The crowd roared—waves of cheers crashing against the coliseum's high stone walls like an ocean of voices. Seraphine stood in the center of the platform, her rapier lowered, chest rising and falling slowly. Her crimson hair shimmered under the light of the divine torches, and the faint sheen of sweat across her face only made her look more untouchable—like victory sculpted itself around her.

The announcer's words barely faded when she sheathed her blade with a soft shhkk, exhaling a long, steady breath. Around her, the faint hum of divine energy began to thin, dissolving like mist at dawn. The battle was over.

From the upper stands, Avin leaned forward on his seat, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on her. His expression wasn't admiration. It was calculation—and a pinch of irritation he didn't bother hiding. Her eyes rose, meeting his.

For a fleeting second, their gazes locked.

Seraphine smirked. Not mocking, not cruel—just confident. Like she was flaunting her triumph directly at him. Like she knew.

Avin's jaw ticked. "She thinks she's all that…" he muttered, voice low enough for only himself to hear. "I see why the original Avin hated her."

Next to him, Sylas blinked, leaning sideways. "She just smiled at me."

Avin turned his head, deadpan. "Sure she did."

Sylas grinned, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. The shove was harder than it should've been, and Avin nearly tilted off balance. He sighed. "You're delusional."

The noise of the arena began to fade into a dull hum. The next two matches unfolded—but they were nothing compared to the earlier spectacle. The combatants lacked flair, lacked divine blood, lacked everything that made the first two fights feel alive. Avin's attention span died before the second round even ended.

If a book ever tried to describe these fights, it'd probably skip the details entirely. "Team 9 and Team 15 won their matches." Period. No adjectives required.

By the time the third fight ended, the energy in the air had thinned. The crowd's cheers turned into tired applause, the kind born from politeness more than thrill. Even the torches seemed to dim, the once-blazing coliseum now yawning into monotony.

Avin yawned too. Loudly.

He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head until his neck popped. "I think I'm gonna head out," he muttered, stretching his arms until his joints protested. His body groaned in tandem—a physical agreement.

Henry, seated beside him, stood up as well, brushing off his coat. "I should probably come with you. We're the first team to go tomorrow, and we still have that letter to sort out."

Avin nodded absently. "Yeah. Good call."

He turned to Sylas and raised his hand, curling his fingers into a fist. "Fist bump?"

Sylas looked at the offered fist for an awkwardly long moment, then slowly lifted his own hand—only to cup Avin's fist with his palm, like holding a fragile fruit.

The cringe hit harder than any spell.

Avin froze, staring at the scene in slow horror. His face flattened into an unreadable mask, but his soul died a little inside. Oh dear god.

He withdrew his hand slowly, lips tight. "...I forgot I'm not on Earth," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

"How do they have all this advanced mana-tech," he thought bitterly, "but not a single soul here knows what a fist bump is?"

Eira chuckled faintly from the side as Avin squeezed past her. "Smooth recovery, lord of gestures," she whispered, smirking. He gave her a sharp side-eye and kept walking, ignoring Sylas' confused shrug.

Avin climbed the stairs toward the upper gate of the coliseum, the thunder of half-hearted applause fading behind him. Henry followed close behind, hands tucked into his coat pockets, the faint tap of his boots echoing in the hollow corridor. The higher they climbed, the dimmer the sounds of the arena became—until only the low rumble of the torches remained.

They reached the exit archway, the light of the outer corridor spilling in like sunset through a crack in a tomb.

Then Avin stopped.

A sound carried up from the arena below—a voice, sharp and clear despite the distance.

"You are the only one left."

He turned.

The air shifted.

The crowd was murmuring again, energy sparking back into the atmosphere like a dying ember reigniting. Avin's eyes darted down to the platform.

Almost everyone was down.

Bodies scattered across the stage—some unconscious, others groaning. Only two figures remained standing, locked in the eye of a storm.

"What the—?" Avin's brow furrowed. "How?"

"Wow," Henry said, blinking. "That was fast."

The surviving pair faced each other—one tall, cloaked in dark fabric that fluttered faintly despite the still air, twin daggers gleaming in his hands. The other—bare-armed, wild-haired, muscles taut, his features sharp and animalistic. Ears twitched atop his head. A tail swayed behind him.

"This is the end for you, beast man!" the dagger wielder barked.

Avin's breath caught.

There was something about the way that man moved. The angle of his stance, the precision in his crouch, the way his blades were positioned—not like a showman. Like a killer.

He knew that stance.

He remembered that stance.

The realization coiled slowly in his gut.

Henry tapped his shoulder. "He sounds like the cloak guy."

Avin's eyes widened. "He doesn't just sound like him."

He was him.

"The hell…?"

His mind raced. The same man who had summoned that strange letter in the woods—the same person who used an almost forgotten language—was now standing on that stage, participating in an academy examination?

"This matter just got way more complicated," Avin muttered, jaw tight.

Henry glanced at him, voice low. "You think that's really him? The one from before?"

Avin nodded, eyes fixed on the stage. "Yeah. And if he's a student… we've got a problem."

On the battlefield below, the cloaked figure twirled one dagger idly, its metallic edge catching the coliseum light. Across from him, the beast man—barefoot, muscles tense, claws extended—let out a low, guttural growl. The fur along his arms bristled, and his tail lashed once behind him like a whip.

"Is that a fu—"

"Yeah," Henry interrupted. "Beast man."

Avin blinked. "They actually exist?"

Henry chuckled. "Of course they do. They just don't usually take exams here. Their kind uses a different evaluation system—more… primal. But since this year's test is open to all races, it's bound to get weird."

Avin's eyes stayed locked on the two figures. "Weird's an understatement."

Henry leaned against the railing, arms crossed. "The Northern Lands have too many kingdoms to count, each with their own bloodlines and gods. The Academy here pulls candidates from every corner of it. You'll see all sorts."

Avin barely heard him.

Down below, the fight resumed.

The beast man's ears twitched. His nostrils flared. With a snarl, he lunged, crossing the stage in a blink—his nails extending into curved claws that glinted under the torchlight. He swung hard, the air screaming around his strike.

The dagger man vanished.

A faint shimmer of distortion where he'd been—that was all.

The beast man's eyes darted left. His ear twitched.

Too slow.

SHHHK—

A whisper of metal kissed his shoulder. He turned just in time to see a dagger slide away, a streak of red following its retreat.

The cloaked man stood a few meters away, posture lazy, expression unreadable. "You twitch your ears when you're about to attack," he said casually. "Cute trick."

The beast man growled, crouching lower, teeth bared. His tail whipped once again. The muscles under his skin rippled, fur bristling with tension.

Avin leaned forward, intrigued despite himself.

The beast launched again—faster this time, claws slashing in a blur. But the cloaked man slipped between every blow like smoke. His daggers whirled—clang, slice, step, vanish, reappear—each movement seamless, impossible to track.

It wasn't teleportation. It was speed.

Too fast.

Even the beast's heightened senses couldn't keep up. He lashed again, heavier now, anger replacing precision. His claws scraped sparks from the arena floor as he missed another strike.

The dagger man smiled faintly. "You're getting slower."

With a single sidestep, he moved out of reach again, daggers scraping together with a metallic shriek. The sound cut through the air like nails against bone—so sharp even Avin winced.

The beast man flinched instinctively, one hand rising to his ear. The crowd grimaced at the pitch, some covering their ears.

The cloaked figure tilted his head, amused. "Sensitive ears, huh?"

Then the beast lunged one last time—reckless, wild, desperate. He swung with everything he had, a full-bodied arc that could've crushed a boulder.

But momentum betrayed him.

The swing missed. The force spun him forward, balance shattered.

THUD.

He hit the ground hard, hands scraping the dirt.

The dagger man didn't hesitate. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, one boot pressing onto the beast man's head. Not with anger—but with authority.

"Disrespectful," Avin muttered, though part of him couldn't help but admire the precision. The dominance. The coolness of it. "Still… yeah, that's cold."

Henry smirked. "You admire him?"

Avin shrugged, gaze still locked on the figure. "Admire? No. But I'd be lying if I said that wasn't badass."

The coliseum fell silent again—tense, charged, the kind of quiet that sits right before thunder. The crowd leaned forward, breath held. The cloaked man lifted his foot slightly, twirling one dagger lazily as he looked down at his fallen opponent.

The beast man's claws twitched weakly against the stone.

Avin narrowed his eyes.

Something about that moment—the calmness, the precision, the way the cloaked man seemed detached from everything around him—it screamed trained. Not a student. Not a beginner. A professional.

And if this man was part of the exam…

Then something else was going on behind the curtains of this academy.

Avin exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. "This world's full of monsters."

Henry didn't reply. He was watching too—eyes narrowed, brows drawn tight.

As the cloaked man's blades caught the light again, Avin could swear he saw a faint flicker—like runes glimmering briefly across their edges. Old runes. The kind he'd seen only once before.

In that forest.

On that letter.

He felt his pulse spike.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, a grim smile curling on his lips. "Definitely him."

The dagger man pressed his boot harder against the beast man's skull.

The crowd waited.

The air held its breath.

And Avin felt something dark stir in his chest—curiosity laced with unease. Because if the cloak guy was truly part of this academy, then the mysteries of the North were just beginning to unfold.

And he was standing in the middle of it all.

Watching.

Learning.

Waiting to strike when the time came.

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