The morning sky bled grey, swollen with stormlight.
Clouds drifted like torn veils across the sun, casting the earth below in bruised shadow.
It was only the second day, but combat lessons had already begun.
Siege stood at the edge of a blackened arena carved into the edge of the Anatheon.
The floor beneath his boots was a graveyard of stone—cracked, scorched, and webbed with old blood.
The air stank of violence.
They called it the Pit of Ordeals.
A ring of students—some proud, others trembling—circled the arena.
It was the full roster of Class Leviathan.
Ten of them bore Mythical Aspects.
Eight more, including Siege, with Titanic Aspects.
Three radiated something colder, older —Exalted.
Siege stood among them all, a storm held in skin.
His own Aspect coiled inside his bones:
Titanic Rank – [Dragon Slayer].
An echo of the primordial hunt, of fire and blood, of blade against impossible scale.
From above, a large dark skinned man descended onto a stone dais, his presence pressing on the students like gravity made flesh.
He moved not with grace, but weight—like a landslide.
"I am Combat Instructor Thrakkor," the giant intoned, voice rough.
"Your titles mean nothing to me. Your pedigree, your name, your scores—all meaningless. Here, I care only for what you're made of."
The cloth on his left arm twitched, bandaged tight from shoulder to knuckle, vibrating faintly as though restraining something alive beneath it.
"Today, you face a lesson. Tomorrow, a pain. And one day… a true monster. But first—each other."
His hands clapped once.
A pulse of magic surged outward, cracking the stone beneath his feet and sending tremors through every soul in the arena.
"All of you. Into the pit. Last ten standing pass."
A stunned silence fell. Then—panic.
"No warnings?" a student cried out.
"This is the warning," Thrakkor said, leaping down into the shadows behind him.
The ground rumbled. The arena split open.
Siege's body dropped before his mind could catch up.
He hit the stone floor with a roll, boots slipping before finding purchase.
Around him, students landed like meteors, some on their feet, others sprawling.
Then—chaos.
A scream erupted. A spell ignited. Steel met steel.
A boy with flaming knuckles charged at Siege without hesitation, his Aspect blazing like a wildfire behind his eyes. He swung, reckless.
Siege ducked.
Countered.
Fist to rib.
Then elbow to his nose.
The blow sent the boy tumbling—glyphs of failure erupting as mist whisked him from the pit.
*One down.*
Siege moved.
A spear whistled past his head.
Another student—lean, quick, glowing faintly with a Mythical Aspect—tried to circle around him.
Siege pivoted, sidestepped, swept the leg, and let gravity do the rest.
A swift and forceful kick to the head sent another one off.
He didn't stop moving. His edge, his gift—absorbed every motion, every rhythm. He wasn't fighting.
He was learning.
Across the pit, a brawl exploded between twin girls wielding hooked blades and a towering brute with the Mythical Aspect [GiantEv].
The twins moved in unison, blades flashing like mirrored fangs, striking in counterpoints.
The brute roared, swinging a greathammer.
One twin went flying, glyph-marked and gone. The other ducked under his swing and stabbed upward, her blade sinking beneath his rib. His body flickered—vanished.
A victory, but costly.
*How the hell do I summon Gram?*
Near the center, Albion Northwood stood still, untouched. Around him, five opponents had already vanished.
His eyes shimmered faintly behind his silver fringe, and his body was framed by whispers of light and darkness both—his Titanic Aspect [Ouroboros] obscured but heavy.
A girl nearby danced through combat like a ghost, her golden hair wild, her glaive a black flame. Siege remembered her— Exalted Aspect [Event Horizon].
She moved like death made music.
She cleaved through a trio of opponents.
One turned to mist before he even saw the blade.
Another raised a shield—shattered in two strokes.
The third tried to surrender, but her glaive slammed into the ground between his feet.
"Die," she hissed.
He vanished without a fight.
Then—she turned to Siege.
They locked eyes.
Her smirk said everything.
She attacked without a sound. Her glaive carved arcs of obsidian heat, hissing through the air.
Siege dodged the first strike.
Parried the second with his forearm, pain sparking down to his wrist.
He twisted low, driving forward with an elbow—but her foot met his chest, launching him backward.
His back hit stone. He tasted blood.
She was on him in a blink
But he'd seen her rhythm now. His beast-like instincts sharpened everything.
She struck again.
He slipped left.
Then inside her reach.
Palm to her ribs. Knee to her thigh.
She staggered.
Siege didn't press.
She backed away from him, hand raised to forfeit.
"Not bad," her voice lingered. "More trouble than it's worth."
He was still standing.
---
All around, the battle raged.
The purpled-eyed boy from the train—Zachary Thespal— with the Aspect [Malevolance], hurled two students across the arena.
His eyes were blood-red, his hands were claws dripping silver fire.
A baggy clothes girl—Seraphina Lanely—mourning-black and spectral, walked calmly through the center.
Each step left frost in her wake.
Her Aspect [Frigid] made students around her scream and drop, overwhelmed by dozen terror.
The other two Exalted clashed overhead—one bearing [Garuda], wings of stormcloud and talon.
The other, [Helios], shining and coiled with cosmic light. Their battle turned the upper air into a cyclone of feathers and lightning.
Below, Siege crouched low, breath ragged.
Twelve remained. He rose.
A lion-blooded youth roared toward him—mane-like hair blazing golden, formerly the brown-haired and golden-eyed boy—Leo Grayson.
He had undergone some sort of transformation from his aspect [Nemean].
His punches cracked the ground.
And he moved with explosive speed.
Siege didn't try to block. He weaved, countered.
One blow grazed his cheek—a blaze of pain.
He threw a punch to the gut. It bounced off muscle like stone.
But then the lion-boy overreached.
Siege grabbed his arm, twisted, dropped him hard.
Stunned, the boy glared up.
Then nodded. "Respect."
And vanished back into the chaos with a grin.
---
When the dust settled, only ten stood:
Albion, still pristine.
The glaive-girl—withdrawn, but smiling faintly.
The Zachary, his claws steaming.
The twin who remained—now wielding both blades, her sister gone.
A banshee-mask girl, floating in silence.
The Leo, now limping but grinning like he enjoyed the pain.
A boy cloaked in living shadow, muttering something faintly.
A girl armored in obsidian plates shaped like spider legs.
A blond haired and orange eyed boy with visible wave of heat coming off him—Laxus Verda, Exalted Aspect [Helios].
*Guess he won…*
And Siege.
Ten.
Thrakkor leapt down from the dais, landing like judgment itself.
His gaze swept over them.
"Barely adequate," he rumbled. "But potential bleeds through your scars."
He stopped before Siege.
"You. The supposed [Dragon Slayer]. Do you know why you survived?"
Siege swallowed. "I… adapted?"
Thrakkor's grin was not kind.
"No. You were afraid. And fear weakens the blade, but increases survival."
He turned from them all.
"Next time, forget your instincts. Fight like a monster."
---
Later, Siege sat beneath the shadow of a shattered angel statue, knuckles torn, shoulder bruised.
His breath was slow. Painful. Real.
But inside something flickered. Not pride.
Not even hope.
Just a voice:
*You survived. And that means you can fight. Again.*
And tomorrow… maybe, you'll win.