Not with warmth.

With examination.

He traced the edge of Kazuo's black eye slowly, then hovered near the green one like he was admiring a gemstone.

"So… rare. A noble's eye… paired with filth."

His smile didn't fade.

"Beautiful."

Setsuna and Vaskel exchanged a look but they didn't say a word.

Kazuo's fists clenched, but he didn't move.

Vaskel finally let go, dabbing his fingers with a silk cloth.

"How delightful," he murmured. "You're trembling. I wonder… is it fear? Or shame?"

Then Rulthan stepped forward.

He didn't speak. Both locked in. eye to eye.

He simply extended a hand toward Kazuo — and gripped his in a handshake that was anything but polite.

Kazuo tried not to wince, but the pain flashed up his wrist. Bones popped.

"Nice to meet you again," Rulthan said, voice low and oily. "Got that pretty green eye ready for me?"

Kazuo yanked his hand back, keeping his face calm.

"I see you haven't brushed your teeth since last time."

Rulthan laughed darkly. "Keep that tongue sharp. I want to hear you scream when I cut it out fish boy."

"Tch," Kazuo replied. "You'll drown before you get close."

The runes flared at their feet.

And just like that, the handshake was over.

Vaskel turned away, robes trailing behind him like royalty exiting a stage.

Rulthan followed — but not before giving Kazuo one last, slow smirk.

Behind him, Setsuna's tone turned flat and sharp.

"This one's exactly what you had in mind," he said, eyes on the crowd. "When you talked about snobby nobles. They don't hide the system — they are the system. They drag oppression into daylight… and no one says a word. Because legally, they don't have to."

But Setsuna's mind wandered off again.

Back to the banners.