When Bell's number was called, he walked up to the arena and joined the fighters who were already up on the stage.
He looked up at the podium where the prizes were being displayed. He didn't care about the prize that people assumed the winner was going to take or even the second most valuable item.
His eyes were on the sword.
The blade was white and straight, tapering to a sharp point at the end with a line that split the blade into two perfect halves. The hilt was shiny silver that had a light blue tint. It had no crossguard, and the grip connected directly to the blade. On the blade, each side featured a symbol in a spot near the grip.
One of the symbols was a black crescent moon. The other symbol was a black sun.
At the very end of the handle was a diamond-shaped pommel.
'Junipa Gon Fresia. The White Horizon.' The starwalker and the name of the artifact created by their soul.
A weapon that Bell felt not only perfectly suited him, but out of everyone in the world, no one else could utilize it as well as he could.
One by one, more fighters were being called up to the stage until finally, fifty people were standing on the circular platform.
An announcer was being elevated on a small platform that was floating in the air using runes. In his hands was a voice amplifier, also known as a microphone. As he spoke into it, his voice carried across the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen…!"
The roar of the crowd immediately shook the arena. Seven thousand voices crashed together, and for the fighters with weak stomachs, their nerves immediately began to overwhelm them.
Names of participants with fans or family and friends in the crowd were being screamed.
Coins clinked about as bets were being finalized.
That included a particular dark-skinned teenager with white hair who had her heterochromia eyes hidden by her hair.
"Which fighter would you like to bet on and how much?"
"Number 24. I'll be betting all of this," Maya said as she pushed forward a bunch of gold coins. This was her entire net worth that she's earned as one of Bell's people.
Her coins were quickly counted, then she received a ticket. If number 24, aka Bell, made it to the next round, her returns were going to be huge.
Satisfied with herself, she quickly returned to her seat, where Ernit was sitting. He had a drink in his working arm and with his other arm that was still recovering, he was digging into a bucket of popcorn.
"What you see before you," the announcer continued, sweeping an arm across the stage, "are the first fifty of the hundreds of participants that we have today."
Bell stood still without any tension or nerves.
Around him, fighters were stretching, rolling their shoulders, swinging their blades, or cracking their knuckles.
All of their eyes were filled with open hostility. Literal poison and fire.
A few tried to size him up because of his looks that made them jealous, but because of his frame, none of them really viewed him as a threat they would need to focus on.
The focus of this batch was a tall man with lanky limbs. He had placed quite high the last time the tournament took place.
"Out of these fifty, only five!" the announcer shouted, his voice climbing higher and higher. "Only five of them will advance to the next stage!"
"Five!" the crowd chanted with him.
"Five!"
"Five!"
Bell took a slow breath in, then just as slow — he exhaled. His heartbeat was so calm that it could've been mistaken for someone who was asleep.
This wasn't arrogance. It wasn't even confidence.
It was just — him. Simply who he was.
"No alliances! No killing! But other than that, no mercy!" the announcer screamed as he raised a hand, all of his fingers extended.
""FIVE!"" the crowd screamed.
The air started getting heavier as star energy began to surge.
""FOUR!""
Weapons were drawn and handles were gripped tighter.
"THREE!""
Someone laughed as he was prepared to dash at the person in front of them as soon as the countdown was over.
""TWO!""
To Bell's left, there was a man who had his eyes locked on him.
""ONE!""
The announcer stopped for a brief moment when only his thumb was extended.
He allowed silence to wash over the arena.
Then his thumb came down.
""ZERO!""
"Begin!" the announcer screamed, and the arena exploded.
Fighters surged forward all at once. The sound of blades crashing echoed beyond just the arena. Even people walking by could feel the pressure.
A body was sent flying into the air within the first second; they skidded across the platform as they spewed blood from their mouth.
Bell didn't move even as the man on his left rushed at him with an axe.
Just as he was about to be hit, he simply took a step, and his body blurred for a fraction of a second as the blade passed where his chest had been.
Appearing behind the attacker, an open palm with the tip of the middle finger tapped against the man's spine.
'One inch… punch.'
The palm closed into a fist, and the strike sent the fighter flying. He collapsed, his limbs locking and folding into an indescribable shape.
Bell was already gone before anyone could react to what he just done.
Following the flow of the chaos, he never stayed in one place too long. He dashed in, caused damage, amplified the chaos, and then he moved along.
It was almost graceful and beautiful like a tornado destroying a town.
Where others fought like beasts, Bell moved like a dancer.
Above it all, untouched on the podium, Junipa Gon Fresia, "The White Horizon" gleamed softly.
And just like how Bell had been watching it, the sword seemed to watch him back.
* * *
Ravel Hale, the tall man, was prepared for this.
Not only did his height make him a center of attention for most rooms, but because of the record he had during the previous tournament, he was clearly a threat that needed to be eliminated first.
As soon as the round began, fighters circled him like wolves.
Five people.
They were hoping to wear him down and take him out of the tournament before focusing on others.
It was a smart decision, but still, "Cowards," Ravel spat as he swung his long blade in a wide arc. The blade was nearly as tall as him.
In a single swing, he had met the steel of three fighters. Sparks burst in the air.
One of them was knocked backwards, another person ducked low to avoid the attack, and someone took the opportunity to leap towards his back.
Twisting his body as he sensed the presence, with the hand that wasn't wielding the sword, star energy surged and a bunch of sharp bones spat out from his palm, stabbing small holes in the attacker's body.
The fighter screamed.
Then he was kicked in the head and was knocked out.
'Good. One down. Four more cowards left.' That is… if others don't join and replenish the number.
As he continued facing off against the group that was ganging up on him, although he was controlling his breathing, his heart was starting to climb.
The pace wasn't because of fear but just from the sheer volume of enemies that demanded a lot of energy and star energy alike.
This wasn't a duel. This was survival of the fittest.
Just as he eliminated his third fighter, he saw him in the corner of his eyes.
A handsome young man with pink hair and glasses.
A calm expression as they moved across the battlefield as if they weren't a part of it.
There was no wasted motion in his attacks, and he didn't hesitate to come for anyone, regardless of their size or strength.
Every time the pink-haired man got his hands on someone, that person was done for.
He hit them just hard enough to knock them out. Never hard enough to permanently damage them.
'That one is dangerous,' Ravel thought. 'He has the luxury to pull back his punches, meaning that he's much stronger than he's displaying.'
And he's intelligent enough to analyze how much power was needed for each person.
Ravel's grip on his sword tightened as he parried another blow, then kicked a second person away. But for half a second, his focus slipped as he was tracking that pink-haired man in his peripheral vision and that nearly cost him an arm.
'I have to focus up.'
Although a flash of panic was creeping in, he didn't have the luxury to think about the pink-haired man when he was struggling to deal with the group attacking him.
But as if the world was playing a cruel joke on him, just as Ravel swung his blade down and caused the woman in front of him to collapse to one knee as she braced for the attack with her daggers — he saw for just the briefest moment, the eyes of the pink-haired man staring at him.
As a shiver crawled up his spine, Ravel was surprised to see that Bell's gaze left him so soon.
There didn't seem to be any killing intent or bloodlust in them.
He had simply assessed him and moved on.
Even though Bell didn't move toward him or attack, Ravel nervously swallowed.
'He's saving me for later,' the thought hit him like a cold plash of water. 'That's the only reason he didn't take advantage of my situation.'
* * *
High above in the arena, sitting amongst the crowd that was roaring, was an unmoving lone figure.
They had on a hood that cast a shadow that hid their face. One eye was quietly watching the battlefield occurring below, while the other side of their face was a ruin as a deep scar ran from their brow to their jaw.
Where a second eye should have been was only a hollow shadow.
Their chin rested on their right hand, which was clearly missing two fingers, the ends clean and old, long healed.
Unlike those around them, they didn't cheer, nor did they flinch at the blood pouring everywhere.
Their gaze had been following the battlefield, bouncing from person to person, but now — it followed one person and one person only.
Bell Agnus. Or to their knowledge, number 24.
'What an efficient use of energy and strength,' the figure thought. 'There's not a single wasted movement in their swings. I could train for a hundred more years and I doubt I could ever reach that level of perfection.'
Below, Bell was flowing through the chaos like water slipping between rocks in a river with powerful currents.
The mysterious spectator's remaining eye narrowed slightly.
'He's barely trying. He's only aiming to speed up the process of the next round while actively keeping the stronger participants around. He must be trying to preserve as many powerful opponents for later so that he can face them one on one.'
The figure was able to discern who the strongest on the platform was, but the fact that the young man was able to do the same at his age was a feat that deserved a round of applause
A fighter rushed Bell from behind, and although the attack was fast for most participants, to him it was too slow. A strike landed, but it didn't belong to the fighter. It belonged to Bell and the fighter dropped to the floor, their eyes completely white.
An expression that was easily readable as approval flickered across the scarred figure's face.
"That young man is a rare talent," they finally spoke out loud.
Just then, a crunch sounded beside them.
"Yo," the person beside them said.
The scarred figure didn't turn, their eye not wanting to leave Bell for one second.
Taking a seat next to him was another hooded figure, a man who had large shoulders and a tall frame. One boot propped on the railing in front of them, while the other boot landed on top of the other.
In one bite, they tore off a large chunk of the turkey leg in their hands.
"What's up?" the large man asked, as they looked down at the stage for a brief moment before returning to the turkey leg. "Who are you staring so intensely at?"
The scarred figure finally shifted their body slightly, their single eye still not leaving Bell.
"You see that young man with pink hair?"
The large man took a peek. There was only one person there with pink hair. "Number 24?" he asked.
"Yes. Watch how he moves."
As the large man complied, the chewing of the turkey meat in his mouth slowed down by the second.
"...Huh," he muttered. Both boots came off the railing and planted on the ground as he leaned forward to get a better look.
"Clean. Wow… clean."
"I've been watching him this entire time," the scarred figure continued. "Not a single wasted energy or use of force to deal with his opponents."
Swallowing the turkey meat, the large man took another bite and nodded.
"Seems like you weren't getting excited over nothing."
Down below, Bell's pink hair caught the light as he pivoted, dodging the attack of two people, before quickly dismantling them.
The scarred figure finally allowed themselves a faint smile.
"I think," they said, voice low and certain, "we found a talent worth recruiting."
The hooded large man glanced at them, then back at Bell.
"…Yeah," he said after a moment. He pressed the tips of his index and thumb together to create a circle. Putting the circle up to his eye, he stared through it. "I agree."
Although no one in the arena knew who these two people were, if the headmistress of Trinity Academy saw them, she would've recognised them.
They were members of the Mai-Yad.