The academy’s training hall sits behind the main courtyards, wide, tall, and cold, with stone bleachers on three sides and a sunken arena at the center. Cadets fill the smaller areas around it, repeating cuts with blunt weapons, testing OXI shields against light projectiles, dropping to the floor and rising on the short orders of instructors. Above the main arena, a suspended screen records the action from different angles and replays key impacts a few seconds behind.
What holds the eye are the force pillars. Four thick structures ring the field, linked by runic cables to OXI machines built into the walls. Energy climbs inside the pillars in bluish pulses and feeds a containment shield around the arena.
I can feel the energy. It’s a grade-S barrier, fixed and expensive, enough to keep collateral damage from escaping into the building.
I walk to the registration table.
The instructor lifts his eyes from a metal clipboard. A thin man, short beard, dark blue uniform, and visibly tired eyes.
"Reservation?"
"I want the next available fight."
"Name?"
"Dryden Sands."
His pen stops before it touches the clipboard.
His gaze rises to my face, passes over the group behind me, and lingers a second longer on Freya. The unease is small, but it comes. Trained people try to hide the reaction by closing their faces. It usually works. This time it doesn’t.
"There’s a line," he says. "You go in after the next three matches."
Freya takes a step and stops at my side.
She says nothing. She doesn’t need to. The instructor looks at her again, then at me, then at Veric, and adjusts his posture behind the table. Two heavy academy names and politics in front of him are already enough to ruin a simple afternoon.
He swallows the refusal. "The current fight should end soon," he says, pointing at the arena. "Paul Nickel is winning. Fire mage, kick-based. After him, I’ll fit you in."
I look where he points.
Paul Nickel advances in short circles, leaving black marks on the floor with every burst. Fire climbs from his calves to his heels, explodes on the launch, and gives him enough speed to scare an inexperienced cadet. His opponent retreats with a training spear, not trying to contest acceleration.
For two seconds, Paul looks like he controls the fight.
On the third, the mistake shows.
He lands heavy on the left foot after each advance. Always the left. The flame drives his body before the hip stabilizes, and his right shoulder opens half a hand before the strike. The other cadet has already caught the repetition. He retreats in an arc with short steps, pulling Paul onto a line where the left leg would have to brake against its own momentum to keep from overrunning the guard and drawing a penalty.
"He loses in the next six moves," I say.
The instructor looks at me. "Paul?"
"Paul."
First move: Paul launches with fire at his heels, sliding across the arena.
Second: the spearman gives ground on a diagonal, the low point of the spear blocking the advance.
Third: Paul corrects his route with the left foot to keep from overrunning.
Fourth: the spear arrives first, touches the floor under his guard, and takes the landing space out from under his foot.
Fifth: Paul jumps to avoid tripping on the shaft and loses the flame for half an instant. Maybe from surprise.
Sixth: the spearman steps in, pivoting, spinning the point, and catches the side of Paul’s thigh, lifting him off the ground. Still airborne, he shoves Paul’s torso with his shoulder. Paul flies and lands on his back, a deep tear in his leg, unable to rise.
The suspended screen replays the exchange twice. First at normal speed. Then slow, marking the moment Paul was thrown into the air after his failure.
[WINNER: TAREN VOSS]
’Voss... Is he Mira’s relative?’
I look at the instructor for a second. The corner of my mouth lifts a little, and I head for the arena entrance.
The murmur starts before we reach the gate.
A cadet says my name near the training dummies. Another recognizes Freya. The bleachers take on their first uninvited spectators. People drop blunt weapons on the racks, instructors break off corrections halfway, and the sound of the hall shifts from training to expectation.
Noise grows fast in the academy.
I step into the preparation area and stop before the marked line.
"No judge," I say. "The arena is automated. It records start, end, forced exit, surrender, and combat incapacity."
Mira tests the weight of a training dagger. "And real damage?"
"Contained to a point. The barrier holds whatever leaves the field. Inside it, you can still break bones, open flesh, and lose teeth if you get creative."
Oliver lets out a breath through his nose. "Useful warning."
"The important part comes now. If the arena system judges real risk to life, the participant is pulled out automatically and sent to the academy’s intensive unit. Healers on duty, OXI containment, fast stabilization."
Zhang Xi looks at the pillars. "Better that way."
"Good. Just try not to kill each other. This isn’t an Oathring. Death still triggers a severe penalty, in the system and in the academy."
Kellan adjusts the wraps on his wrists. "Wagers?"
"Allowed by the arena. Experience, money, or item. For this round, I recommend zero."
"Recommend or order?" Veric asks.
"Recommend. The training is for finding mistakes. Betting now will only make you protect pride. But do what you want."
He accepts it without pushing.
The suspended screen flickers above the arena.
[CUSTOM TEAM SPARRING — 3V3][TEAM ONE: RHAYNE VESPER / VERIC AZUREA / OLIVER KAMINSKI][TEAM TWO: MIRA VOSS / KELLAN ROOK / ZHANG XI][WAGER: NONE]
The bleachers react to the names with a low sound. It still isn’t an Oathring crowd. It’s worse in another way. Cadets watch with a hunger for gossip, trying to decide which detail they’ll repeat later.
Rhayne enters first on our side, the Battle Ribbon coiled around her arm instead of its usual spot fixed at her belt. She reads the whole arena before choosing a position. Pillars, screen, edges, opponents. Then she stops on the left, where she’ll have room to open the ribbon without catching Oliver.
Oliver stays farther back, hands closed on his hammer, shoulders loose, ready to cover.
Veric takes the center. Undertow rests low, held to his arm by the chain, angled to turn into a throw on the first advance.
On the other side, Mira takes the wider flank.
Kellan sets to the middle; his focus seems Veric. Feet firm, weight better distributed than the last time he fought me.
’Oh... He trained...’
Zhang Xi stops behind the two of them, close enough to help without becoming an isolated target.
Freya stands at my side, outside the barrier.
"Just point at the problem," she says.
"Just the problem."
The lights above the arena turn red.
A tone crosses the hall.
Then another.
On the third, the bleachers go silent.
The green lights come on in a line, and the barrier glows around the field.
The suspended screen wipes the names.
A single word takes the top of the arena.
[FIGHT!]
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