"In this tournament." Headmaster Lanoh Jakartaye began, tone as casual as a man discussing the weather. "You won't only face physical challenges. No. They will break you down mentally as well. You'll be tested in ways you've never imagined. And I must warn you…"
He picked up his wine glass and took a slow sip, pausing just long enough to make our hearts still.
"…not many survive once they step into it."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Chairs creaked slightly as a few of us shifted in our seats, struggling to process what we'd just heard. It wasn't just dangerous—it was fatal.
Not many survive?
That wasn't a tournament.
That was a battlefield.
Dante, sitting beside me, clenched his jaw and finally spoke, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice. "Then why, sir? Why is this tournament still allowed to happen if it can cost a student their life? And why would the academy—the staff—agree to something like this?"
Everyone's eyes shifted to Dante.
A bold question.
A dangerous one.
The headmaster slowly turned his gaze toward him. His eyes, previously calm and regal, sharpened like drawn blades. The warmth vanished from his expression, replaced with something darker. Something far more real.
A small, almost amused smirk curled on his lips.
"You speak as if you still believe your life belongs to you." He said quietly, but the room had gone so silent that every word struck like thunder.
Then he continued, voice cold and direct:
"Your parents signed your lives away the moment you were admitted into this academy. Every form. Every waiver. Every signature. This isn't a school for farmers or shopkeepers' children. This is Astarst."
He stood now, pushing his chair back with a slow scrape.
"This academy's only goal is to forge legends. To shape warriors and conquerors the world will remember. We do not coddle the weak. We do not raise cowards. We prepare you to survive in a world that will not hesitate to destroy you."
He walked slowly around the table, the sound of his polished shoes echoing against the stone floor.
"If we refused to such tournaments just because we feared losing a few students, then we'd be nothing more than a glorified daycare. Do you think greatness is born in comfort?" He stopped behind Serelith's chair and placed a hand lightly on it. "It is forged in fire."
He let the silence hang.
No one dared to speak.
Only the distant hum of magic wards vibrating through the ancient walls could be heard.
Finally, the headmaster returned to his seat, smoothing out his coat before sitting down with regal composure.
"So." he said, voice low but intense."If you're afraid, drop out now. Because once the tournament begins… there is no walking away."
And just like that, the atmosphere changed.
We weren't students anymore.
We were sacrifices in a game that had already claimed lives.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep down…
A part of me wanted to play.
Those words echoed in my mind like a haunting melody I didn't fully understand. I didn't crave blood. I didn't lust for power. But something about the way the headmaster spoke… about the way everyone else looked so afraid—it made me feel something I hadn't in a long time.
Calm.
The headmaster said nothing more after his chilling declaration. He simply picked up his utensils again and resumed eating his meal as if he hadn't just told us we might not make it out of this tournament alive. No one else followed.
Their hands hovered above their plates, their food now nothing more than a cold reminder of the reality they were stuck in.
Except me.
I ate. Casually. Methodically. One bite at a time. I didn't rush. I didn't hesitate.
I wasn't scared.
Not even a little.
And the strange thing was—I didn't even know why.
When I finally looked up from my half-empty plate, I noticed the silence again. But this time, it was heavier. Tighter. Like a noose slowly closing around the neck of the room.
Every single one of them was staring at me.
Zaden. Dante. Simyle. Sarina. Razah. Brendon. Ayan. Even Serelith paused mid-breath.
I met their eyes one by one, unfazed, then raised an eyebrow and tilted my head.
"What?" I asked, voice low but clear.
No one answered.
They didn't have to.
I could see it in their eyes—uncertainty. Not just about the tournament anymore, but about me. And honestly? I was okay with that.
Then, the headmaster's voice returned, calm and authoritative.
"The tournament will begin in two days." he announced, setting his fork down with a soft clink. "It will take place in Sankling City, where the world will be watching."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, fingers laced together. "All other students will be granted a short holiday during this time. They are allowed to leave campus and visit their families."
There was a pause.
"They may also attend the tournament… to watch."
Support, he meant. Applause. Or mourning.
"The nine of you." he said, eyes scanning across us like a general eyeing his soldiers before battle. "Will depart for Sankling tomorrow night."
His eyes flicked briefly to mine.
"There will be no turning back after that."
He didn't have to say it—but I knew.
The tournament wasn't just a fight.
It was a storm.
And I'd already decided…
I wasn't planning to seek shelter.