Reid and Tarron finally stepped into the Marchios-tier Arena, which was built on the same level as the Reception Hall, words etched clearly on the door arch.
Cascading rows of seats swept upward in concentric rings around a wide circular combat pit, encased by a shimmering dome of reinforced glass. Inside the ring, two mages dueled midair—slinging fire and shards of ice in lazy, predictable arcs. To Reid, they looked like children waving torches in a sandbox. The audience, however, seemed enthralled.
Every seat was packed. Even the railings along the upper balconies were crowded with onlookers, many standing on tiptoe, mug in hand, their gazes locked to the action below. Laughter, jeering, and the guttural cries of drunk betting mingled with the sharp caws of the crows circling above the arena, their presence not merely aesthetic—some watched with eerie focus, heads twitching, black eyes gleaming.
Reid's eyes swept over the floor. Barrels of drink were stacked at the back of the arena floor, and there was a small bar counter where glasses clinked and patrons shouted over one another for refills. Despite the chaos, there was order. He spotted sentries in dark cloaks at intervals, each one quiet and still—but watching. Always watching. No one stepped too far out of line.
"The Arena seems.. quite famous." Reid thought out loud.
"Among the common folks ... Yeah." Tarron said. "It is the Marchios Arena, then Xaldes and Ravios - which are open to the public."
"What about the rest?"
"You mean Torriks and above?" Tarron asked, with a little smile, "Their fights are too intense to be caged in enchanted glass and presented for the masses. They appear for Rank Trials when a level up is due. You will get the hang of it soon."
"Fair enough." Reid replied.
"You're up third," Tarron said, looking ahead.
Reid followed his gaze toward another floating scoreboard of projected names. Glowing symbols hovered beside each name, indicating house affiliation, rank class, and total wins. Reid saw his name appear in the queue:
REID — New Entry (Unranked)
Round 3
Opponent: Makiel of Dunthorne – Marchios Tier
He had no idea who he was. But Tarron did.
"He is from the House of Dunthorne. A minor House allied to Ignis" He whispered. "The young Lord's father is a Torrik ranked Mage and not to mention sit on this city's council. Don't pummel him very hard."
Reid hummed, not sure it was something he could commit to.
He took a deep breath and studied the rest. Faces, names, symbols. All part of the strange machine this world had built. The rules were simple—win more, fight more, earn more. For some, it was about wealth. For others, fame.
For Reid, it was only about passage. To Dales. To Thanes. To whatever lay ahead.
Gold didn't tempt him. It disgusted him. He preferred blood and tears. They were honest. Raw. Undeniable.
But this world wasn't built on blood and tears. It ran on gold. Earned freely. Burned freely. The only spark of honesty could be traced in the brute fights of the Arena where they bet their hide and blood besides their gold.
Reid appreciated that and was going to hold on to it.
He was lost in his thoughts when the crowd roared as one of the mages in the ring was struck by a bolt of chain-lightning, crumpling into the dust with a howl. The victor raised his arms. Coins changed hands. A fresh mug was raised.
Then—
The bell rang.
A single, clear sound that cut through the noise.
Tarron patted Reid's arm. "You're up."
Reid stepped forward toward the gate and the dome hissed open. Makiel waited on the far side, adorned in silk, armor and smugness. A ring of green fire curled from his fingers.
He smirked at Reed, while casually flexing his muscles. Reid returned it with his own and the young Lord's enthusiasm dimmed a little.
He was going to have fun drilling some sense and discipline into the brat - a task his parents obviously must have ignored.
As if reading his expressions, Tarron slid upto him.
"Remember what I said about the Lord. We cannot mess with Ignis while in Aldor or anywhere in Anguth for that matter. Very bad idea."
Reid nodded, his mind already settled into fight mode.
The glass dome sealed with a hiss and Reid stood in the center of the ring, coldly assessing the mannerism of his opponent. He seemed more arrogant than Reid was and that was saying something. He soundly walked up to him, still smirking. Green flames burnt around his wrists, flicking toward Reid.
These dominating tactics might have rattled any other opponent, but not him. Deep down, he carried centuries of wisdom that shaped his attitude and behavior, but like his unreliable memories, they were evading too.
Bell rang.
Makiel raised a hand and grinned—teeth too polished, robes too fine. The kind of man who'd never bled for anything. And he opened with flourish. A spear of green fire tore through the air.
It was charging straight at him and despite the fanfare, the attack was too predictable. Anticipating the trajectory of the charging spear, Reid ducked out of its way.
But it morphed. Into a blazing katana that curved in the air like it had a mind of its own.
Reid rolled to the side, boots skidding across stone, but the blade caught him across the upper arm. Fire tore into flesh. The wound didn't bleed; it boiled. Skin blackened and sealed in an instant, the pain searing straight to the bone, blinding him for a moment.
He grunted, staggered, but did not fall.
The fire had stitched the wound shut, but not kindly. His sword-arm burned from shoulder to wrist, muscles twitching, nerves aflame.
Across the courtyard, Makiel stood calm and smug. He held a pair of burning darts between his fingers now, fire coiling around them in tiny curls.
He snapped his fingers.
The darts leapt from his hand, splitting midair into a dozen streaks of emerald flame—each one curving, hungry, hunting.
This was no ordinary fire.
In fact, nothing in this world would be ordinary anymore.