Veylan hesitated, tension clear on his face. In his mind, leaving Levi and Dorian alone in this district, a nest of robbers, smugglers, and beggars, was no different from handing your coin pouch to a thief and then wondering why you'd been robbed. Worse, these two had never even stepped foot outside the upper districts, except during that dream realm trial. Out here, they were nothing more than Order 7 Echoes. without an Echo Memory they were easy prey. He wasn't about to take that risk not even if it meant offending the boy who spoke to him by name, not as a servant.
"Young Master, don't worry," He replied carefully, weighing each word so as not to offend the little devil in front of him. "I'll stay right here. I won't follow you inside. Once you're done, we'll head back to the estate."
Seeing the tension in Veylan's eyes and the sincerity on his face, Levi decided not to press further. "Fine," he said casually. "If that's how you want it, wait here."
Jonas led both of them toward his house, but when he glanced back for a moment, an involuntary shiver ran down his spine. It felt as if death itself had brushed past him. The face that had earlier shown tension was now void of emotion, cold, monstrous. A deep amethyst aura faintly glowed around Veylan, radiating a chilling warning that seeped straight into Jonas's bones: Touch those two, and you'll wish you were dead.
The innocent, cautious Veylan from before, that was merely a facade, a mask worn for Levi's comfort. This was the real Veylan, an Order 5 Veilborn Echo. In Zul'vharra, reaching this order was no small feat; it was enough to secure a prestigious position as a professor in the Grand Archives, teaching and guiding the heirs of noble families. Yet, he had chosen to serve as a driver for the Veryathis family. It means he wasn't just a servant alone. He was Levi's silent protector, a shield hiding in plain sight.
That cold, threatening aura wasn't something only Jonas noticed. Both Nobels sensed it too. After all, they had already awakened their crimson Aura, allowing them to instinctively sense danger when someone's intent leaked through. This kind of aura wasn't just seen; it touched the mind, whispering warnings of violence. However, true assassins and fighters rarely let such intent show. In a real fight, by the time their killing aura surfaced, it would already be too late, the blade would be at your throat.
Levi ignored it. He understood, it wasn't a killing intent but a silent, heavy warning: Be careful, boy. I'm watching you. But Dorian, unaware of Veylan's true nature, glanced back, only to see the same obedient, harmless man, the kind who wouldn't even flinch if slapped. He frowned, confused. That chilling sensation from earlier still lingered, and he couldn't quite place why.
The house's interior was a snug, modest space built of stone and timber. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, spilling warmth across a sturdy wooden table with four chairs. The faint scent of dried herbs lingered in the air, and a lofted bed rested beneath low, beamed ceilings.
"You live here alone?" Levi asked, noticing there was only a single blanket on the bed.
"Yeah," Jonas replied, then added with a faint smile, "My parents live in Urun'gazi. I came here last year for the Dream Realm Trial… and look at me now, I was lucky enough to pass."
He walked over to the window, his sharp eyes scanning the streets outside. "I like the atmosphere of this city," he said quietly. "It's a masterpiece, no doubt, a painting where the artist ran out of color when it came to the poor and used grime instead. Even the skyline knows its place: nobles in their towers, commoners in their shadows, and the slums buried beneath their filth."
"And yet you claim to be illiterate," Levi remarked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. This boy kept surprising him, through his composure, his mannerisms, and the way he observed the world.
The sharp eyed boy scratched the back of his head, dodging the question. Instead, he muttered, "I know my place isn't up to the standards of you nobles… but I promise, those wooden chairs won't break if you sit."
Levi's eyes lingered on him for a moment before he spoke again. "If you've enjoyed our city so much, I assume you've been to the arenas too."
With enough experience, you could read people like an open book, their eyes, their expressions, the subtle cracks when they lied or tried to conceal something. That's why they both kept meeting each other's eyes, again and again, like two players peeling away layers in a game of words. But neither was willing to yield.
One was trying to figure out why the other wasn't behaving like an ordinary seventeen or eighteen-year-old, like Dorian. The other, without even realizing it, was questioning why this noble wasn't acting like a noble should. It wasn't a conscious effort on his part, just a habit, trained into him over the years, fueled by curiosity and instinct.
Jonas glanced up as the both nobels sat on the chair, his expression unreadable as always.
"I went there daily. Just for entertainment," he said casually, wondering why he had asked about the arena.
Levi didn't reply immediately. Instead, he folded his arms and stared at him like he was studying a broken clock. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he said, "Give me your clothes. For both of us. We're going to the arena."
Jonas blinked, then glanced at Dorian, who looked equally puzzled. "Why do you need my clothes for that?" Jonas asked, eyes flicking to the fine, expensive fabric Levi wore. "Yours seem good enough."
His's reply was colder than stone. "We're going to the Crimson Pits."
Silence cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and immediate. For a heartbeat, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. Jonas's mouth parted slightly. Dorian froze mid-breath.
"You're serious?" He asked, voice quieter now, trying to read Levi's blank face.
Levi didn't answer. He didn't need to. His silence was confirmation enough.
Without another word, Jonas walked to the cabinet near the bed and rifled through the simple, clean clothes he rarely wore.He hesitated. Should he choose something decent, something worthy of Levi's status? But then...
Levi's voice came, sharp and flat: "Any will do."
He handed over two plain shirts and worn trousers. As Levi took them without a glance, Jonas couldn't stop the chill crawling up his spine.
The Crimson Pits weren't a place nobles visited for fun. It was where people went to bleed, to die, or to lose everything they had left. And Levi wasn't a man who moved without reason.
The arenas were the very pulse of Zul'vharra, the reason foreigners flocked to its gates, drawn not by its towering spires or gilded streets, but by the savage spectacle within. Here, watching two humans locked in blood and sweat was the city's greatest allure. Some fought for their lives, some for fortune, some to seize their destinies, and others simply because they loved the taste of violence. But every fighter stepped into the pit with a purpose carved into their bones.
Beneath the grand skyline of this city, where the wealth of nobles shimmered above and rot thrived below, the arenas roared like the city's brutal, beating heart. A stage where ambition, desperation, and death danced before a cheering crowd.
At the very bottom, buried beneath stone and shadow, lay The Crimson Pits, a lawless abyss where only one left alive. Here, death wasn't a risk; it was the only rule. Behind velvet curtains laced with gold, nobles murmured their wagers, staking fortunes on the blood spilled below. For the wealthy and powerful, coin wasn't enough, some gambled Echo Memories themselves, betting fragments of fate on a fighter's life. And the order of the memory wagered whispered one thing louder than any cheer: how much you were truly worth.
Above it, in the towering structure of The Bloodspire, combat was sanctioned but far from merciful. Death was not required, yet many left the arena as little more than husks, limbs shattered, Echo memories ripped away, their essence fading into the hands of the victor. Here, warriors fought not just for wealth, but for the fragments of power locked within their enemies.
For those who sought honor without fatal consequence, The Iron Ring stood firm. Brutality was expected, but killing was forbidden. It was the testing ground of warriors, where Echoes climbed the tiers of strength, as their tier rises, the bet price on them rises too; and as they fall in rank, so does the price placed upon them.
Further down the chain, The Ember Grounds burned with the cries of the desperate. The commoners' stage, where men and women fought for coin, for pride, for one more day of survival. Blood was expected, death was rare, and dignity was optional.
At the lowest level of formal combat, The Sand Circle was where personal disputes were settled. A simple ring, a brief fight, and then matter settled. Some duels were for pride, others for debt, and a rare few for something more, something the city, in all its towering cruelty, did not yet understand.
From the noble terraces to the slum alleys, the arenas were more than mere entertainment. For some, they were judgment. For others, a path to power. And for a few, they were fate itself.