Mercer's shattered arm hangs at an unnatural angle, twitching like a dying insect. His remaining eye - the other swollen shut - rolls wildly as he stares up at Bram's transformed figure.
Not possible. Not possible. Not—
Bram's fingers flex. The wound in his chest seals with a wet, squelching sound, tendrils of shadow stitching flesh back together. The crowd's gasps ripple outward like a wave, a hundred hands flying to mouths in unison.
"Yep..." Bram mutters, patting his newly-healed torso. "We're good."
Mercer's remaining hand claws at the sand. "W-What are—"
Bram's foot lashes out.
CRUNCH.
The kick connects with Mercer's face in a spray of blood and teeth. The dark elf's body cartwheels across the arena, landing in a broken heap at the center. His screams come out garbled through ruined lips.
Even the floating observation orbs seem to hover closer, their lenses whirring as they capture every detail.
Obinai strains against the shadowy vines, his face streaked with tears he won't admit to. "B-Bram? That you in there?"
Bram turns. His eyes - those endless voids - lock onto Obinai. Then...he grins.
"Thought I screwed that up, huh?"
Obinai chokes out something between a relieved laugh and a sob. "The hell kinda style is this? Was it...that Duskborn thing?"
Bram scratches his head. "Eh, pretty much." He flexes his newly-healed hand. "Healin' bit's probably a one-time deal though. Maybe."
A wet, gurgling whimper cuts through the convo. Mercer writhes in the sand, his once-handsome face now a ruined mess of blood and shattered bone.
Bram glances at the broken noble, then back at Obinai still tangled in vines. A slow grin spreads across his face.
"Dude..." Bram chuckles, cracking his knuckles. "Think I might be able to do somethin' real funny here."
Obinai blinks. "Do what?"
"Make 'em like me," Bram says, then makes a face. Ugh, but I really ain't wanna talk all fancy-like."
He strides past Obinai, boots crunching on shattered stone. Not toward Mercer - but to center.
The crowd holds its breath as Bram raises his arms, his shadow stretching long across the bloodied sand.
"Ain't this somethin'?" His voice booms across the coliseum. "Some forsaken gutter-rat just wrecked a noble!"
He begins pacing. The arena's acoustics carry every word to the highest seats.
"Bet y'all wonderin' how this happened, huh?" He stops, turning to face the noble boxes. "Well I'll tell ya - it's called gettin' punched in the face about ten thousand times 'til ya figure it out!"
A ripple of laughter from the commoner sections. Bram grins, feeding off their energy.
"Look at him!" He gestures dramatically to Mercer's whimpering form. "All that fancy bloodline, all that trainin'... and he's cryin' like a babe who dropped his candy!"
The lower stands erupt in cheers. Bram spreads his arms wider, spinning slowly to address the entire arena.
"So I ask ya - you grounded folk, you so-called 'lessers'..." His voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries to every ear. "Ain't this proof even worms can soar?"
The crowd ROARS.
Bram whirls to face the noble boxes, pointing an accusing finger. "And you high-and-mighties! Go on! Hate me! Pray for my downfall! "
He pounds his chest. "BUT I SWEAR ON THIS VICTORY - I'M WINNIN' THIS WHOLE DAMN TOURNAMENT!"
Cheer wrap themselves around him...
"BUT..." His voice booms through the noise. "ADMIT IT!"
He pauses, letting the tension build. Every eye is locked on him. Even the nobles lean forward in their seats, despite themselves.
Bram throws his head back and SHOUTS with every ounce of his being:
"ARE! YOU! NOT! ENTERTAINED?!"
The words hang in the air for one perfect, suspended moment.
The crowd ERUPTS.
The coliseum shakes with the crowd's response.
Then—
BOOM!
Bram crouches low - so fast it's just a blur - and LEAPS. The force of his jump creates a shockwave that rips vines from stone and sends Obinai tumbling backward.
"HOLY SHI—" Obinai barely gets out before Bram is a speck in the sky.
At the peak of his arc, Bram's fist begins to GLOW. Not just light - but swirling, crackling energy that warps the air around it.
So damn glad I know at least one of these...
"[Third Technique!]" His voice echoes like thunder. "[RESONANCE]!"
The descent is meteoric. Bram plummets fist-first toward Mercer like a falling star—
KABOOM!
The impact shakes the very foundations of the coliseum. A dust cloud mushrooms outward, obscuring everything. Obinai shields his face as debris pelts the stands.
When the dust clears...
A crater. Twenty feet wide. At its center, Bram stands over Mercer's twitching form - the dark elf protected at the last second by a shimmering barrier of light.
Lyth materializes beside them in a whisper of fabric. He crouches, inspecting Mercer.
"Good timing," he murmurs to Bram. "Another second and you'd have painted the arena with him."
Bram blinks, the glow fading from his eyes. "Oh. That... woulda been bad, huh?"
Then his eyes roll back. Lyth catches him mid-collapse with one arm, chuckling.
"Rest. You've earned it."
With a wave of his hand, both fighters vanish. The crowd's delayed reaction hits like a tidal wave - commoners leap to their feet, screaming themselves hoarse. Merchants pound the railings. Even some nobles can't help but clap, though they try to hide it behind gloved hands.
Obinai finally picks himself up, staring at the crater with wide eyes.
"...what the actual hell was that?" he whispers to no one in particular.
Lyth rises slowly, his robes fluttering as he ascends above the wreckage of the arena. The air hums with the crowd's frenzied energy. He lets the noise crest, savoring it.
Then, with a single raised hand, he commands silence.
"There you have it!" Lyth shouts with theatrical awe. "One of the greatest upsets in Trial history! A fighter who clawed his way back from death itself!" He sweeps his arm toward the crater where Bram once stood. "Give it up for the brawler who defied the odds—BRAM!"
The coliseum detonates with sound. Commoners stomp their feet so hard the stands tremble.
Obinai stands frozen in the midst of it all, his ears ringing, his fingers still tingling from where the shadow-vines had gripped him.
Did that just... happen?
Then—
A hand clamps onto his shoulder.
Obinai jumps, spinning to find Lyth standing beside him, materialized out of nowhere.
"The Discipline Committee," Lyth says, voice low, "wishes to take action."
Obinai's stomach drops. Oh shit. "Why?" The word comes out hoarse.
Lyth's fingers dig into Obinai's shoulders—not enough to hurt. The scent of bergamot and something faintly metallic—ink? —clings to the headmaster's robes as he leans in.
"Because," he murmurs, "you broke a rule that could see you disqualified."
Obinai's pulse kicks against his ribs. Shit. Shit. What did I—
The world lurches.
One heartbeat, the roar of the crowd presses in from all sides—the stench of sweat and spilled ale. The next—
Obinai staggers, his boots scuffing against smooth wood. The chamber is small, windowless, lit only by flickering witchlight.
Lyth releases him, stepping back. His sleeves whisper as he folds his arms into them.
"You," he says, "leaped over the railing. Nearly interrupted a sanctioned match." A pause. The witchlight catches the sharp edge of his smile. "Granted, I should have reminded our... complacent third-years to raise the barrier. But—"
He shrugs, the movement dismissive.
"—the Committee won't care about that."
Obinai's mouth is desert-dry.
Damn.
...
The bell's deep chime signals the break, and the arena exhales all at once. Spectators rise from their seats with groans and stretches, rubbing sore backs and necks from being perched on the edge for so long. Vendors weave through the crowd, their brass carts hissing steam as they dispense spiced wine in glass bulbs that glow faintly with residual heat. The air hums with energy—half exhilaration, half disbelief—and the lingering scent of charred ozone from Bram's final strike still prickles the back of every throat.
Commoner Sections
A massive beastkin with a scarred muzzle slams his tankard onto the railing, ale sloshing over the sides. "HAH! That lil' bastard actually did it!" His tail lashes behind him, nearly knocking over the gnome beside him.
The gnome—her goggles smudged with grease, her fingers still twitching from excitement—grins up at him. "One observes the aristocratic contingent appeared to be experiencing acute dyspepsia, does one not." She mimics a choking noble, sticking out her tongue and clutching her throat, sending the surrounding crowd into raucous laughter.
Nearby, a centaur mare flicks her braided tail, her polished hooves clicking against stone as she shifts. "That last hit…" She shakes her head, still processing. "Like watching a storm given flesh."
A scrawny street kid with singed sleeves leans in. "Think they'll let 'im keep fightin' after that?"
The beastkin snorts. "They'd better. Ain't no rules sayin' you can't punch too hard."
**Noble Boxes
The noble platforms loom above the common rabble, their gilded edges catching the light in a way that makes them seem almost detached from the arena below. Clockwork lenses hover in the air, magnifying the finer details of the bloodstained sand for their refined viewers.
A duchess in silver-threaded silk fans herself delicately, her nose wrinkled as if standing downwind of a tannery. "Barbaric. No technique, no art—just brute savagery."
Beside her, a lord with a waxed mustache swirls his wine, watching the ruby liquid cling to the crystal. "Oh, come now," he murmurs, smirking. "There's art in chaos too. And that—" He nods toward the crater Bram left behind. "—was a masterpiece."
A young viscount leans in, lowering his voice. "We could make use of him. Sponsor him, clean up his image…"
His companion—a red-skinned tiefling woman with emerald rings—laughs sharply. "And have him track mud into our halls? Let the gutters keep their champion."
**The High Royals
Seraphina Frieden sits like a statue carved from ice, her fingers curled so tightly around her armrest that the wood creaks in protest. A single, traitorous strand of golden hair has escaped her immaculate updo.
That gutter-born wretch. That disgraceful human.
She exhales through her nose, forcing her grip to loosen. Elrik will deal with it. He has to.
Across the gallery, Killian Ashmount is doing a very poor job of hiding his excitement. His fingers drum against his knee, his polished boots tapping an uneven rhythm against the marble floor.
Gods, that was incredible.
He catches himself, straightening his cuffs with a sharp tug. A glance to his father's empty seat—thank the stars he's off hunting that rogue dragon—then to Seraphina. His lips twitch.
Oh, she's fuming.
The thought is delicious—until he remembers her mother. His amusement dies a swift death. A full-body shudder runs through him.
If she had been here today…
He doesn't finish the thought. Some horrors are best left unexamined.
His gaze drifts further down the line to Lord Valthoris, who sits as still as a tomb carving. Killian follows his line of sight to where the lord's youngest daughter sits, her face a perfect mask of neutrality.
Well, Killian thinks, let's hope she doesn't embarrass her house like her vassal just did.
The bell tolls again.
…
Obinai's boots scuff against the floor as he takes in the room. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless.
The only furniture is a single wooden chair and a small desk pushed against the far wall. The wood groans under his weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
Across from him, Lyth leans against the heavy oak door, his gaze distant. The headmaster's fingers tap an absent rhythm against his thigh.
Obinai shifts. The chair creaks again.
Finally, Lyth speaks.
"I don't blame you for your reaction, Obinai." His voice is calm, almost conversational. "In fact, I'd have done the same." A pause. "Mostly."
Obinai's head snaps up. "Mostly?"
Lyth's lips quirk—not quite a smile. Then his eyes sharpen, focusing on something beyond the walls. A heartbeat passes. Two.
"They're ready."
The door swings open without Lyth touching it.
Obinai steps through...
The chamber yawns before him, vast enough to swallow sound whole. Columns of obsidian-veined marble stretch upward. Above, massive brass-and-crystal chandeliers float unsupported, their blue-white flames casting long, wavering shadows across the checkerboard floor.
The benches.
Row upon row of them, arranged in a perfect semicircle—each one carved from wood so dark it drinks the light. Their surfaces gleam like still water, reflecting the flickering glow of the orbs above.
And at the center—
A raised dais of pale moonstone, its surface inlaid with silver veins.
"Stand there." Lyth says.
Obinai's legs move before his mind catches up. The stone is cold through his boots. Cold and somehow—waiting.
Then he sees them.
The high bench looms like a cliff face. Behind it, Professor Dawsh sits flanked by two elven magistrates, their faces impassive. Dawsh's fingers are steepled, his brass-rimmed spectacles glinting as he surveys Obinai.
Dawsh leans forward.
"Obinai Nobunaga." His voice is a whetstone dragged across steel.
"You stand accused of interference in a sanctioned Trial."
"Let us begin..."