The chamber door sealed with a quiet thrum, cutting off the roar of the coliseum outside. Team Eleven sank onto the benches lining the walls, their exhaustion finally catching up. The air smelled faintly of incense and medicine, already filling with the presence of attendants in healer's robes.

"Stay still," one healer instructed, brushing past Brennar, who stubbornly tried to fiddle with his broken construct. "You'll only tear it worse."

Another pressed glowing hands to Marcellus's bruised shoulder. Ivy leaned heavily on her staff until the healer coaxed her down and traced lines of restorative essence along her arms. Selene exhaled slowly as her dove, dim and weary, was lifted onto a silken cushion and tended to by gentle spirit hands.

Aston sat last, Gray curled beside him while Mirage perched on the high beam above, watchful as always. Healers swept a cool essence over his skin, closing shallow cuts and calming the aches left from essence recoil.

In front of them, a projection shimmered into place—clear, vast, showing the arena as if they still stood within it. The image magnified to follow the next teams taking the field.

—

They watched the battles come and go.

The gong rang, and both squads surged forward. Tristan didn't draw a weapon—he never needed to. His arms folded across his chest as his Infernal Fang Cheetah launched like a streak of living fire. One heartbeat it crouched, the next it was a comet blazing across the arena floor.

The opposing team tried to react. Their frontline beast, a stone-plated rhino, braced itself, horn glowing with essence. Too slow. The cheetah vanished into a mirage of heat and reappeared at its flank. Flash Pounce split the air—claws raked like molten blades, carving a trench through stone armor as if it were paper. The rhino collapsed with a strangled roar, handler screaming as essence backlash flared.

The rest panicked, but Tristan's squad pressed mercilessly. Flame orbs spun around the cheetah, igniting the battlefield in whirling fire. A support beast fell shrieking into the flames, another froze mid-command as claws pierced his chest. Every motion was clean, surgical, final.

Within minutes, four handlers were down, their beasts broken. The last fell to the cheetah's fangs, silence punctuated only by the crowd's roar.

The referee raised his arm. "Victory—Team Seven!"

—

The gong struck, echoing like a drum of war. From the moment the gates opened, Team One advanced in perfect formation. Their leader, a stern cadet clad in iron-plated armor, barked a single command, and the squad moved as one body. Shields locked, spears leveled, beasts marching in precise step.

Their opponents—a more scattered unit—charged in with raw aggression. A pair of snarling direcats darted ahead, tails lashing, while their handler screamed for a flanking maneuver. But the army squad did not flinch.

"Hold!" the leader barked. His frontline spirit beasts—two stone-backed mastiffs—braced shoulder to shoulder. The direcats struck, claws sparking against impenetrable hides. At once, the mastiffs twisted, jaws clamping in unison, and slammed both attackers into the dirt.

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The enemy's second wave came hard: a flying serpent and a fire-backed bear. The serpent swooped, spitting lightning, but Team One's support handler had already raised her staff, a glowing dome that absorbed the strike without faltering. The bear crashed against the shield wall—only to meet a synchronized counterstrike. Three soldiers stepped in tandem, spears thrusting at identical angles, piercing its flank in a single, lethal rhythm.

It was a display less like a battle, more like a drill executed to perfection. Each command was clipped, precise, and obeyed instantly. Even the beasts seemed drilled, responding with mechanical sharpness that left no opening.

Within five minutes, the enemy squad lay broken. Handlers groaned on the dirt, their bonds severed one after another, until only silence remained.

The referee raised his hand, expression unreadable. "Victory—Team One!"

The crowd erupted, though a ripple of unease threaded through the cheers. Their efficiency was terrifying, their unity absolute—like an army already forged for war.

—

The signal gong thundered, and the gates parted. From the west strode Team Twenty-Five, led by a lean alchemist whose coat glittered faintly with essence stains. At first glance, they seemed mismatched—an engineer burdened with metal packs, a merchant-scribe shouldering scrolls, an enchantress with runes glowing along her staff, and a single combat fighter dragging a cleaver-like blade. No feral beasts prowled at their sides. Instead, a scattering of constructs clanked across the ground, drones buzzed overhead, and canisters rattled with volatile fluids. But one can remember their torching of the forest in yesterday's rumble.

Their opponents uncomfortably rushed forward to crush what looked like an improvised crew. A lightning-spined pack-beast bounded in first, its handler urging on a tusked ox-spirit that churned the ground beneath its hooves.

The alchemist raised his gauntlet and snapped it shut. "Catalyze."

The battlefield shifted instantly. Hexagonal barriers sprang from enchanted glyphs, drones pivoted into a firing line, and the engineer's contraptions unfolded into spidery turrets. The merchant cracked open scrolls that magnified trajectories, while the combat fighter drove his cleaver into the dirt, anchoring the line.

A scorpion-like automaton burst from a rune circle, lancing upward into the ox's underbelly. Sparks and blood sprayed as the beast collapsed. Above, the enchantress flicked her staff, runes blazing, and chains of glowing light ensnared a hawk-spirit mid-dive, dragging it into the engineer's crossfire.

The enemy squad faltered, panic rising. Every step triggered alchemical mines, every retreat blocked by collapsing barriers. Smoke filled the air, colors shifting with volatile fumes, and in the chaos their beasts fell one after another.

The referee lifted his hand. "Victory—Team Twenty-Five!"

The crowd roared in divided tones—some awed by the ingenuity, others unsettled by the mechanical precision. What looked like a ragtag mix had become a siege engine, and their enemies nothing more than raw material.

—

Aston's teammates shifted uneasily. Even Selene's calm expression pinched as the projection lingered on the last battle.

—

Kai's team came next. Unlike the others, their fight looked chaotic at first glance—beasts scrambling, handlers weaving in and out—but Aston's eyes caught the undercurrent. It wasn't chaos. It was calculation. Kai's voice guided them through each clash, Shelldon anchoring their line with walls and spikes while the others exploited every small gap. Their synergy proved too much, and their opponents fell one after another.

"Smart," Ivy admitted, tapping her lip. "That one plans ahead."

Aston only nodded.

And then, in their screens, Rowan's team appeared. Opposite from them is the leader of the team who they almost eliminated during the rumble arena.

Aston had a serious thought. It's a revenge match.

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