Two months had passed.
Two months of relentless training. Two months of breaking limits, of forging themselves into something greater. The warriors of Squad Five were no longer the same.
Modred stood before a cracked mirror, staring at his reflection.
His body had changed. No longer was he just a lean warrior, but a force of nature, every muscle honed to perfection. His movements were now controlled, his power refined. The raw, untamed energy that once surged in his strikes was tempered by focus and discipline. His black hair remained wild, but his posture had become more poised, his eyes sharper—crimson like a predator ready to strike.
Across the yard, Fenrick cracked his neck as he moved to the center of the training grounds. His once chaotic style had been replaced by a more calculated, vicious edge. Every strike, every punch, carried the force of years of training. His fists were no longer just weapons of destruction—they were surgical instruments, precise and deadly. His aura had become more intense, more lethal.
Above them, Xeraniel hovered, his feet barely skimming the ground. The power to manipulate his own weight had granted him freedom—he was no longer bound by the laws of gravity. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if the very earth beneath him had become an afterthought. He was untouchable now.
---
The Astrian Colosseum stood like a monument to suffering and strength. Its towering walls were forged from blackened iron and scarred stone, a reminder of the countless battles fought and lives lost within its confines. Massive, jagged chains hung from the edges of the structure, and between them, the arena floor lay exposed to the elements, waiting for its next sacrifice.
The floor was not made of sand, but cold, cracked concrete, stained by the blood of warriors who had come before. The arena was a battleground of unpredictable terrain—jagged rock formations, deep cracks in the concrete, and old, arcane symbols that pulsed faintly with dormant power. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, steel, and anticipation.
The crowd filled the stands, their voices rising in a cacophony of roars. At the top, seated in the royal balcony, the king and his family watched silently. Their eyes burned with the intensity of those who held all the power, ready to judge the warriors below.
The warriors of Squad Five stood in the center, each one focused, each one ready for what was about to come. They had trained for this moment. Now, it was time to see if they could survive it.
---
A voice boomed across the arena, sharp and commanding.
"FIRST MATCH—FENRICK OF SQUAD FIVE VS. ROLAND OF SQUAD THREE!"
The crowd's roar grew louder as the two fighters stepped into the ring.
Fenrick moved forward, his presence unshaken. His confidence was evident, his body relaxed yet coiled, like a predator ready to strike. His dark eyes locked onto his opponent, a warrior of massive build from the Black Lancers. His opponent's stance was steady—powerful—but Fenrick knew that speed and precision would win this fight.
There was no hesitation. Fenrick entered the ring, his feet moving with purpose, his every step steady and sure. The concrete beneath him seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his determination.
He did not speak. He did not need to.
This was not just a fight.
It was a hunt.
And Fenrick was starving.
---