Levi stepped through the arena gates and the world seemed to tilt.
The city's noise dropped away behind him, swallowed by the roar of tens of thousands of spectators. He paused.
The arena stretched far beyond anything he had imagined. Tier upon tier of stone seating rose toward the sky, packed with citizens from every corner of Fraire. Banners bearing dozens of city crests snapped in the wind. The air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation.
This wasn't a local tournament anymore. It was where the continent's most promising young fighters came to prove they belonged.
Levi's gaze drifted across the competitors gathered near the center of the arena. Only forty. A few familiar faces stood out immediately.
Soren of Pilor rested a hand on the pommel of his sword, looking more like a veteran than a trainee—calm, composed, certain. Considering the reputation he'd built, the confidence wasn't surprising.
Nearby stood Eda of Flure. She lacked the imposing presence many others projected, but Levi knew better than to judge by appearances.
Then he spotted the last person he wanted to see.
Marcus. The Heavy Sword of Craile.
The giant balanced an absurd slab of metal across one shoulder as casually as if it weighed nothing. Even among forty finalists, he drew the eye without trying. Levi narrowed his own. Marcus wasn't the strongest competitor here—he was the hardest to predict. Most fighters revealed patterns sooner or later: habits, tendencies, weak points. Marcus seemed to discard all of them. Every account Levi had heard described the same thing — a man who dragged fights into disorder and somehow became more dangerous once they got there.
'That monster never fights the way you expect.'
Marcus barked out a laugh at something another competitor said, utterly at ease despite the pressure hanging over the arena. Levi looked elsewhere. With any luck, they wouldn't meet early.
The competitors gradually assembled at the center of the field. Moments later, a middle-aged announcer stepped forward, his voice rolling across the stadium, amplified by Aether techniques Levi couldn't begin to understand.
"Welcome, representatives of Caelum."
The crowd answered with a deafening cheer. When it faded, the announcer continued.
"Today, forty of the most talented trainees from cities and villages across our continent stand before us." Applause swept through the arena. He raised a hand. "Many of you dream of becoming Solborns. And while there are countless paths toward manifesting Aether, only a select few are fortunate enough to walk them."
Levi listened closely. Most of what he knew about the wider world came from rumors and fragments of overheard conversation. An official address carried different weight.
"The winners of this tournament will earn the opportunity to attend the Floating Academy of Shearer."
A murmur rippled through the competitors. Everyone knew the prize already. Hearing it spoken aloud still sent a charge through the crowd.
Shearer. The name alone carried power.
"Ordinarily, one must reach the age of eighteen before receiving formal training under Caelum's authority." The announcer smiled. "But ambition rarely waits for permission."
Several competitors grinned. Others unconsciously straightened.
Levi felt his pulse quicken. The academy occupied a strange place in every trainee's imagination—half institution, half legend. The place where future Solborns were shaped. For years it had seemed impossibly distant. Now it stood within reach.
The announcer's tone shifted.
"However, before you allow your excitement to consume you, remember this." The arena gradually quieted. "We live in troubled times. The Seven Supreme Solborns vanished centuries ago after creating the new sun that illuminates our skies."
Levi glanced upward. The artificial sun hung high overhead, a reminder of a feat so immense it bordered on the impossible.
"Their disappearance left a void that has never truly been filled. Beyond our borders, chaos remains. Conflict remains. Countless dangers remain." Several older spectators nodded grimly. "If you attend Shearer, you will meet trainees from distant continents. You will gain allies." A brief pause. "You will gain enemies. And if you are careless, you may gain a grave."
The stadium fell silent.
Levi frowned. The warning didn't sound theatrical. If anything, it felt understated.
Then the announcer smiled. "Still, those concerns are for the future." Laughter spread through the audience and the tension eased. "For now, focus on surviving today."
"Allow me to explain the tournament format. You must survive five rounds. Each round, you will face a single opponent — win, and you advance; lose, and your journey ends. Those who reach the fifth round will earn victory. And for those who still desire battle after that, additional matches will be arranged."
A number of competitors brightened. Marcus looked especially pleased. Levi almost snorted.
Of course he does.
"Fight for your city. Fight for your honor. Fight for your future." The announcer's voice thundered across the arena. "And above all else—show us the strength of the next generation!"
The crowd erupted.
Levi's hand settled on the hilt of his black katana. Years of training, years spent apart, years spent waiting for a chance exactly like this. Pressure and anticipation churned together inside him — and beneath it all, something else stirred.
Excitement.
The announcer waited for the cheers to fade, then raised a scroll with a grin. "Now then. Let us begin the first round."
He unfurled it and scanned the names. Levi focused immediately. The opening match mattered. First impressions lingered.
"Our opening battle will be… Levi of Fraire versus Marcus of Craile!"
For a heartbeat the arena froze — then erupted.
"Levi!" "The Swift Sword!" "Marcus is going to crush him!" "You're insane, Levi can win!"
The noise rolled across the stadium like thunder, but Levi remained still. Across the arena, Marcus turned toward him, and when their eyes met, the giant's grin widened.
"So it's you."
Levi sighed. "Of course it had to be you."
Marcus laughed loudly enough for the nearby competitors to hear. "Good. I was worried the first round would be boring." He rested the massive blade on his shoulder. The surrounding trainees instinctively stepped back from him, and Levi noticed immediately—that reaction alone told him everything he needed to know.
Marcus stepped into the arena. Each footfall seemed heavier than the last as the crowd's excitement built.
"Competitors, take your positions."
Levi walked forward onto the stone battlefield. For a moment neither fighter moved, and the entire arena seemed to hold its breath.
Then Marcus planted his enormous sword into the ground.
The stone cracked.
Levi's eyes narrowed. The match hadn't even started yet, and already Marcus was making a statement.