Tristan was to be taken to the examination venue by Darren, who had received a carriage from Amelia to transport the two of them to the Colosseum.
As they journeyed through the city, Darren decided it was time to offer some crucial advice—words that could determine Tristan's future at the academy.
"You shouldn't use that warrior," Darren said suddenly, his voice low and serious.
Tristan frowned, turning toward him with a puzzled expression.
"Why not?" he asked.
"You have the power to summon warriors, right? If the representatives catch wind of that, they'll spin their own conspiracies. They'll say you're plotting to take over Constella with your army or something equally absurd. My advice—don't reveal it."
Tristan nodded, understanding the concern. His power was unique… different. A gift—no, a curse—from the God of Death. If people discovered he could raise the dead, they would not hail him as gifted; they would brand him a monster. Darren, sensing the weight of silence, shifted the topic.
"The Colosseum wasn't even built by someone from Constella. It was the vision of a foreigner—a man not of this land. He constructed a place where combat could occur without endangering the world outside. A towering edifice of stone, ringed with seats that reach to the heavens, and at its heart, a stage meant for warriors. That is the Colosseum."
Tristan's mind drifted to his old world. He remembered the ancient Roman Colosseum, a marvel of brutal beauty. He had never seen it in person, but now, in this world, he would stand inside one—his own arena of fate. The carriage eventually arrived, and from the window, he beheld the Colosseum. It matched Darren's description perfectly.
Its architecture was aged but mighty, carved from stone that resembled the ruins of his former world. As he stepped down from the carriage, awe lit up his eyes. He had never walked the sands of Rome, but here, at last, was something close.
He approached the entrance reserved for applicants. All around him were hopefuls—ambitious, nervous, and prepared. But they were not like him.
The nobles from the High District gathered in elegant clusters, separated from the rest as if proximity to commoners would stain them. Those from the Middle District stood with quiet pride, their eyes wary, casting scornful glances at the nobles. Lastly, the applicants from the Low District stood off to the side—not with pride or contempt, but fear. They were not proud nor defiant… only uncertain.
"You register over there," Darren said, pointing toward a tent near the Colosseum's entrance. "Once that's done, wait for your number to be called. I'll be in the stands watching."
Tristan gave a simple nod, hands stuffed in his pockets as he approached the tent. His eyes remained fixed on the Colosseum. Though he had left his world behind, the beauty of its legacy still stirred something within him. The artistry of this place—the grandeur, the power—it resonated deeply.
When he reached the tent, he was met with a modest line—not too long, but long enough to irk him.
I hate waiting, he thought.
"I could cut them down for you, my lord," Killington offered inwardly.
Tristan sighed and replied, No. Darren told me not to summon you. Stay hidden for now.
"As you wish, my lord," Killington answered, voice calm and loyal.
The line was designated only for those from the Middle and Low Districts. The High District applicants, of course, had registered the day before. They always received priority. The rest were treated like afterthoughts.
Tristan's patience wore thin. "How annoying," he muttered aloud.
A soft chuckle from behind made him turn. A tall young man stood there, his long, dirty-blond hair brushing his shoulders, eyes blue as the open sky. His frame was powerful, his black suit clinging to the muscles underneath, and his sharp jawline could make any noblewoman swoon.
"You're funny, brother," the young man said in a deep, smooth voice.
Tristan blinked. Brother? To his knowledge, Tristan Merigold had no siblings.
He tilted his head and narrowed his gaze. "Do I know you?"
The blond boy ran a hand through his golden hair and flashed a grin. "I'm Garfield Frutia—but you can call me Garf, brother."
"I don't know you," Tristan said coldly. "So why should I call you by a nickname?"
Garfield laughed, unbothered. "Because we're both from the Middle District. That makes us kin."
Tristan regarded most from the Middle District with indifference, deeming only a rare few worthy of his attention or affection. Yet Garfield was different—he bore a lightness, an unwavering warmth that allowed him to see the good in everyone. To him, all who shared the Middle District were kin, bound not by blood, but by shared struggle and quiet resilience.
Man, how childish, Tristan thought, rolling his eyes.
Tristan was taken aback. Of the few people he had encountered, most had mistaken him for a noble—yet Garfield had seen through him instantly, discerning without hesitation that he was from the Middle District.
He raised a brow. "How did you know I'm from the Middle District?"
"You're standing in the line, aren't you?" Garfield replied with a smirk.
Tristan paused—then scoffed. Of course. That detail alone was enough to give him away.
Garfield's smile deepened. "You and I… we're alike. Most people from the Middle District are born of noble and lowborn blood—but the lowborn traits usually dominate. Not us. For us, it's the opposite."
Tristan's brow furrowed. "What?"
"Never mind," Garfield said with a shake of his head, that same unwavering grin on his face.
Tristan didn't push further. He simply turned his gaze forward and waited.
At last—after what felt like forever—it was his turn. Inside the tent sat a tired-looking woman at a wooden desk, quill in hand.
"Name?" she asked flatly.
"Tristan Merigold."
She scribbled it quickly onto the parchment. "Number 850. You may proceed. The exam begins shortly."
Tristan stepped out of the tent and entered the Colosseum. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, a wave of energy hit him—a dense, overwhelming force that pressed down on his shoulders.
High above, watching from the shadows of the upper tier, was the source of that power…
A woman cloaked in silence.