The examinees returned to the Colosseum—only to be greeted by the horrifying sight of beasts locked in massive iron cages. Creatures with fangs sharp enough to tear through human flesh in seconds. Their forms were grotesque hybrids: the bodies and heads of lions, tails of serpentine menace, and fur as pale and cold as freshly fallen snow.
Fear swept through the group like a storm. Every examinee knew exactly what was about to happen. And though they tried to brace themselves, dread settled deep in their bones.
"In these cages are mid-level One-Star Fallen Stars," Sylvia announced coldly, her voice echoing with no hint of sympathy. "To pass this stage, you must slay your designated beast. Failure means elimination."
Panic gripped the examinees. Even Tristan found himself trembling uncontrollably. His arms shook, his legs wavered, his teeth chattered. Every muscle in his body screamed with the memory of the night a Fallen Star destroyed his home. And now, only meters away, stood another monster bearing that cursed name.
'I must compose myself,' he thought desperately. 'I can't afford to let fear rule me. If I falter now, I'll never achieve my goals. I have to persevere… no—I have to fight.'
Sylvia's hawk-like gaze swept over the crowd until it landed precisely where she intended.
"You!" she called out, pointing with authority.
The examinees turned toward each other, confused and hoping they hadn't been chosen.
"You with the red hair. You'll go first."
Tristan froze. He was number 850, far down the list—yet here he was, the first called to face death.
The others let out sighs of relief, thankful it wasn't their turn. But Tristan had no time to envy their fortune. He stepped forward, still rattled, and tapped the brooch pinned to his chest.
In an instant, his STAR uniform materialized: a crimson, skin-tight suit; a black, steel muscle cuirass; sturdy black boots and gloves in place of gauntlets; a matching hood; and a sleek mask concealing his features.
He knocked on his chest plate to test its resilience, tugged on his gloves to confirm their grip, adjusted his boots, then pulled his hood over his head. He was ready.
The Headmaster raised her hand, and one of the guards pulled the lever. The iron gate groaned open. The beast, now unchained, roared with primal fury before charging forward with thunderous strides. Each pawfall was a drumbeat of death.
Tristan drew his sword—the Star Divider. Despite his terror, he forced himself to breathe deeply, grounding himself in the memory of his training. Dodging arrows. Scaling walls. Repetitive strikes to hone his strength. And Amelia's swordplay—her grace, her technique. He had learned from it all.
When the beast lunged, Tristan dove to the side with sharp agility, rolled to his feet, and raised his blade once more.
'It's stronger than me. That much is clear. But strength alone won't decide this fight. I just need the right moment.'
The crowd watched in tense silence. The Middle and Low Districts clung to hope. The High District sat with stone-cold indifference.
The beast charged again—faster this time. Tristan was caught off guard by its sudden burst of speed. He raised his blade instinctively to defend himself, but it wasn't enough.
The creature slammed into him, launching him across the arena. He crashed against the Colosseum's wall with bone-cracking force. Blood streamed down his face. Ribs shattered. A wave of dizziness overtook him.
The Headmaster turned away.
"It's over—"
"Wait…" came a hoarse voice.
The arena fell silent.
Tristan, battered and broken, was pulling himself up. His blade lay beside him, and he grasped it with what strength he had left.
"This fight… isn't over," he panted. "I owe it to myself… to Mr. Kenway… and to everyone rooting for me. So please—don't end this match!"
Sylvia paused, then smiled faintly.
"Very well. Then stand tall—and show us all why you deserve a place at this academy."
Cheers erupted from the crowd.
Tristan stood, bloodied but unyielding, and locked eyes with the snarling beast.
"Come at me," he growled.
The beast obeyed, charging with unrelenting rage. But this time, Tristan was ready.
As the monster lunged, he dropped to one knee, narrowly ducking beneath its gaping maw. The creature's skull collided with the stone wall, sending debris flying in every direction.
Before the beast could recover, Tristan drove his blade deep into its underbelly.
It howled in agony.
'Killington, lend me your strength… Necromancer's Mimicry.'
[Skill Activated: Necromancer's Mimicry.]
[For one minute, you have access to DeAndre Killington's strength and abilities.]
Power surged through Tristan's limbs—Bishop-level strength coursing through his veins. With a roar of his own, he tore into the beast's abdomen, slashing and carving with merciless precision. Blood gushed. Flesh split. Until, finally, the monster collapsed with a thunderous crash.
Its stomach split wide, intestines spilling across the arena floor. A pool of blood formed around its twitching body.
And there, standing amidst the carnage, was the boy who tamed the lion—drenched in crimson, sword in hand, chest heaving with exhaustion.
Sylvia stepped forward.
"We have our first victor… No, our first champion. Tristan Merigold has passed."
With a single raised fist, his victory was sealed.
The Colosseum erupted in thunderous applause—cheers so loud they spilled into the streets of the High District, echoed through the homes of the Middle District, and even reached the forgotten alleys of the Low District. For a brief moment, all three worlds were united by awe.
Among the roaring crowd, Darren clapped slowly, a rare smile spread across his face. He was pleased—immensely so—but a shadow of concern lingered in his eyes.
High in the amphitheater, Tristan lifted his gaze. He wasn't searching for glory or basking in praise—he sought only one man.
And he found him.
Decker Vermillion sat with hands elegantly coming together in a slow, deliberate applause. A pleased expression twisted across his face, one not of admiration—but of anticipation.
"I hope you saw that, you bastard," Tristan muttered under his breath, eyes locked with his rival.
Suddenly, a holographic notification flickered into view before him:
[You have defeated a beast of greater strength. An upgrade has been granted. All stats increased.]
[You have collected 25 Death Shards.]
[25 / 100 Death Shards collected.]
Tristan blinked at the message, his breath still heavy, his heart still racing.
'I've grown stronger… but what exactly are these Death Shards?'