The coliseum rose from Floor 15 like a monument to human excess.
It was carved from white stone shot through with veins of crystalline essence that glowed faintly in the afternoon light. The structure spiraled upward for what seemed like impossible heights, its stands tiered so that thousands of climbers could watch simultaneous matches across a dozen separate arenas. Flags bearing the symbols of major guilds—Sovereigns Circle, Ironflame, Stanners (now empty), Nightveil, and a dozen smaller factions—rippled in the artificial wind created by essence-stones embedded in the arena's frame.
Aaric had never seen anything so vast.
"Stay close," Rydor murmured, his scarred face hidden beneath a common traveler's hood. "Once you register, you disappear into the crowd. No one knows who 'Shade Porter' is, and we keep it that way."
They moved through the throngs of climbers filling the registration district. Thousands of them—warriors in gleaming armor, mages wreathed in essence, teams of coordinated fighters, solo climbers with eyes that had seen death and survived it. The air hummed with barely contained violence, anticipation, and the metallic scent of essence crystals.
Aaric's shadow-essence coiled nervously beneath his skin, responding to the weight of so many powerful presences in one place.
The registration tent was massive, its interior divided into sections by essence-type and rank. Rydor steered him toward the "Common Bracket" section—where 1-stars and low 2-stars registered. The lie was perfect. A porter climbing on crystal-funded luck, hoping to earn enough prize money to buy supplies. Thousands came to Floor 15 with that same desperate dream.
An old woman behind the registration desk barely glanced at him as she took his crystal deposit and issued a bronze token. "Name?"
"Shade," Aaric replied quietly.
"Surname?"
"Porter."
The woman wrote it down without comment and handed him a masked helmet—simple, dark, carved from treated bone. "Tournament rules: identity masked until the final bracket. Essence signatures concealed by regulation wards until combat begins. Any cheating, and you're disqualified and banned from future tournaments."
She handed him a slate with his bracket assignment. "You fight in the North Arena, first round, tomorrow at dawn. Match seven. Opponent: Torv Stronghelm, Ironflame Guild, 3-star stone-essence warrior."
Aaric felt Rydor tense beside him.
A 3-star. His first real fight against someone three ranks above him—at least officially.
"Understood," Aaric said, taking the helmet and bracket slate.
They left the registration tent and moved into the coliseum proper.
The viewing stands were already packed, even though the tournament wouldn't officially begin until tomorrow. Climbers wandered the arena floors, studying terrain, watching practice matches, sizing up potential opponents. The energy was intoxicating—thousands of powerful beings compressed into one space, all driven by the same hunger to climb higher, prove stronger, claim glory.
Lynia walked beside Aaric, her small hand gripping his arm. Her color had improved since the cavern—Ariea's cooking and rest had helped—but there was something else in her eyes now. A distant awareness. A connection to something vast and distant.
"It's louder here," she whispered. "The Tower. I can hear it clearer on the higher floors. And Kael... he's reacting. He senses you getting closer."
Aaric squeezed her hand gently. "Just a few more floors. We're going to get him back."
But Lynia's grip tightened. "The Tower doesn't want you to get him back. It wants you to climb past him. It wants you to reach Floor 100 and understand what Kael refused."
Before Aaric could respond, Ariea appeared from the crowd.
She was dressed in common climber's garb—simple leather armor, no guild insignia—but there was no hiding what she was. The way she moved, the way other climbers instinctively gave her space, the faint shimmer of silver essence around her edges. She was elite, and everyone knew it.
"Elite bracket is a mess," she reported, her voice low. "Sovereigns Circle has eleven competitors in the final sixty-four. Ironflame has eight. Nightveil has six. And there's a void-essence mage from the underground that nobody's heard of before—looks like tournament's biggest dark horse."
"That would be Miraen," Syl said, appearing on Ariea's other side with three cups of steaming tea balanced in her hands. She handed one to Lynia, one to Ariea, one to Aaric. "Nightveil's sending her as a message. 'We exist, we're powerful, and we're here.' Smart move—establishes presence without showing all their cards."
Rydor joined the group, his eyes scanning the arena floor with a commander's analytical gaze. "First match tomorrow. You'll face a stone-essence 3-star. Probably trained in defensive formations, solid fundamentals, no surprises."
"Unless Ironflame knows who I am," Aaric said quietly.
"They suspect," Ariea replied. "But the tournament rules are strict. Essence signatures are dampened until combat begins. Even if they recognize your shadow in the match, it's too late to disqualify you without causing a scandal. By then, you'll have proven yourself in public combat."
Aaric felt the weight of it settle. Public. That was the point. Every major faction would be watching tomorrow. Every climber trying to understand where this unknown shadow-essence warrior came from.
That night, in the safe house Rydor had arranged in the coliseum district, Aaric couldn't sleep.
He sat on the rooftop, looking out at the artificial sky of Floor 15, watching essence-lights twinkle in the distance as climbers prepared for tomorrow. His shadow-essence coiled restlessly beneath his skin, responding to the proximity of so much raw power gathered in one place.
Kess found him there an hour before dawn.
The 3-star flame-warrior settled beside him without preamble, her red hair catching the faint light of the artificial stars.
"First tournament?" she asked.
"Yeah," Aaric replied.
"They're different from regular climbs," Kess said. Her voice was heavy with memory. "In the field, in dungeons, you fight monsters and environment. Here, you fight people. People who study you, predict you, exploit your weaknesses." She paused. "I've seen hundreds of talented climbers break under that pressure."
"Are you trying to help or scare me?" Aaric asked.
Kess smiled—a sharp, knowing expression. "Both. Fear keeps you sharp. But here's what you need to know: Torv Stronghelm is a good fighter, but he's not creative. Stone-essence users rely on durability and strength. If you can make him chase you, tire him out, force him to overextend, you can beat him even at a rank disadvantage."
"How do you know so much about him?"
"I faced him three years ago in a tournament on Floor 20," Kess replied. "Lost badly—I was reckless, thought raw power would win. But I learned his patterns. And if you want, I can teach you what I learned."
They trained until dawn broke across the artificial sky.
Kess had Aaric practice shadow-feints—creating illusions of shadow-mist in multiple places simultaneously, then striking from the actual position. It was draining, required precise control, but if executed properly, it would confuse an opponent relying on pure durability.
"Make him react," Kess drilled into him. "Every reaction is a moment he's not attacking. Every moment he's not attacking is a moment you're in control."
By the time the morning bell rang, Aaric's nerves had crystallized into something sharper. Not fearlessness—but focus.
The North Arena was smaller than the central coliseum, but it still held thousands of spectators.
Aaric stood in the preparation chamber beneath the arena floor, watching through a slit as competitors warmed up above. The roar of the crowd was deafening—a living thing, an entity unto itself.
"Remember," Rydor said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You've already beaten a 4-star beast. A 3-star human is manageable if you stay calm."
Ariea was there too, her silver eyes studying him with that analytical gaze she got before big moments. "Your shadow-essence is stronger than it was a week ago. I can feel it. Trust that strength, but don't depend on it. The moment you show your full power, the tournament organizers will want to study you."
"That's the point," Aaric said.
"Yes," Ariea replied. "But understand what comes after the point. Fame is a target. Strength draws hunters."
The announcement bell rang.
Aaric took a deep breath, fitted his bone mask over his face, and climbed the stairs into the arena.
The crowd noise hit him like a physical blow.
He emerged into bright sunlight, the arena floor stretching before him in a circle of packed earth and scattered rocks. Simple terrain—no special advantages for either fighter. Across the arena, his opponent was already waiting.
Torv Stronghelm was massive. Not obese, but genuinely huge—easily six and a half feet tall, shoulders like boulders, arms thick as tree trunks. His armor was reinforced stone-essence crafted, etched with runes that glowed faintly. Behind his mask, Aaric could sense his presence—a 3-star essence signature, heavy and immovable as a mountain.
The announcer's voice rang out: "Match seven of the first round! Shade Porter, rank: 1-star porter! Versus Torv Stronghelm, Ironflame Guild, rank: 3-star warrior!"
Crowd roar.
Aaric could feel eyes on him from every corner of the arena. Thousands of climbers, wondering who this unknown shadow-essence warrior was. Scouts from every major faction, analyzing his every movement. And somewhere in the crowd, he knew, there were hunters. Sovereigns Circle assassins waiting for the match to end.
"Begin!" the announcer shouted.
Torv didn't charge.
Instead, he stood absolutely still, his essence settling around him like a suit of armor. Stone-essence defense at its finest—passive protection that would turn aside most attacks.
Aaric understood immediately. Kess was right. Torv's strategy was simple: make Aaric come to him, then overwhelm with superior strength and defense.
So Aaric didn't attack.
Instead, he summoned shadow-mist around his hands, letting it coalesce into visible form—thin tendrils of darkness, weak and easily defensible against. He moved laterally, forcing Torv to turn, to adjust, to acknowledge his presence.
The crowd watched in confused silence. This wasn't the dramatic clash they'd expected.
Aaric moved again, shadow-tendrils lashing out at Torv's exposed side. Torv raised his arm, stone-essence armor thickening, and the tendrils splashed harmlessly against his defense.
But Aaric was already moving.
While Torv's attention was on the first set of tendrils, Aaric created a second shadow-construct—a feint, a decoy, pure misdirection. Torv reacted, raising his other arm to block.
And in that moment, Aaric closed the distance and struck.
His shadow-wrapped fist drove toward Torv's exposed ribs. The impact was still weak—a 2-star strike against a 3-star defense—but the technique was perfect. Torv grunted, surprised, forced to retreat.
The crowd erupted.
This wasn't what they'd expected from a 1-star. This wasn't blind courage or desperate gambles. This was strategy.
The match continued for nearly twenty minutes.
Aaric never landed a decisive blow, but he never stopped moving, never stopped forcing Torv to chase, react, and adjust. Each shadow-feint took a toll on Torv's stamina. Each evasion was a reminder that Aaric was faster, more adaptive, more alive in the chaos.
By the time Aaric landed his finishing move—a tendril of shadow wrapped around Torv's leg as he overextended, pulling him off-balance and sending him sprawling—the 3-star warrior was exhausted and frustrated.
He hit the ground hard.
The announcer's voice boomed: "Match winner: Shade Porter!"
The crowd went absolutely silent for one moment.
Then it erupted.
Thousands of climbers were on their feet, cheering, confused, amazed. A 1-star had just defeated a 3-star through pure technique and strategy. It was the upset of the tournament.
Aaric stood in the center of the arena, his mask still in place, his shadow-essence still coiled around his hands. And as he looked up into the stands, he saw it—the moment when every major faction realized something important had just entered the tournament.
Something dangerous. Something new.
A scout from the Sovereigns Circle was already signaling. Nightveil's representatives were whispering to each other. Ironflame was discussing Torv's loss with visible anger.
And in the private box reserved for high-ranking officials, the white-haired woman from the guild fracture was watching him with an expression of hunger.
Aaric walked out of the arena and descended the stairs into the preparation chamber, where Rydor, Ariea, Kess, and Syl were waiting.
"That was incredible," Syl breathed.
"That was a mistake," Ariea said quietly. "You showed too much technique. Too much control. Every faction here now knows you're not just a shadow-awakener—you're a trained one."
"Good," Rydor replied, his scarred face grim. "Let them know. Let them understand what they're facing."
But Lynia, waiting in the shadows at the back of the chamber, suddenly gasped.
Blood dripped from her nose, and her eyes went distant.
"Kael," she whispered. "He felt it. He felt your victory. And the Tower... the Tower is paying attention now. Close attention. It knows you're here. It knows you're coming."
Outside the preparation chamber, in the corridors beneath the arena, figures in Sovereigns Circle robes moved with purpose.
The hunt has begun.