Kazuo walked into the white light and the noise swallowed him whole. The roar of the crowd pressed against his ears like a tide; cheers, sharp whistles, the wet slap of palms on marble. He felt the heat of a thousand gazes as if they were a physical thing, a current pushing at his back and chest. Still, each step was measured. The colosseum narrowed to the stone beneath his boots, the sun at his neck, and the simple, steady rhythm of his breathing.
At the center, the announcer stood, voice amplified by magic until it rolled across the stands like thunder. Beside him, Aoi—silver medallion at his throat—waited with the practiced composure of someone raised to bear public scrutiny. When Kazuo reached the circle carved into the arena floor, the announcer took a breath and let the moment build.
"Behold the one who beat all odds," the announcer called, voice ringing. "He who bested the eastern prodigy, who faced death and returned—Kazuo of the Royal Guard, champion of the Tournament of Nobles!"
A roar answered that proclamation, louder than any before it. Hands thrust forward: flowers, ribbons, cries. An attendant stepped forward, the gold medal heavy in his palm. He laid it against Kazuo's chest with a ceremony that made the metal sound like destiny.
Kazuo accepted the medal with two fingers, feeling its cool weight against his collarbone. Aoi stepped forward and placed his hand over Kazuo's in a brief, earnest clasp—no theatrics, only the honest tension of two fighters who had measured themselves against one another. Kazuo squeezed and let go; then he reached to the announcer and took the man's hand as well, a quick, human contact that anchored him to the present.
From the high balcony, King Cedric rose.
He did not stand because ceremony demanded it; he rose because it was his signal, because every movement was a pageant of power. He let his hand fall outward in a slow, deliberate arc—an orator's gesture that demanded attention and shaped the breath of the crowd. When he spoke, his voice was cool and precise, each syllable polished to a public shine.
"People of Yurelda," Cedric began, and the colosseum obediently leaned in. "Today we celebrate not only skill, but mercy. We celebrate the capacity of a crown to temper justice with compassion. Kazuo stands before you as proof that the system can be just when guided by reason and benevolence."
His words were honeyed. Cedric smiled as he spoke, a practiced expression that made the sunlight seem to warm the stone rather than scorch it. "He was born with eyes that contradict our order," the king announced, eyes briefly finding Kazuo. "He could have been cast aside, executed, or used as a curiosity. Instead, I chose to spare him. I chose to show that this throne judges rightly."
Setsuna, standing just behind the railing, watched with a darkening amusement. He folded his arms, the ghost of a smile at one corner of his mouth. "A spectacle," he muttered to no one in particular. The word hung near his throat like a warning.
Cedric's gaze sharpened, a blade beneath the silk. "As I pledged, the champion shall be granted a single wish. State your desire, Kazuo. Speak now, and let your future be made under the Crown's witness."
Silence roared in afterward. The colosseum had been loud a heartbeat ago; now it was a vacuum ringing with expectation. Every face in every row leaned forward. The attendants froze. Even the banners seemed to hold their breath. In the king's mind, an inward question flickered like a candle in wind: will he obey, or will he choose rebellion? Will this wish chain him to a gilded cage, or will it break the fetters that bind him? Cedric pictured both outcomes and felt, briefly, the delicious possibility of using either.
Kazuo felt that inward current too—his thoughts a tangle of faces and debts. Rei's laugh, bright and reckless; Gramps' stern hands, softer than memory let on; Aoi's resigned dignity; the thousands who would read his wish like a map and choose their side by the routes it offered. He looked, finally, to the balcony.
Lady Elyria sat like a shard of sapphire cut from the sky. For a second he thought he saw confusion crease the delicate slope of her brow; then her lashes lifted and she blinked, a small, almost private question that made something unfamiliar loosen in his chest. She did not smile, not at first. She only watched, as if trying to read whether he understood what his voice could set into motion.
Kazuo lowered his gaze, feeling the medal's weight and the press of a thousand histories settle against the thin line of his throat. He looked up again and met King Cedric's eyes without hesitation. He knew this ceremony was theatre—a framework designed to shape his choice and present obedience as grace—so there was no room left for defiance. Their gazes locked, and for a breathless moment the colosseum narrowed to the two of them; they held each other's look as if bargaining in silence.
"I wish," Kazuo said, and the words struck like an oath, "to marry Lady Elyria of House Cedric."
The statement hit and the arena convulsed.
Idris's cigarette slipped from between his lips and fell, forgotten, spinning in the bright air. Setsuna, who had been leaning against the rail with an easy grace, straightened and unfolded his hands as if by reflex he were readying for a fight; the motion was small but urgent, a visible tightening beneath his calm. The captains clustered behind him—Garou, Vaskel, Zahari, Jin, Shiranami—found themselves mute, mouths parting and closing without words. For once, there was nothing clever to say.
Mimi's voice cut through the haze of noise, thin and incredulous. "What did he say?" she demanded, leaning forward as if proximity might rearrange the truth. Tetsu's glasses flashed; he swallowed and asked the same thing, but quieter, as if speech itself needed permission. Sora's usual lazy amusement drained from her face; she was utterly speechless. Even Rulthan and Kaya, two who rarely surprised one another, stared as if stung.
Lady Elyria's hand went to the blue roses at her hair. Color drained from her face and then flared—anger sharpening the line of her jaw. Her eyes burned with a question that needed no words: what is the meaning of this? How dare he? She glanced at him and then at her father.
The colosseum fractured into sound. Some screamed for branding, calling him traitor for daring to ask for what many would say belonged to the Crown alone. Others laughed—nervous, high, incredulous cackles that tried to blunt the danger of the moment. Yet more sat frozen, faces slack with disbelief. Chaos rippled through the stands like a physical force, but no one moved to seize the man at the center; no blade rose, no official intervened. The spectacle was a cage and a restraint all at once.
The announcer's composure cracked; sweat beaded on his temple and ran down his neck as he gripped the microphone with white knuckles. From the arena's edge, Aoi's hand shot out—fast, furious. He grabbed Kazuo by the collar with a grip that spoke of disbelief more than cruelty. "Have you lost your mind?" Aoi hissed, voice low and dangerous, the familiar restraint of sport gone.
For half a breath, the world teetered on that edge of violence.
Then King Cedric rose lifted one hand, palm outward, and the colosseum obeyed. Sound collapsed into silence so complete that the shuffling of fabric and the distant scrape of a boot seemed obscene.
All eyes turned to the throne. All hearts held their breath.