Julian’s golden eyes scanned the bowing crowd. He looked at them with complete, absolute disgust. He looked at the normal people like they were ugly, annoying bugs. Lucien gripped the rough stone pillar he was hiding behind. He squeezed his hand. The solid stone pillar began to crumble under his fingers. The struggle in Lucien’s soul flared up like a massive, exploding volcano. The Abyssal Chaos Veins inside his chest roared. They wanted to be let out. They wanted to rip the [Vein-Concealment Aura] apart. Lucien wanted to step out from behind the pillar, summon his God-Slaying Spear, and cut Julian’s arrogant head off right here in the middle of the street. He wanted to watch the golden crown roll into the dirt. He remembered the cold dungeon. He remembered the heavy iron chains cutting into his wrists. He remembered Julian kicking him into the freezing grey mist of the Eternal Ossuary, laughing as the heavy iron doors locked behind him. “Do it,” the dark magic whispered in Luci

The crowd roared with bloodthirsty excitement. "This is a true test of survival!" the Herald yelled, his voice echoing off the high marble walls. "Weapons are allowed! Magic is allowed! Dirty tricks are allowed! The only way to win a match is if the enemy team surrenders, is knocked out, or is thrown completely out of the ring!"The Herald stopped walking. He looked up at the golden Royal Box and bowed. "The Emperor has graciously provided healers for this event," the Herald said. "But the healers will only enter the ring after a match is officially over. If a fighter bleeds to death during the fight... if a fighter is burned to ash before they can surrender... the Empire considers it an unfortunate accident."Seraphina gasped softly. Her pale blue eyes widened in horror. "An unfortunate accident?" she whispered angrily. "They are legalizing murder. This is not a tournament. It is a slaughterhouse."Lucien did not look surprised. He kept his posture slouched and lazy. "That is how

The three heavy black iron axes fell from the sky. The millions of people in the Grand Arena held their breath. They waited for the terrible sound of breaking bones and tearing flesh. They expected the three small, weak teenagers from the mountain to be chopped into bloody pieces. But the sound of breaking bone never came. Kai, the seventeen-year-old disciple of the Cloud-Soaring Sect, looked up at the falling axe. Just two seconds ago, he looked like a terrified, shaking bird. He had kept his head down. He had made his hands tremble. But the exact moment the Imperial Herald shouted "Begin!", the fear completely melted away from Kai’s face. The mask was dropped. Kai’s eyes changed. They turned cold, dead, and incredibly sharp. They were no longer the eyes of a soft, spoiled student. They were the eyes of someone who had fought immortal shadow-monsters in the freezing mud for three months. They were the eyes of an Ossuary survivor. The giant, bald leader of the Blood-Axe Sect smil

Match after match. Hour after hour. The crowd watched in growing horror. The capital city was used to flashy, aristocratic martial arts. The rich nobles liked to see bright colors, loud explosions, and beautiful, long sword dances. They treated combat like a pretty stage play. They wanted to be entertained. But the Cloud-Soaring kids were stripping away all the flashy garbage. They did not yell the names of their attacks. They did not pose for the crowd after a good hit. They did not try to look cool. They fought with pure, brutal survival combat. It was the exact combat style Lucien had learned in the deep, dark Eternal Ossuary. In the graveyard, if you wasted a single second trying to look pretty, a monster ate your head. You had to kill the enemy as fast and as cleanly as possible. Lucien had beaten this philosophy into their bones. He had sent immortal shadow-knights to terrorize them in the mud until their bodies moved on pure survival instinct. "They fight like assassins,"

High above the white sand of the Imperial Arena, the Royal Box was completely quiet. It was a beautiful room. The walls were made of pure, shiny gold. The chairs were covered in soft, red velvet. Crystal tables held plates of fresh, sweet fruit and cups of expensive wine. But the mood inside the room was dark, ugly, and full of boiling anger. The Patriarch of the Saint-Aurelius Clan paced back and forth across the thick red carpet. The old man was furious. He wore heavy golden armor. His face was wrinkled, and his golden eyes burned with pure hatred. Crown Prince Julian stood in the corner of the room. He held a crystal cup of wine in his hand. Julian’s handsome face was tight with stress. He did not look like a confident prince anymore. He looked like a man who had just been publicly slapped in the face. "Explain this to me, Julian," the Patriarch hissed. His voice was low and dangerous. "Explain how a group of starving, sick, dirty children from the mountains just humiliated our