For forty-five minutes, we shuffled through corridors lined with ancient pottery, rusted iron weapons, woven textiles, and colonial-era furniture. The students whispered, snapped quick photos on their tablets, and complained about their feet hurting.I hovered at the back of the group, playing the dutiful chaperone and making sure no stragglers wandered off into restricted zones.That was when I saw it.Tucked into a dimly lit alcove between two massive 17th-century wood carvings was an oil painting. It wasn't particularly large, but the atmosphere radiating from the canvas felt oppressive, heavy, and strangely cold.I stepped closer, pulling away from Rian's lecture on Spanish-era coinage.The painting was predominantly dark—drenched in deep obsidian blacks, muddy browns, and bruised purples. It depicted a desolate landscape under a cracked, violet sky. Scores of shadowy figures were painted in desperate motion, terror frozen on their faces as they fled from an unseen horror. But it

The heat off the rim hit us long before the crowd's roar did. Planet Tantukan was a cosmic anomaly—tidally locked in a bitter gravitational embrace with its star. Half the world lay buried under permanent, glacial shadow, while the other half was blistered by an unrelenting sun that never set. Up here on the jagged volcanic ridge, right along the razor-thin terminator line where frozen winds clashed with molten rock, the air tasted heavily of ash, ozone, and sulfur. It shimmered in distorted, disorienting waves over massive ground fractures that leaked orange, thick-flowing magma into the depths below.Hovering directly above the center of the massive, smoke-choked caldera was the absolute pinnacle of the planet’s sporting trade: the Crater of Gods.Dozens of open-air stalls lined the treacherous perimeter of the caldera cliffside. Merchants of every species shouted over the din, hawking heat-resistant draughts, cooling salves, roasted void-lizard skewers, and illegal betting tokens b

The air inside the volcanic amphitheater felt like a blast furnace, heavy with the sharp, ionic tang of ozone, stale sweat, and cheap roasted meats. For nearly three hours, the roar of sixty thousand spectators had reverberated against the jagged obsidian walls, refusing to settle. The sheer, unbridled volume was enough to make your molars rattle inside your jaw.I leaned back against the heat-bleached stone bench, tugging at the suffocating collar of my linen tunic as I tried to process the logistical nightmare playing out on the arena floor below. Sixty participants had entered the tournament floor earlier this evening—a chaotic mix of local mercenaries, off-world gladiators, and corporate-sponsored ringers. The first round was a brutal 3v3 elimination bracket, which meant thirty contenders would be sent packing before midnight, assuming they survived to walk out of the gates. According to the glowing blue hologram floating above the central spire, the second round was scheduled fo

High above the roaring, fire-lit amphitheater, perched at the jagged peak of the volcanic crater, sat a private VIP suite. The chamber was insulated from the deafening noise outside by triple-layered, mana-reinforced obsidian glass. Inside, the frantic screams of sixty thousand spectators were reduced to a soft, rhythmic thrumming that vibrated through the polished marble floor. A solitary figure stood near the panoramic window, his shadow stretching long across the room. He wasn't watching the victorious red team celebrate their brutal triumph on the arena floor, nor was he paying attention to the flashing holographic scoreboard hovering over the central spire. His cold gaze was fixed entirely on a specific section of the lower spectator stands—directly on a young man sitting between a loud female warrior and a heavily armored guardian. In the figure's gauntleted hand, a small, dark gemstone pulsed with a faint, crimson light that beat in sync with his own pulse. "The resonance

The night before the second round felt endless. The sulfurous air inside the volcanic crater did not cool simply because the sun had dipped below the horizon; it merely turned thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of unwashed mana. By eight o'clock the next evening, thousands of fans had returned to their seats, beating their feet against the stone tiers until the stadium vibrated like a giant drum.I stood near the entrance of the preparation tunnel, leaning against a reinforced iron pillar while Alexander adjusted his wrist wraps. The leather was worn dark from sea salt and years of hard use, bound tightly around thick forearms that resembled cut timber."You look relaxed for a guy who has to block a four-story mountain with a merman's shield," I said, tossing him a high-grade mana potion purchased from my item shop. He caught it cleanly and drank it down.Alexander did not look up from his knot. "Demetrio isn't a mountain. Mountains don't breathe, and they don't have bad left knee