The day of the main tournament had finally come.
The city was alive in a way Roy had never seen before—streets lined with banners, vendors calling out their wares, music weaving through the air from every direction. The tournament was more than just a contest; it was a festival, a gathering of nations, the heart of the continent beating all at once. Every corner of the city pulsed with excitement.
But nothing compares to the Colosseum.
The moment Roy, Kieran, Tanaka, and Brock pushed through the crowded avenues and stood before it, they froze. The structure was a behemoth—an oval of marble and stone that seemed to scrape the sky, its towers adorned with flags from across the world. The outer walls were carved with reliefs of past champions: warriors, magi, healers, and assassins immortalised in motion. Light caught the polished surface so that it gleamed like a jewel in the sun.
Inside, it was even more breathtaking. The Colosseum's arena stretched impossibly wide, its floor a shifting stage that could change terrains at will—mountains, rivers, forests, or simple flat stone. High above, floating constructs whirred and glowed, channelling Soul Arts to prepare for the matches ahead. Rows upon rows of seats circled the arena, packed with people from every walk of life. The roar of tens of thousands swelled like the tide, rattling Roy's chest.
"Holy…" Tanaka's voice cracked as he leaned on the railing, eyes darting everywhere. "This… this is insane."
"Yeah," Brock agreed, for once without a hint of sarcasm. "Even I'm impressed."
Kieran whistled low, folding his arms. "The legends didn't do it justice. They say this place was built on the bones of an ancient battlefield, infused with lingering soul fragments. That's why the stage can change like it does."
Roy, however, stayed quiet. His eyes swept over the crowd, the arena, and the banners swaying in the air. It was beautiful, yes—but it was also overwhelming. A place like this didn't just celebrate strength. It devoured it.
As they filed into their reserved section, chatter buzzed all around. The tournament wasn't just for spectacle—it was a political stage. Representatives from guilds, militias, kingdoms, and, most importantly, the Celestial Watch were scattered through the stands.
And then came the stir.
A ripple passed through the crowd as a group of figures entered, each flanked by guards. The noise shifted into a murmur of awe and recognition. Roy turned his head and froze.
"Is that—" Brock started, but Kieran cut him off.
"Captains," he said quietly.
Three of them.
The first was Drax Ironfist, the Recon Commander. Even in civilian clothes, his sheer bulk gave him away, shoulders like stone, eyes sharp and unyielding. The crowd seemed to part unconsciously around him.
Beside him walked Orrin Vale of the Judicators, his every step precise, like a blade poised to strike. He carried himself with a quiet authority, the kind that made people sit straighter just by being near him.
But the one that drew the most whispers was a man who seemed, at first glance, entirely unremarkable. He wore a scholar's robe, simple glasses perched on his nose, and his hair tied neatly back. He didn't radiate raw power like Drax or cold authority like Orrin. No, he radiated something subtler.
Control.
Roy felt it instantly. His presence was calm and refined, yet beneath it was something… suffocating. He didn't need to prove himself. He didn't need to flaunt his strength. The crowd's attention bent toward him naturally.
"Graham Rose," Kieran muttered under his breath.
The Captain of the Scholars.
Roy's stomach knotted. He'd heard the name before, whispered with respect and fear. A man known not only for his intellect but also for his terrifying Soul Art, the kind that could unravel minds as easily as parchment.
The three moved to their own private booth, the crowd buzzing louder than ever now. Vendors shouted, children scrambled for better views, and even the city's economy seemed to shift in response to their presence. Having captains attend in person wasn't just rare—it was historic.
The matches hadn't even begun when Roy felt a prickling at the back of his neck. Someone was watching him.
He turned, and there he was.
The scholar in plain disguise. No robes, no glasses—just a man in a simple traveller's cloak, hood pulled back. His features were calm, refined, and entirely unassuming. If Roy hadn't already seen him walk in earlier with the other captains, he might have passed him by without a second thought. But the way the crowd instinctively gave him space, the way conversations softened when he moved near—this was no ordinary spectator.
Graham Rose.
The Captain of the Scholars.
Roy stiffened slightly, every instinct on guard. Yet the man's smile was warm, almost disarming.
"Quite the view, isn't it?" Graham said softly, his tone carrying the ease of a practised conversationalist. "It's one thing to watch the broadcast, another to stand in the Colosseum itself. There's a weight here you can't feel through a screen."
Kieran glanced up, a little caught off guard. "Uh… yeah. Guess you're right. It's kind of overwhelming."
Graham chuckled, the sound light and reassuring. "That's normal. Even veterans feel their hearts race when they step inside these walls. The Colosseum has a way of humbling everyone equally." His gaze slid to Roy then, not sharp, not invasive, just… curious. "You two are from the qualifiers, aren't you? I remember the matches. Very impressive work."
Roy tilted his head, unimpressed. "Impressive, huh? I didn't even qualify. Lost my match."
"Oh, I see." Graham's smile didn't falter in the slightest. Instead, he inclined his head slightly, as if Roy had said something admirable. "Then I may be more impressed than before. Losing with dignity teaches more than a hundred hollow victories."
Kieran blinked at that, clearly not expecting such a response. "...That's an interesting way to put it."
"Experience shapes us more than triumph ever could," Graham continued gently. "Besides, your performance was not forgotten. The crowd remembers spirit just as much as results. And you…" His eyes lingered on Roy for just a fraction longer than normal. "You left an impression."
Roy narrowed his eyes. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"A simple truth," Graham replied, his smile still soft. "Take it as you will."
The ease of his words and the calmness in his voice made it difficult to pin him down. He wasn't condescending, nor was he forceful—if anything, he spoke as though he genuinely wanted to reassure them.
"Tell me," Graham went on, his tone almost fatherly now, "do you feel ready to stand before the world? To have every eye watching your next move? It's not an easy burden."
Kieran let out a breath, nodding slowly. "I think so. At least… I want to try."
Graham smiled warmly at him, then turned to Roy again. "And you?"
Roy gave a faint smirk. "Honestly? Sounds like a headache."
To his surprise, Graham chuckled, genuine amusement flickering across his face. "A rare answer. Most would jump at the chance. But sometimes those who avoid the spotlight are the ones most worth watching."
Before Roy could reply, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"Graham".
Orrin Vale stood a few rows down, his gaze fixed directly on them. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on Roy with quiet intensity.
Graham turned slightly, still wearing that same serene smile. "Commander Vale," he greeted with polite ease. "I was only speaking with the next generation. Nothing more."
Orrin's eyes didn't leave Roy. "You're wasting your time."
Roy raised an eyebrow. "Funny. People keep saying that, yet here I am, still worth looking at."
For just a second, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickered in Graham's eyes, though his smile remained soft and measured. He said nothing, merely letting the tension hang in the air before gently diffusing it.
"Well," Graham said finally, his tone still calm, still reassuring, "the matches will begin soon. I won't keep you from enjoying them. Perhaps we'll speak again."
And just like that, he gave a courteous nod and turned, his steps light and unhurried, as if he'd never been there at all.
But Roy felt the weight of his presence linger.