There was a rule.
Simple. Direct. Written in blood and stone at the gate of every Soul Arena across the Reset World.
"No child under seventeen may enter the Tournament Grounds."
That rule had been broken twenty-seven times in the past five years. Each instance had ended in disaster, young warriors crushed by opponents twice their size, dreams shattered like glass against the unforgiving reality of combat. The Soul Tournament Committee had reinforced security, installed age-verification crystals, and posted guards at every entrance.
The twenty-eighth breach was today.
And his name was Ki.
"Let's goooo!" he shouted, vaulting over the outer wall with a sandwich still half-bitten in his mouth, one sleeve of his lab coat flapping behind him like a rogue banner. The morning sun caught the lightning-shaped scar on his cheek, making it gleam like molten silver. "I call dibs on the first idiot!"
"Hey---! Kid!" a guard shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "You're not on the list! Security breach in Sector Seven!"
Ki winked, then kicked off the man's helmet to gain altitude mid-air. Sparks flickered around him, lightning tickling his boots like eager dogs begging for a fight. The metal helmet clanged against the stone wall as he used it as a springboard, soaring higher than any normal fifteen-year-old should be able to jump.
He landed in the middle of the waiting grounds with a thud, dust swirling around his slim frame in perfect spirals. The impact cracked the ancient stone beneath his feet, stone that had withstood the fury of countless battles.
His sharp electric-blue eyes scanned the crowd of older competitors.
Monsters. Goliaths. Tattooed warriors with arms the size of tree trunks, their Myth Marks glowing with barely contained power. Girls with blades taller than him, their faces painted with war markings from distant lands. Ki grinned, taking another bite of his sandwich.
"Sup, losers," he said, crumbs falling from his mouth.
The silence that followed was deafening. A few warriors began reaching for their weapons. Others stepped back, sensing something dangerous in the air, not from the boy's power, but from his absolute fearlessness.
Then someone laughed.
"Did that kid just---?"
"He's got balls, I'll give him that."
"Or he's completely insane."
Ki shrugged. "Why not both?"
The Soul Tournament was legendary. Held once every three years in the center of the Reset World, in a coliseum carved from the bones of forgotten beasts whose names had been lost to time. The arena itself was a marvel of ancient engineering, stone that could withstand the fury of gods, barriers that separated spectators from combatants, and viewing platforms that stretched up toward the clouds.
Here, chosen warriors from every corner of the planet came to test their Myth Marks, the divine tattoos that granted mortals the power of legends. Each mark was unique, tied to a specific mythical creature or deity from the old world. Some bore the mark of dragons, others the symbols of phoenixes, krakens, or valkyries. The rarest marks belonged to beings so ancient that their names were spoken only in whispers.
Some came for glory, to prove their worth and earn a place in the histories.
Some came for revenge, to settle old scores or reclaim lost honor.
Some came to be chosen by a Sovereign, the godlike beings who ruled the Reset World.
And some, like Ki, just came because they were bored.
The registration line stretched for blocks, filled with nervous energy and barely contained violence. Warriors sized each other up, forming temporary alliances or identifying threats. The air crackled with different types of power, some participants' marks glowed visibly, others remained hidden, their bearers preferring to keep their abilities secret until the moment of truth.
"Next!" barked the stone-faced registration officer, a man who looked like he'd seen too many tournaments and wished he could retire. His own mark, a simple compass rose, indicated his role as a neutral arbiter.
Ki stepped forward, still finishing his sandwich.
"Name?" the officer asked without looking up.
"Ki."
"No last name?"
"Too mainstream."
The man squinted, finally raising his eyes to meet Ki's electric-blue gaze. Something in those eyes made him pause, a depth that didn't belong in a child's face, like looking into the eye of a storm. "Age?"
Ki looked around theatrically, then leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, "Old enough to ruin your career."
The man blinked. Then sighed deeply, the sound of someone who'd given up fighting the inevitable. "Whatever. The system's already broken anyway." He gestured to the chaos around them, warriors arguing over bracket placements, security guards chasing down rule-breakers, and the faint smell of something burning from the arena's depths.
He stamped Ki's name onto a glowing scroll that smelled like ozone and regret. The parchment flared with blue light, officially registering Ki as a competitor. "Good luck, kid. You're gonna need it."
Meanwhile, across the staging area, a quiet boy sat on the edge of the arena's upper steps, watching Ki with narrow eyes that missed nothing.
Andreo.
Black undershirt that had seen better days. Deep brown skin kissed by sea wind and sun. Eyes like calm storms, peaceful on the surface but hiding depths that could drown cities. His hair was longer than most warriors preferred, tied back with a simple leather cord that had been a gift from someone he'd rather not think about.
He hadn't spoken since entering the gates three hours ago. He didn't need to. The Bakunawa Mark on his back did the talking for him.
The ancient moon serpent. A beast of tides and illusions. A soul-devouring legend feared even by Sovereigns.
The mark was invisible to most, hidden beneath his shirt, but those sensitive to spiritual energy could feel it, a cold presence that made the air taste like deep ocean water and forgotten dreams. It was one of the rarest marks in existence, tied to a creature so powerful that entire civilizations had built their calendars around its movements.
Andreo clenched his fist. The mark pulsed once under his shoulder blade, responding to his emotions like a living thing. He could feel the Bakunawa stirring in the depths of his soul, ancient and hungry.
He didn't like the new kid.
Too loud. Too unpredictable. Too… free.
The boy moved like someone who'd never known true fear, who'd never felt the weight of responsibility crushing down on his shoulders. There was something almost insulting about that level of carefreeness in a world where most people fought just to survive another day.
Andreo stood, his movements fluid and economical. He'd been trained since childhood to waste no motion, to be efficient in all things. The sea had taught him patience, but it had also taught him when to strike.
The match brackets flashed above the coliseum, shimmering letters of blue flame that could be read from anywhere in the arena. The tournament followed ancient traditions, single elimination, no holds barred, fight until surrender or incapacitation. Magic was allowed, weapons were encouraged, and the only rule was that there were no rules.
The crowd pressed forward, eager to see who would face whom in the opening rounds. Veterans scanned the list for familiar names, while newcomers hoped for favorable matchups. The betting pools were already forming, with odds changing by the second as people evaluated their potential opponents.
Round One: Ki vs. Andreo