The midday sun blindingly reflected against ancient Romanesque architecture under an impossibly blue sky. I had to cover my eyes briefly as this was the first time I had seen sunlight after a week.

  Participants stumbled around me, groaning, blinking away the disorientation. I found my footing quickly, my eyes already scanning, confirming Nebula, Lilian, and Solara were nearby, shaken but unharmed.

  We stood on the sandy floor of a colossal colosseum. Tiers of empty stone seats rose around us, silent witnesses to whatever blood sport was coming next. In the center, floating serenely, was the android administrator, her form more solid now, less ethereal hologram and more tangible threat.

  “Phase 2 has concluded ahead of schedule due to unforeseen variables," she said, her impassive gaze sweeping over the crowd, lingering a fraction of a second longer on me.

  "Phase 3," she continued, raising a metallic hand, "will determine the ultimate victor, the one deemed worthy of inheriting this island."

  The murmurings started again, a mix of awe, greed, and fear. Owning Nevaramis... the thought was intoxicating, even for me. Power, resources, a nigh-impregnable fortress. It was a prize beyond measure.

  "The final phase shall be a tournament," the android declared. "One hundred participants remain. You will be divided randomly into ten groups of ten. Each group will battle on a designated platform. Only one victor will emerge from each group."

  Platforms? My eyes flickered around the arena floor. I didn’t see anything other than a plain floor.

  "The ten victors," she went on, "will then proceed to the semi-finals, divided into two groups, who’ll fight to bring out two winners. The two winners will then face each other in a final duel. The last one standing claims Nevaramis. Ah, assuming he’d hold the most points by then. Sometimes, despite winning the final 1v1 match, the loser might claim Nevaramis instead if their points exceed the winner."

  A hundred fighters, whittled down through brutal elimination. Simple. Effective. Deadly. Welcome to the meat grinder.

  "The events would have been more sophisticated if the situation at hand hadn’t been so troubling. On that topic," the android added, "do keep in mind that it doesn’t matter if you’re affiliated with the entity known as Xohr'Veskhaa. As per the rules of Nevaramis’ creators, anyone can claim the island."

  A ripple of unease went through the crowd. So, she acknowledged the threat enough to speed things up, but not enough to eliminate them actively. Typical detached AI logic. Eliminate the symptom when it appears, ignore the disease until it's terminal.

  As the android spoke, I leaned in close to the girls, my voice low. "Alright, listen up. Random groups of ten. We need to spread out now. Scatter. Don't clump together. The odds of us ending up in the same group are low, but zero is better. We fight our own battles first."

  I didn’t seem to be the only one with that idea; some of the others also moved. Although some decided to stick together regardless. Lilian pouted, crossing her arms. "Why do we always have to split up, young master?"

  "Because fighting each other in the first round is stupid, Lilian," Solara stated flatly, adjusting the simple leather bracers she wore. "Increases our chances if we face weaker opponents individually."

  "Exactly," I confirmed. "Plus if all four of us survive, the semi-finals will be easier."

  Nebula gave a curt nod, her eyes already scanning the other participants, calculating. "Understood. Try not to get yourself exposed before the finals, Iskandaar."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," I shot back with a smirk she couldn't see behind my mask. "You too."

  With quick, final nods, they melted into the shifting crowd, each moving in a different direction. I watched them go, reminding myself not to worry. They were strong and capable now… still, this was Nevaramis. Anything could happen. I better keep my Demonic Sphere sharp.

  The ground beneath us began to vibrate.

  Ten massive circular platforms, each easily fifty meters across, rose smoothly from the colosseum floor, ascending about ten meters into the air. One such platform was under my feet too, of course. Intricate runes glowed along their edges, forming containment fields. Simultaneously, shimmering barriers of light sprang up between the platforms, isolating each group.

  Here I was wondering where these ‘platforms’ the android spoke of were, I noted. All around me, participants scrambled and found themselves suddenly confined with nine strangers.

  The energy in the colosseum shifted instantly from confused awe to sharp, predatory tension. Introductions wouldn't be necessary here. Weapons were drawn, stances widened, and magic flared to life.

  My Demonic Sphere expanded, mapping my immediate surroundings. I was on Platform Seven, near the eastern edge of the arena. Nine other figures had their guards high around me as the platform locked into place.

  My eyes swept across them, [Insight] feeding me information.

  [Heral, Level 85]. He was the first to catch my interest. A burly mercenary type, clutching a heavy warhammer – decently strong, likely slow.

  [Bronn, Level 82]. A lithe man in dark leather, twin daggers gleaming, radiating assassin vibes. Dangerous.

  [Rowan, Level 75]. A young mage, ice mage from the looks of it, was nervously gripping a crystal-tipped staff. Fodder.

  Two adventurers whose names didn’t matter, each levelled 60, scarred and grizzled. Experienced, but predictable.

  [Zayn Cavendish, Level 93]. A haughty-looking noble I vaguely recognized from some banquet, bow drawn, sneering. Arrogant, likely overconfident.

  The next one… Would you look at that?

  [Kael Drakovar, Level 54]. The son of the Black Draconia Duke, a second-year student, was also here. I wondered where his twin sister was. He was radiating barely controlled elemental energy – must be his family’s Black Flame affinity. Could be dangerous.

  [Arth, Level 68]. A figure completely shrouded in a ragged cloak, emitting a faint, unsettling aura. Cultist? Too low levelled for that. Or was it just someone cautious? Needed watching.

  And the last one...

  My gaze stopped, locked.

  My fist clenched fast as I held back a sigh. An academy uniform wrapped her body, and sand swirled around her fingertips as familiar golden eyes looked around.

  Dammit.

  Riasmin.

  My sister.

  [Riasmin Romani, Level 98]

  The irony wasn't lost on me. Of all the platforms, of all the possible combinations, fate had placed me against my own blood.

  "Fighters, prepare yourselves," the android commanded. "The battle begins in thirty seconds."

  Across the platform, Riasmin's eyes narrowed as she studied each opponent in turn. When her gaze reached me, it lingered for a moment longer than necessary. Did she suspect? Had she recognized something in my stance, my movements?

  I couldn't afford to worry about that now. The other fighters were already positioning themselves, sizing up potential threats, and identifying the weakest links. In their eyes, I was just another obstacle to overcome.

  They had no idea what they were facing.

  "Twenty seconds."

  I shifted my weight, centering myself. The Photon Ring hummed just beneath my consciousness, ready to be summoned, although I didn’t want to use it just yet. Destruction Qi circulated through my energy channels, a discomforting warmth contrasting with the cold calculation of my mind.

  "Ten seconds."

  Across the platform, Riasmin's sand began to rise higher, forming protective swirls around her body. Our eyes met across the distance. Even if she didn’t recognize me, I guess she realized who the danger in this arena was.

  "Five."

  The ice mage's hands glowed blue.

  "Four."

  The mercenaries gripped their weapons.

  "Three."

  Kael Drakovar's skin shimmered with scales.

  "Two."

  The noble nocked an arrow.

  "One."

  I drew a slow, steady breath.

  "Begin!"

  Chaos erupted across all ten platforms simultaneously.

  The sound of clashing weapons, shouted spells, and pained cries filled the colosseum. On our platform, the Heral the mercenary made the first move, charging toward the ice mage with his axe raised high.

  I didn't watch to see how that confrontation ended. My focus narrowed to the immediate threats—the noble’s arrow whistling toward my head, Kael's sudden lunge in my direction.

  I sidestepped the arrow and parried Kael's strike in one fluid motion. My body moved on instinct, guided by years of training and the inherited memories of the Heavenly Demon.

  As the battle raged around me, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity. Only one of us would leave this platform victorious—and it couldn't be Riasmin.

  ****

  Riasmin Romani planted her feet firmly on the platform, golden sand swirling around her fingertips as she assessed her opponents. The colosseum's energy had exploded, everyone was involved in action, but people hadn’t approached her yet. Her gaze swept across the nine strangers who had become her enemies in mere seconds.

  The mercenary was brutally beating up the ice mage, while Kael and the archer targeted the masked stranger. Cheonma, the mysterious man who’d spoken up about the Outer God Cult issue. That was a smart choice—eliminate the unknown variable first.

  Riasmin didn't waste any further time. She thrust her palm forward, golden sand surging in a wave that crashed into the two adventurers rushing her. They tumbled backward, cursing as the abrasive particles blinded them momentarily.

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  "The Goldstorm," one gasped, recognition dawning too late. The others already must have, that was why she was left alone for so long.

  She allowed herself a small smile.

  Her reputation preceded her—fourth-year student, Level 98, one of Waybound's finest. This island would be her crowning achievement, the prize that would make her family proud and secure her future.

  More importantly, it would prevent Nevaramis from falling into dangerous hands, like Victor's or, worse, those cultists.

  Those same, disgusting cultists who'd dared to swindle her brother into their ranks.

  "Nothing personal," she said, drawing her curved shamshir with her right hand while her left continued directing the sand. The blade gleamed as she closed the distance, her movements fluid and precise.

  The adventurers recovered quickly, one raising a shield while the other readied a spear. Competent, but outmatched. Her sand twisted around the spear, yanking it sideways while her blade found the gap in the shield-bearer's defense. Neither blow was lethal—just enough to incapacitate.

  Light scattered across the adventurer’s body, and he was teleported out of the platform. The way he looked around confused meant that it wasn’t his own doing. The android must have registered his defeat already.

  I have to be careful then, Riasmin thought. The android might eliminate me if I get too injured, even if I think I can fight longer.

  A flash of movement caught her eye.

  The masked man—Cheonma—had somehow evaded both Kael and the noble, moving with uncanny speed. His fighting style was... bizarre. No weapon, no visible magic, just his body twisting and striking in ways she'd never seen before.

  He should be taken care of first, when the platform still had other people who could target him. Riasmin was confident she could win against him on her own, but why take the risk? She redirected her sand, forming a protective barrier as she finished off the adventurers with swift pommel strikes to their temples. They collapsed, unconscious but breathing.

  Across the platform, the ice mage lay frozen in his own backfired spell, and the mercenary was down, clutching a broken arm.

  Kael Drakovar's scales glowed dark purple as he faced the masked stranger, black flames licking his fingertips.

  "Your turn, Goldstorm," the cloaked Arth hissed, suddenly behind her.

  Riasmin whirled, sand exploding outward in a defensive sphere. A dagger glanced off the barrier, and she countered with a precise thrust of her shamshir. Arth dodged with unnatural flexibility, cackling as he retreated.

  "Too slow, sand princess!"

  She gritted her teeth, sand coalescing into hardened projectiles that shot toward him like golden bullets. Most missed as he twisted away, but one caught his shoulder, spinning him off-balance.

  A pained shout drew her attention.

  Kael Drakovar was down, his Black Flame extinguished, the masked stranger standing over him unscathed. The noble archer lay nearby, unconscious.

  Just three left now—herself, Arth, and the masked man.

  Arth seemed to realize the odds had shifted. "Perhaps we should eliminate the greater threat first," he suggested, nodding toward Cheonma.

  Riasmin narrowed her eyes. "Temporary alliance? How out-of-date."

  "Pragmatic," Arth corrected, readying another dagger.

  She didn't trust him, but he had a point. The masked man had dispatched four opponents with disturbing ease. Together, they might stand a chance.

  "Fine," she agreed, gathering her sand into a concentrated stream. "On three."

  They never reached "three."

  Cheonma moved with startling speed, closing the distance to Arth in a heartbeat. His fist connected with Arth's solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs. Before Arth could recover, Cheonma's leg swept upward in a motion Riasmin had never seen—not sword technique, not standard melee fighting arts, something else entirely.

  His foot caught Arth under the chin, lifting him completely off the ground. The cloaked figure crumpled, unconscious before he hit the sand.

  Then those golden eyes behind the mask turned to her.

  Riasmin didn't wait. She sent her sand surging forward in a massive wave, intending to overwhelm him with sheer volume. Simultaneously, she charged, shamshir raised for a strike that would end this quickly.

  The masked man did something impossible then. He spun, his leg extended in a circular motion that somehow cut through her sand wave, dispersing it momentarily. The move was so unexpected, so contrary to conventional combat techniques, that Riasmin faltered for a crucial second.

  That hesitation cost her.

  Cheonma closed the distance, not with a blade or spell, but with bare hands formed into strange configurations—flat palms, closed fists, hooked fingers. He struck at angles that bypassed her guard, targeting points on her body that disrupted her balance and control.

  “Please don’t fight back,” he said among his strikes. “You’ll only be in danger if you reach the finals. Let me be.”

  For a moment, his voice was familiar, but the way it distorted thanks to the mana he must have poured in made it impossible to pinpoint where she’d heard it.

  Her sand responded sluggishly as she struggled to maintain concentration. "W-what manner of fighting is this?" she gasped, blocking a strike with her forearm that sent painful vibrations up to her shoulder.

  He didn't answer, just continued that strange dance—advancing, retreating, striking with hands and feet in combinations she couldn't predict.

  It wasn't the elegant swordplay of knights, nor the raw power of barbarians, nor the flowing movements of monk disciplines. It was something else entirely. Brutal yet precise. Calculating yet innovative.

  Riasmin recovered her composure, sand swirling protectively around her as she created distance. She'd underestimated him, but she was still Level 98, still the Goldstorm. Her sand hardened into spears that shot forward from multiple angles.

  Cheonma weaved between them with impossible agility, closing again. This time, when he struck, she was ready, her shamshir flashing in a defensive arc.

  He caught her wrist.

  “Give up already,” he said.

  The move was so unexpected, so contrary to dueling etiquette, that she couldn't process it fast enough. With her sword arm immobilized, he stepped inside her guard, his leg hooking behind hers in a sweeping motion.

  Riasmin felt herself falling, sand rushing to cushion her.

  But before it could form a proper barrier, Cheonma's other leg rose in a devastating upward strike that caught her squarely in the stomach.

  The air left her lungs. Her concentration shattered. The sand fell uselessly to the ground as she tumbled backward, rolling dangerously close to the platform's edge. Thankfully, it was encased by a barrier, so she wouldn’t fall off.

  She scrambled to her feet, gasping, sand sluggishly responding to her commands. "Do I know you?" she demanded, genuine curiosity mixing with frustration. “You must be someone famous to be so unconventionally strong.”

  No one had challenged her like this in years. Even Victor, at Level 99, would be uncertain of his victory against her.

  Again, no answer. Just that steady advance, those calculating golden eyes behind the mask.

  Riasmin sighed and then gathered her remaining strength, sand rising in a final, desperate defense. She would not fail here. This island was meant to be hers—to protect it, to honor her family, to secure her future.

  But as she prepared to launch everything she had, Cheonma suddenly accelerated.

  He moved not in a straight line but at an angle, circling to her blind spot. She pivoted, sand following, but too slowly.

  His leg whipped around in a horizontal arc—a kick so perfectly timed and placed that it connected with her ribs just as she completed her turn. The impact lifted her off her feet, sending her flying toward the platform's edge.

  She wasn’t worried, the platform still had a barrier—

  Another kick came, and this one made her blink. Both literally and magically, for her body vanished for a moment, and when she reappeared, she was already outside, being sent flying even further backwards.

  In that suspended moment, as she saw the platform get further, Riasmin had one clear thought. Grandfather was right. There's always someone stronger. And he hadn’t even hurt her.

  Her body slammed into a wall far from the platforms, and she fell.

  “Platform Seven. Winner—Cheonma.”

  ****

  My feet landed solidly back on the platform, the faint spatial distortion around my kicking leg fading almost instantly.

  Riasmin was shot backward, hitting the distant colosseum wall with a thud that echoed slightly even over the din from other platforms. A voice confirmed her elimination and my victory.

  “Platform Seven. Winner—Cheonma.”

  Relief washed over me, sharp and immediate.

  The [Void Step] kick had worked. It was a gamble—applying the teleportation effect not to myself, but to the point of impact just as my foot connected, hoping to bypass the platform's barrier entirely.

  If it had failed, if the barrier had held... I would have had to fight her properly, maybe even reveal some of my tricks. Hurting Riasmin, even to win, wasn't something I relished.

  Thankfully, it didn't come to that. She was out, disqualified, but unharmed.

  My platform, Number Seven, fell silent as the barrier fell.

  I was the first victor in this game.

  My gaze swept across the colosseum, taking in the ongoing chaos on the other nine circular stages—explosions of magic, the clang of steel, desperate shouts—a symphony of survival.

  On Platform Two, Lilian was a silver blur.

  Even from this distance, I could see the raw power in her movements. She wasn't even fully transformed, but I sensed fur under her disguise. She relied on her werewolf speed and the Moon Walk skill for the most part. The martial techniques I'd taught her were also on full display.

  She moved with a predator's grace, each strike precisely targeted at pressure points and joints. Three opponents already lay unconscious at her feet, while the remaining two circled her warily.

  Her last opponent, a heavily armored warrior, couldn't keep up. A final, brutal uppercut sent him flying into the barrier, and he vanished in a shimmer of light.

  It was a decently easy win. Lilian stood panting slightly, shaking her fists in triumph.

  "Platform Two. Winner—Lunaroom," the android’s voice boomed.

  Platform Five was a different story. Nebula, cloaked and masked like me, faced a hulking mercenary twice her size. From the looks of it, she'd played it very sneakily. She must have remained in her small, barely noticeable bat form and watched the others eliminate each other.

  Now, she was the only one remaining with one last participant.

  He swung a massive hammer, each blow sending shockwaves across the platform. Nebula moved like smoke, evading with agility that shouldn't belong to a Level 48 mage. Her cultivation was paying off; her body was far tougher, faster than her System level suggested.

  I saw her weave intricate patterns with her blood magic—crimson threads ensnaring the mercenary’s feet, sharp Obsidian blades erupting from unexpected angles. She took hits, staggering back once with blood trickling from beneath her mask, but she didn't falter. Using a combination of her innate vampiric resilience, perhaps some tricks Munera had taught her, and a desperate, well-timed [Bloodstasis] on herself to avoid a killing blow, she managed to outmaneuver him.

  A final, concentrated blast of blood energy, focused into a razor-thin spear, pierced his armor and ended the fight.

  She swayed on her feet afterward, clearly drained and injured, but victorious.

  My attention, along with Lilian's and Nebula's, snapped toward Platform Three.

  "SOLAR FLARE!"

  The shout echoed across the colosseum, followed by an explosion of light so intense it forced us to shield our eyes.

  Platform Three became a miniature sun.

  The energy was contained only by the shimmering barrier around it. The heat washed over even our distant platforms.

  When the blinding light finally subsided, only one figure remained standing amidst scorched stone and dissipating smoke. Solara.

  Her disguise was intact, meaning wings still hidden, but the sheer power radiating from her was undeniable. Even without her wings, the Phoenix Essence burning within her had provided more than enough power. Her opponents lay scattered around her, their clothes singed, their skin reddened as if by severe sunburn.

  "Platform Three. Winner—Sunspot," the android declared.

  One by one, the barriers around the winning platforms dissolved. Not all, however. Some seemed like they'd go on for tens of minutes more.

  Solara, spotting me, broke into a wide grin and practically skipped across the air separating the platforms, landing lightly beside Lilian who'd somehow already reached my side.

  "Did you see that?" she asked breathlessly, eyes sparkling. "That felt amazing!"

  "Hard to miss," Lilian chuckled, clapping her on the shoulder. "Thought you were gonna melt the whole arena."

  I checked their statuses quickly. Solara had hit Level 70. Nice. The fight, though avoiding any death, must have granted decent experience.

  Nebula reached our group then, nudging my arm gently. "Hey you,” she said. “Guess who's Level 49 now?"

  Her voice was muffled by her mask but carried an edge of pride.

  A smile touched my lips. "Let's see what the System has in store for you then." I pulled off the glove covering my left hand—the one not manifested by the Phantom Hand skill. "Take it off."

  She took off her gloves too. The other two circled around us, effectively blocking any pruning eyes.

  I touched the back of her hand. This time I tried a different command than before, so that perhaps I could see it too.

  “Show, Status Page. Reveal, Ascension Quest.” I muttered softly.

  Instantly, familiar blue text flared into existence before our eyes, floating over Nebula's face.

  [5th Ascension Quest Available!]

  [Quest: Survive the Next 48 Hours]

  My smile vanished.

  I felt Lilian stiffen beside me, her usual boisterous energy replaced by a sudden stillness. Solara’s triumphant grin faltered, her gaze fixed on the quest text. Nebula just scowled.

  All four of us fell silent, the implications hitting simultaneously.

  This wasn't a standard Ascension Quest. This was a warning.

  The last time something like this showed, was when Lilian had to survive the Vampiric Father.

  Goddammit.

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