A new chime echoed through the arena's underbelly.
"Next match: Kuro versus Hagan the Thunderjaw. Report to Arena Circle Five."
A soft hush fell over the room.
Kuro stood from his seat.
Unlike the others who flexed their arms or cracked their necks before a fight, he merely brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder and walked forward like he already knew the outcome. His long black coat swayed slightly as he moved, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.
I'd been in a dozen battles before. Seen countless styles. But something about Kuro… it was different.
He didn't carry weapons.
No sword, no staff, no armor.
Just his presence.
"Kuro," someone whispered nearby. "He's from the Crescent Order… Thought they disbanded."
"Is that really him? The Kuro?"
"If it is, then the Thunderjaw's already dead."
I followed the others to the edge of the viewing platform that looked over Arena Circle Five. The moment Kuro stepped onto the obsidian ring, the wind shifted. Literally. Runes surrounding the arena flared with an eerie violet light, responding to his mana, not the other way around.
His opponent—Hagan—was every bit the opposite.
A brute of a man with copper-toned skin, rippling muscles, and two massive war axes strapped to his back. His armor sparked with electrical energy, and blue lightning veins pulsed from his forearms to his fists.
Hagan cracked his knuckles. "You don't even have a weapon? This ain't gonna last long, string bean."
Kuro didn't reply.
He tilted his head, just slightly, his expression unreadable beneath his windswept bangs.
The announcer's voice thundered through the sky.
"Begin!"
Hagan charged forward like a lightning storm on legs, his twin axes surging with electricity. He closed the gap in less than a second.
But Kuro—
He was gone.
One blink, and he had disappeared from sight.
No teleport. No flash of light. Just... gone.
The crowd gasped as Hagan swung wildly through empty air, sparks crackling behind him. Kuro reappeared behind him—hands still in his pockets—and walked three steps forward without even glancing back.
Hagan stumbled. Blood trickled down his side.
He turned to face Kuro, rage mounting. "You think you're fast?! You're just another—"
Slash.
A thin, clean line of blood appeared across Hagan's cheek. Then another across his forearm.
But Kuro hadn't moved. His hands were still inside his coat.
He was cutting him without touching him.
A hush fell again.
"What… what is his magic?" someone whispered.
"He's not using magic," I murmured, eyes locked onto Kuro. "That's technique is on of the elven moves."
It wasn't brute force. It wasn't flashiness. It was something far worse—perfection.
Every motion Kuro made was minimal, clean, elegant. The way he sidestepped, the way he turned his heel before Hagan could even commit to a strike. He flowed like water, smooth and untouchable.
Hagan screamed and hurled one of his lightning axes, charging it with a powerful shockwave. "Thunderjaw Blitz!"
The axe became a blur of electricity.
It passed through Kuro.
Not around him. Not missing.
Through.
His body rippled like a reflection on water. An illusion? No… something else.
Then Kuro struck.
For the first time, he moved with intent.
His body surged forward in a sweeping arc, his coat fluttering behind him like the wings of a raven. A black trail followed in his wake, slicing through the air.
Hagan froze.
Kuro reappeared behind him, a single glowing crescent mark trailing across the floor of the arena.
Then…
Boom.
Hagan fell to his knees.
A delayed wave of force exploded from the mark on the ground, splitting the obsidian clean in half beneath the fallen warrior.
Kuro exhaled once.
The announcer's voice cracked slightly before regaining composure.
"Victory: Kuro of the Black Crescent."
The energy shield around the arena dropped. Healers rushed to tend to Hagan, who was unconscious but breathing.
Kuro walked off the field slowly, eyes forward, unmoved by the cheers or the stunned silence.
I kept staring.
I'd seen strong fighters before. Tactical geniuses. Brutal warriors. But this—this was something more. Something graceful and terrifying at once.
I didn't even realize I'd been holding my breath until my lungs started to burn.
As he stepped into the holding chamber, Kuro's eyes flicked toward me.
Just a moment. Barely anything.
But it was enough.
That gaze held no arrogance.
Just recognition.
Like he already knew.
One day, we'd fight.
And he was waiting for it.
I turned away, heart still racing.
The tournament was far from over. And the most dangerous battles… hadn't even begun.
Kuro walked back to his seat without a word.
Before sitting, he turned his head slightly and looked straight at me.
He smirked.
Not wide. Not arrogant.
Just… knowingly.
Behind my mask, my brows furrowed. What's with this guy? I thought. Why's he so fixated on me? It was kind of creepy. Like he knew something I didn't.
I looked away, trying to shake the tension off—but my heart stayed tight in my chest.
The announcer's voice echoed through the sky again, this time sounding both hyped and slightly nervous.
"Alright, folks! It just keeps getting crazier! Next match is one you don't want to miss."
From the south gate, a massive, hulking man walked into the stadium. Muscles like boulders, covered in jagged armor. He carried a warhammer the size of a grown man on one shoulder like it was made of foam. The ground cracked beneath his feet.
"Entering the field—Gorak the Earthsplitter! A B-rank veteran with 126 wins under his belt!"
Cheers erupted.
Gorak raised his hammer in response, letting out a guttural roar that shook the arena.
But the crowd wasn't ready for what came next.
The announcer turned toward the opposite gate and hesitated, his voice trembling just a bit as he read the next name.
"And his opponent... entering from the North Gate… we have... Jay. No title. No history."
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Jay?"
"Who?"
"Why does he get a match against Gorak?"
Then—he stepped out.
No grand entrance. No theatrics.
Just silence.
Jay walked forward with hands in his pockets, head down slightly. Black, ragged hair fell over his eyes. He wore a simple long black coat with silver stitching along the cuffs. He looked like my age, His presence was so quiet, it almost felt like he wasn't there at all—
Until he looked up.
That's when everything changed.
The air turned cold.
Not like wind, but like existence itself had chilled. Mana rippled from him in waves—heavy, slow, suffocating. Like the ocean pressing against your chest. Every step he took toward the arena, the light seemed to dim just a little more.
I felt it instantly.
That aura…
My breath caught in my throat.
It was too familiar.
Demonic, yet controlled. Crimson, yet silent.
It felt just like mine—but colder.
It didn't scream. It whispered.
And somehow, that was worse.
Kuro raised a brow too, watching Jay with mild curiosity. Even he leaned forward in his seat.
Jay stepped into the ring and stopped ten meters from Gorak.
Didn't draw a weapon.
Didn't raise a stance.
Just looked up.
Dead eyes. Void of emotion.
The announcer barely got the word out.
"B—Begin!"
Then—
BOOM.
Gorak flew across the arena, his massive frame crashing into the stone wall like a ragdoll. The impact shattered the entire section of the barrier, and his hammer spun off into the sky, landing yards away with a clang.
The audience was silent.
Frozen.
No one had seen what happened.
Not even me.
Jay hadn't moved. Not visibly.
But Gorak was done.
Smoke curled from his body as he twitched against the wall.
The healers hesitated—too stunned to even approach.
Jay turned slowly. Calm. Unbothered.
His eyes scanned the stands, and then—briefly—landed on me.
Not for long.
Just long enough to say, without speaking:
"You feel it too, don't you?"
Then he walked off.
No cheers. No applause.
Just the silence of an entire arena unable to process what they'd just seen.
The announcer gulped audibly.
"V-Victory… goes to… Jay."
No title.
No background.
No mercy.
I clenched my fists beneath my cloak. My aura—it reacted to his. Like it recognized it. Or feared it.
"Could he be the one?" I whispered under my breath. "The demonic human…?"
I stayed silent, staring at Jay's back as he returned to his seat in the far corner of the stands. The air around him still felt wrong. Like a void. Like he was too heavy for the world to carry.
And yet, something in me stirred.
Not fear.
Not hate.
Something deeper.
Rivalry.