We head outside through a wide set of glass doors, and the moment we step out, I understand why they call it the Coliseum.
The space opens up into what looks like a miniature version of the stadium of Godolkin itself — a full stadium carved into the campus grounds. Tiered stands curve in a perfect oval around a central arena, rows upon rows of dark green seats rising high, interrupted by steel railings, stairways, and reinforced barriers. Tall walls surround the lower levels, clearly designed to absorb impact. Cameras are mounted at strategic angles, and reinforced panels line the edges of the field like a warning: don't try anything stupid.
At the top, bold letters read GODOLKIN STADIUM.
I stop walking for a second, just taking it in.
This isn't a school sports field.
This is a proving ground.
The dedication is… unsettlingly impressive. Everything about this place screams preparation. Like they're not training students to graduate — they're training assets to be deployed the moment they walk out of here.
Straight into Godolkin University.
Straight into the spotlight.
Luke seems to catch my expression and grins. "Yeah. First time hits hard."
We make our way up one of the aisles and sit along the curved bleachers. Down in the center of the stadium, a crowd has already gathered around the arena floor.
Two boys stand opposite each other.
One of them radiates cold. Frost creeps along the ground beneath his boots, thin white mist curling around his arms. His breath comes out in sharp clouds, and shards of ice slowly form along his forearms like natural armor.
The other boy looks leaner, restless. His jaw keeps tightening and relaxing, like he's biting back something painful. Every time he inhales, the air around his mouth vibrates faintly.
Sound-based, I realize.
Luke leans closer. "This was supposed to be a normal sports stadium," he says quietly. "Football, track, that kind of thing. Then the students figured out how to make it… more interesting."
Andre smirks. "Way more interesting."
Luke continues, "There are rules, though. No killing. No permanent damage. Cross that line, and you're done here."
My eyes stay on the fighters. "Does anyone ever cross it ?"
Andre shrugs. "Not more than once."
The fight starts without a signal.
The ice user slams his foot down, and the ground ripples outward in a wave of frost. Ice spikes burst from the floor, racing toward his opponent like spears.
The sonic boy yells.
Not a scream — a focused, weaponized shout.
The sound wave hits the ice mid-formation, shattering it into glittering shards that explode outward. The shockwave ripples through the arena, rattling the barriers and making the air hum. I feel it in my chest, like standing too close to a speaker at a concert.
The ice boy recovers fast, hurling a frozen lance with a sharp flick of his arm. The sonic user ducks, rolls, and unleashes another shout — shorter, sharper. The blast clips the ice user square in the torso, sending him skidding backward across the frost-covered ground.
He tries to stand.
The sonic boy doesn't give him time.
One final scream — raw, powerful, controlled — slams into the ice user and lifts him clean off his feet. He crashes into the padded wall surrounding the arena, ice armor shattering as he collapses.
A referee steps in immediately.
The match is over.
Cheers ripple through the stands.
Luke smiles, clearly impressed. "Nice control."
Andre nods. "Yeah. That guy's been improving fast."
I realize I've been leaning forward the whole time, adrenaline humming faintly under my skin. This place… it feels dangerous in a way classrooms never could.
Luke suddenly turns to me, eyes bright with an idea.
"You know," he says, "we could spar a little too."
I raise an eyebrow. "A Spar ?"
He grins wider. "I still don't know what your powers are."
Andre chuckles, looking between us. "I'm not gonna lie — that could be fun."
I think about it for half a second.
Then I smile.
"Why not ?"
Luke laughs, already standing. Andre follows, and the three of us start heading down from the bleachers, descending into the stadium corridors.
Toward the arena.
—--
We step onto the arena floor, the sound of the crowd fading into a low, distant murmur. The ground beneath my feet is reinforced concrete, scarred with cracks, scorch marks, and frozen fractures from fights that came before us.
Luke rolls his shoulders, small flames flickering instinctively along his arms before he reins them in. That alone tells me a lot.
' He's better now. '
More control. Less wild burn, more precision.
Andre hops up onto the barrier, arms crossed, clearly enjoying this already. "No killing," he calls out. "And don't embarrass the stadium on Barry's first day."
Luke laughs, then looks back at me. His smile sharpens into something competitive — familiar.
"You ready ?" he asks.
I grin. "I've been waiting to kick your ass for a while now."
We take a few steps back, creating distance. For a moment, it feels like old times — just two friends squaring off, testing each other, seeing how much they've changed.
Luke raises his hands slightly, fire coiling around his fists like living things. "I'm winning this," he says casually.
I tilt my head. "You He used to say that when we were playing Mario Kart, let's see if you can beat me here."
He smirks. "And one of these days, I'll be right."
I could end this in a second.
That thought comes and goes like a blink.
One step. One punch. Done.
But I don't want that.
' I want to feel it. '
"Alright," I say, taking my stance. "Let's see what you've got."
The fight starts without a signal.
I vanish.
The world stretches, slows, stretches further — the stadium frozen in a half-breath. Heat ripples from Luke's flames like thick paint in the air. Every flicker of fire becomes a lazy, drifting wave.
' Okay, I think. Baseline speed. Don't scare him yet. '
I circle him once, twice, fast enough that the air whines but slow enough to be seen. My footsteps crack against the concrete, dust lifting in perfect rings.
Luke turns sharply, eyes widening.
"…Wait."
I skid to a stop a few feet away, grinning.
"You're kidding," he mutters.
Then he laughs — sharp, breathless. "You're a speedster."
Before I can respond, he slams his hands together.
Fire erupts outward.
Not wild. Not uncontrolled.
A calculated burst — a circular wave of heat and flame that forces me back, the air scorching against my skin. I slide, boots screaming against the ground, impressed despite myself.
' Smart, ' I think. ' Area denial. He's not chasing me — he's shrinking my space. '
Luke doesn't waste the opening. He snaps his arm forward, fire condensing into a lance that tears across the arena. I dodge left, then right, then forward, flames snapping at my heels.
He's predicting me.
Not my position — my patterns.
I feel my grin widen.
' Oh, this is fun. '
I accelerate again, faster now. Time fractures. My thoughts split into layers.
—Luke's right shoulder dips before he throws.
—Heat blooms half a second before ignition.
—If I cut behind him now, he'll spin and blast—
I stop myself.
' No. Too easy. '
Instead, I let the blast graze me, heat licking my jacket as I roll across the ground and pop back up.
Luke stares. "You let that hit you."
"Maybe," I say, brushing ash off my sleeve. "Or maybe I want to see if these candle flames actually burn.."
He snorts. "Idiot."
Then his expression hardens.
The flames change color — brighter, tighter, almost white-hot at the core.
Luke plants his feet.
"I don't need to hit you," he says. "I just need to make it impossible for you to move."
Fire floods the arena.
Walls of flame erupt in staggered lines, crisscrossing the floor, cutting off angles, forcing me into narrower paths. Heat presses in from all sides, oxygen thinning, the air shimmering violently.
My mind explodes into motion.
' Okay. Vertical gaps here. Temperature spike there. Flames peak at three meters high—jumping won't work. Sliding won't either. '
I could phase through it.
I could outrun the heat entirely.
Instead, I run through the gaps — threading impossibly tight spaces, inches from burning air, my skin buzzing, my heart hammering with exhilaration.
Luke tracks me.
Every turn I take, he adjusts.
' He's learned, ' I realize. ' He's not just reacting. He's thinking. '
I appear in front of him suddenly, stopping so fast the air cracks.
Luke flinches — just a little.
I tap his chest lightly with two fingers.
"Tag."
Then I'm gone again.
Luke exhales sharply, half-laughing, half-frustrated. "You're unbelievable."
I slow just enough for him to see me clearly now, circling.
"You've gotten stronger," I say honestly.
He nods, flames dancing lower, tighter. "And you're holding back."
I meet his eyes.
"Yeah."
He smirks. "Good. Because I'm not."
Luke roars — fire surging upward into a massive column that slams down toward me like a hammer.
This time, I don't dodge.
Time shatters.
I step forward, through heat that should melt steel, my thoughts razor-sharp.
End it now… or one more exchange ?
I choose one more.
I appear behind Luke, gently flicking the back of his ear before the flames even finish falling.
Then I whisper, right by his shoulder:
"You have to be faster than that."
I move.
A light shove. Perfectly placed. Controlled.
Luke stumbles forward and catches himself, fire dying out as the referee steps in immediately.
Luke gathers everything he has left for one final push.
The fire around him grows — not wild, not chaotic — but disciplined. A steady, pulsing flame that makes the air vibrate. He's breathing hard, sweat running down his face, more focused than I've ever seen him.
This isn't desperation.
It's resolve.
"I'm not going down easily," he says, serious now.
I feel the weight of those words.
' He really believes that. '
The world slows again.
The distant roar of the crowd drops into a low hum. The flames stretch like banners caught in the wind. I can see every microexpression on Luke's face — the calculation, the anticipation, the exact instant he's about to strike.
' Now. '
Luke lunges forward, releasing a concentrated frontal blast of fire, powerful enough to sweep across half the arena. The ground fractures under the thermal pressure.
I don't run backward.
I run forward.
With a single step, the world nearly freezes. The heat becomes something solid, almost visible, rippling around me. I take two lateral steps, dodging the blast by mere inches, feeling the heat brush my skin—
And then I'm beside him.
Luke realizes it too late.
I feel the weight of his body, the tension in his muscles, his balance perfectly aligned for attack… and how a simple shift is enough to break all of it.
One hand on his shoulder.
The other at his side.
"It's over," I say quietly. Not as a taunt. As a warning.
In the blink of an eye, the stadium snaps back into motion.
Luke feels the ground vanish beneath him.
For him, the world becomes a blur of bleachers, sky, and concrete — no violence, no pain — just pure displacement.
The next instant, he's outside the arena, landing firmly beyond the safety line, exactly where eliminated fighters are meant to stand.
On his feet.
Unharmed.
Confused.
The fire around him extinguishes on its own.
Silence.
For half a second, no one understands what just happened.
Then the referee raises his arm.
"Victory… Barry Meyer !"
The stadium erupts.
Luke looks down at his hands, then back at the empty arena… and finally at me. His eyes widen — and then he starts laughing, running a hand through his hair.
"You…" he says, laughing in disbelief. "You carried me out."
I walk to the edge of the arena, resting my hands on my knees, my heart still racing. I look at him and smile.
"Rules are rules," I say. "No permanent damage."
Luke shakes his head, still laughing, and points at me.
"You could've knocked me out."
"I could have," I reply. "But that wouldn't have been fun."
From the stands, Andre lets out a loud whistle. "Write this down," he shouts. "Never fight a speedster."
Luke steps closer to the barrier, still breathing hard, but smiling like someone who just learned something important.
"Seriously," he says. "I'm glad it was you."
I tilt my head. "Same."
As the crowd keeps talking, shouting, speculating…
The crowd erupts.
Luke turns, breathing hard, staring at me — then he laughs, loud and genuine.
"Yeah," he says, shaking his head. "I never stood a chance."
I grin, adrenaline buzzing through me.
"Next time," I say, offering my hand, "I won't go easy."
He takes it, squeezing firmly. "Next time," he replies, smiling wide, "I'll make you sweat for real."
"Now put on some pants, smarty ass," I say, laughing, making him realize that all his clothes burned at the beginning of the fight.
Upon realizing this, he laughs, shaking his head.9