Tristan's emotions had finally settled after the rousing speech delivered by Garfield. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, then leaned back into his seat, exhaling slowly as he waited for the third stage to commence. Once his storm had calmed, Amelia found it easier to speak with him.
"I heard you spoke to my brother," she said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
Tristan sighed before answering. "I did. Did he say something about me?"
"He spoke fondly of you," she replied, her voice dropping, "and that scares me. My brother has a habit of charming both men and women. So naturally, I assumed you'd fallen for—"
She stopped short, interrupted by Tristan's immediate grimace of disgust. His expression twisted, as if she'd just suggested something blasphemous.
Amelia blinked, taken aback.
"Don't get me wrong," Tristan said, his voice laced with sarcasm, "your brother is attractive—just not to me. To me, he's more like a... a dog."
Amelia frowned, clearly displeased with the analogy. Her lips pressed into a line as she turned her focus toward the spectacle below.
Darren, caught between them, shifted uncomfortably. "I wish you two would stop pretending I'm not here," he muttered.
They both tilted their heads, confused.
Darren sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind."
Below them, the third stage was nearly underway. The competitors stood poised, the crowd buzzed with anticipation, and the Representatives in the amphitheater leaned forward in their seats. Garfield stood alone, gripping his axe, his presence unwavering despite the odds stacked against him.
At the forefront of the opposition stood Yaron Rivers, the self-proclaimed noble heir. His arrogance radiated from every pore. On his right, his brother Francis Rivers mirrored his appearance, though in personality they were opposites. Francis held a short sword with a blade of radiant gold. On Yaron's left stood Hendrick Trafford—a pale-skinned boy with a cold demeanor and turquoise hair, wielding a spear twice his height.
Behind them, spaced evenly and deadly still, stood three sharpshooters. Their Martini-Henry rifles glinted under the sun, each one aimed directly at Garfield's heart.
Yet despite the danger, Garfield merely laughed. A full, hearty laugh that echoed through the Colosseum.
"You're putting in all this effort for little old me? I feel special."
Yaron clicked his tongue and scoffed. "Rats like you aren't special. We'll show you that soon enough."
The tension in the air thickened as Sylvia's voice rang through the arena, commanding silence.
"With all combatants ready… the third stage of the entrance exam begins now!"
No sooner had the words left her mouth than Francis exploded forward like a bolt of blue lightning. His body crackled with dark energy, amplifying his speed. The sun caught his golden blade, making it shimmer as he lunged toward Garfield, aiming to end the battle with a single, precise strike.
But Garfield was no novice. A single stone tile—ripped from the earth through sheer will—rose and blocked the attack. The force shattered it instantly, but it bought Garfield enough time to retaliate.
With the force of a battering ram, he swung the back side of his axe. The blow would have crushed a lesser man, but Francis, agile and enhanced, narrowly dodged the attack.
"You're fast," Garfield grunted. "You were able to dodge an attack that was an immediate counter to your own. Impressive."
Most of the crowd couldn't follow what had happened. Only the sharpest eyes caught the blur of movements and the flash of lightning before Hendrick sprang into action.
Like a predator sensing opportunity, Garfield charged—but before he could reach his next target, a silver gleam sliced through the air. He instinctively halted, eyes catching the elongated spear flying at him with blinding speed.
"You're not worth my movement," Hendrick said, his voice cold and detached.
He retracted the spear with the same supernatural speed, only to launch it again. This time, it flew faster than Francis's lightning dash. Garfield twisted his body to avoid the strike, but the blade still grazed his cheek, drawing blood.
Then came the gunfire.
Three silver bullets with golden tips—each glimmering with embedded enchantments—screamed through the air. A coordinated barrage from the three riflemen.
He saw the oncoming onslaught of bullets hurtling toward him, yet he didn't flinch. Composing himself with a quick breath, he swiftly slammed his axe into the ground, summoning a wall of jagged stone that erupted before him like a cresting wave. The bullets slammed into it, leaving deep dents, trailing smoke, and the pungent tang of gunpowder.
The crowd gasped in awe. A citizen of the Middle District, standing alone against six noble-born combatants—and surviving.
Tristan nodded, impressed. "So, he's not all brute force. There's finesse in his movements. He waits, lets them get close, then strikes. He's not reckless—he's precise."
Amelia, expression unreadable, replied, "His skill is undeniable. But how long can he survive while so vastly outnumbered?"
As the dust settled, Garfield noticed something strange—an acrid, bitter smell hanging in the air. Gunpowder, yes, but stronger. Too strong.
Bang.
An explosion tore through the stone barrier.
It wasn't a natural detonation—it was precise, engineered. The blast hurled shards of stone into the crowd, and at its center, Garfield was engulfed in black smoke.
Silence fell across the Colosseum.
Had he been taken down?
"Well done, Bella Grand," Yaron said coolly, glancing over his shoulder.
A girl with tied-back brown hair and steady hands stood with her rifle still aimed. Bella Grand—the team's long-range specialist and demolitions expert.
Tristan shot to his feet, fury and fear wrestling in his chest. His fingers curled into fists as he stared into the smoke.
'You better get up. You said you'd show your strength—don't you dare stay down. Get up! Get up!'
The smoke began to thin.
A silhouette emerged.
The crowd leaned forward.
From the haze, Garfield stepped out. His golden armor was shattered across his left side, his shoulder singed, but his grip on the axe remained firm. Blood streaked down his arm, yet he carried himself with the pride of a king.
With his axe firmly placed on his singed shoulder he said.
"Damn... that was a good hit," he said, voice booming, "but I really hope you didn't think that weak shit would take me down."
Gasps broke out across the stands. Then—cheers. Thunderous, unrelenting cheers.
He stood tall, one side scorched, one side still gleaming, his spirit unbroken.
"Come at me!" he roared, raising his axe high. "Come see the strength of the Middle District for yourself!"