The trumpets were too loud.
Or maybe that was just the blood pounding in Claus Reinhardt's ears.
He stood behind the gate of the Grand Solstice Arena, the final barrier between him and the biggest moment of his life. Outside, the crowd roared like a tide rising, falling, building, crashing.
"CLAUS! CLAUS! CLASSY CLAUS!"
He winced at the nickname. He hated it but he also kinda loved it.
He rolled his shoulders beneath the polished weight of his Azure Order armour, the steel plates clicking into place like the rhythm of a march. His family crest gleamed proudly on his cloak: a silver lion standing atop a sword.
His sword rested in its scabbard across his back, the hilt worn from years of training. He touched it now like an old friend, grounding himself in steel.
His reflection stared back from a polished armour plate: ginger-red hair pulled into a loose, short tail, a few strands curled by sweat and tension. Sharp ember-green eyes, narrow but alive.
His build wasn't brutish like some of the other knights, but his frame was carved from discipline—broad shoulders, lean muscle, the kind forged from sword drills at sunrise and plate-carrying hill climbs until dusk.
He had the body of a champion.
Now he just needed the title.
The Champion's Match.
Top 100 Knights of the Continent.
And now… his name was about to join them after 10 long years of harsh training and discipline.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧
The gate hadn't opened yet, but Claus could feel the eyes on him.
Behind the arena curtain, the top-ranking knights stood in a loose semicircle, some stretching, some bantering and some sharpening blades that were already sharp. He recognised a few of them from older duels. The Mountain Breaker from the east. Lady Valestra of the Pale Sigil. Sir Renlow, who claimed to have fought a bear and married its widow. That kind of crowd.
He didn't speak to any of them and none of them tried to break the ice. Most had written him off months ago.
Until he started winning.
One duel.
Then another.
And another.
Now he was here, one match from a title, standing among warriors who had trained in gold-plated academies since birth, while he had learned footwork in a dirt courtyard behind a goat shed.
"You're doing that face again."
Claus turned slightly. Gareth was standing beside him, flipping his sword between gloved hands like it was a toy. He was a few inches taller than Claus, wiry instead of solid, with sand-brown hair swept back and tied with a silver band.
His eyes were grey, almost too calm, like nothing ever really got to him and a face that smirked even when it shouldn't.
His armour was just flashy enough to suggest noble backing, but rough enough to look seasoned, though Claus would bet half the scratches were self-inflicted during lunch breaks.
"What face?" Claus muttered.
"The one where you pretend you're calm but your left eye twitches. Classic habit of Classy Claus."
Claus scowled. "Would you shut up?"
Gareth grinned. "I'll shut up after they carve your name into the Obsidian Wall. Assuming you don't trip walking out there."
Claus didn't respond. He was too focused now with his mind narrowing like a blade point. The top 100 knights of the continent. He had clawed his way here through grit and precision, one duel at a time and this was the final match. The crowning ceremony. Nobles were already betting on who the king would knight first. It had to be him.
This wasn't just some tournament. This was everything he'd worked for.
Every sunrise training session.
Every meal skipped to afford sword oil.
Every sneer from noble-born knights who said "mud-bloods" didn't belong in tournaments like these.
This was for his family name. For House Reinhardt, which had once held land, honour, and titles, until war and bad luck took it all.
If he won today, they'd speak his name again.
He'd matter.
He peeked out through the iron gate.
The arena was a sea of colour and noise. Banners flapping from every pillar, dozens of noble houses flaunting their crests. In the high boxes, nobles were sipping from golden goblets. In the middle, the King and Queen of Solvalen sat beneath a velvet canopy, robed in gold-threaded silk. Their presence alone made the dirt floor feel sacred.
Petals rained from above, thrown by highborn ladies in pearl-adorned gowns. He caught a glimpse of one holding a sign: "CLAUS = CUTE + CLASSY!"
He closed his eyes and steadied his breath.
He wasn't here for the flowers. He was here to make damn sure that when people spoke the name Claus Reinhardt, they remembered it.
A bell rang and the gate creaked.
A floating orb—a crystal amp, likely enchanted by a dozen court mages—drifted above the arena, a voice echoing through it.
> "Lords and Ladies, soldiers and scoundrels. Today, we gather here to witness the final trial of the Solstice Arena!"
The crowd exploded again. Claus's gauntlet clenched reflexively.
> "He has stood undefeated across twenty-five duels.
He bears the weight of a fallen house, and the hopes of the Western Highlands.
Standing before you… First of the Azure Lineage…
Defender of the Silver Vale…
The Lion of the Left Flank…
And the man voted 'Most Likely to Be Accidentally Handsome'"
Claus flinched.
> "CLASSY CLAUS REINHARDT!"
The gate opened and Claus stepped forward, armour gleaming, sword on his back, gaze locked ahead.
The heat of the torches mixed with the roar of the crowd. Fireworks cracked behind him as his boots touched the arena floor. He forced himself not to flinch.
He moved towards the centre, his heart hammering in rhythm with the crowd's chant. He could feel the energy of his name rippling through the air like a spell. This was it.
The moment he had dreamed of since his first wooden sword.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧
The cheers were deafening.
He stepped forward, one boot across the threshold.
His heart stilled.
The crowd roared.
And the earth broke.
Just a crack at first but then a sharp rumble beneath his feet. His vision warped like heat shimmering off the cobblestone. The roar of the crowd dulled, blurred, then twisted like someone had pulled the entire arena through a tunnel made of glass.
He looked down.
The ground beneath him was... gone.
Just black.
No fire, no scream or any warning.
He didn't even have time to call out.
And just like that...
Classy Claus was gone.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧
He didn't hit the ground. There wasn't even any sensation of pain or heat.
Just movement.
Claus opened his eyes and realised he was falling, slowly at first, then faster. The kind of drop that curls your stomach and clenches your jaw.
Wind rushed past his ears. He instinctively reached for something, anything but his hand closed around air.
Still armoured. Still armed and fully conscious.
"Where?"
He twisted in the air, trying to spot the sky, ground or anything. There was only motion and grey.
No stars or any kind of light. No sense of up or down. Just falling.
"This isn't the arena."
He didn't know what this was.
But something was pulling him somewhere and fast.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧