The next pair froze at the arena entrances.
The crowd fell silent.
For a few seconds, the only sound left was that broken, unhinged laughter echoing through the arena.
I stood frozen in front of the screen—just like everyone else in the waiting room.
We watched as the smoke slowly began to clear.
First—a silhouette.
Tall.
Then black clothing.
The dust from the impact settled. The haze thinned—
and finally, everyone saw what had entered the arena.
At the center, in a crater smashed into the concrete floor, stood a tall, gaunt man dressed entirely in black.
The camera zoomed in.
His head was thrown back, his face twisted—something between pleasure and madness.
Tattoos covered him completely, layered so thick it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began. Metal gleamed everywhere—piercings, rings, studs—like ornaments hanging on a corpse. Chains of different sizes dragged from his clothes. Spikes were stitched into his jacket and pants.
He cut off his laughter abruptly.
Then drew in a sharp breath through his nose—
like a starving animal catching the scent of blood.
The stands stirred.
No one understood.
Was this part of the show—
or had something gone very wrong?
I didn't stay.
I rushed for the exit where the upper stands were visible.
Just as I thought.
The movement above said it all—
this wasn't part of the show.
"Oh… this is good," the stranger drawled, his voice high—wrong, grating. He took another deep breath, spreading his arms wide. "That smell. Blood. Fear. Thick in the air… I missed the beginning. Shame. I'm sure it was better then."
People were starting to understand.
Panic spread—slow at first, then faster.
"Please remain calm," Martha said, her voice shaking.
"No. No—don't stop," the stranger said, turning to her with a smile. "Let it build. Let me enjoy it properly. Scream. Run. Tear each other apart. Go on."
"Lord Loen," an old voice cut in—Socrati. "We are honored by your presence at this humble event. Please—join me."
"Honored?" The laughter snapped out again—sharp, ugly. Then stopped just as fast. "Then why didn't I get an invitation?" His voice dropped—cold enough to freeze the air.
"Forgive me. I was told Lord Loen was not in the city. This is my failure."
"Yes, Nathaniel… it is," Loen said calmly. "So tell me—if I didn't get to enjoy the show from the start… how are you planning to make up for that?"
Silence.
The Head of Administration didn't answer.
The upper stands shifted, restless.
Only Blocking and Maurice remained seated—calm, untouched, like none of this concerned them.
"And what would you like, my lord?" Socrati asked at last. He tried to hide it—but his voice trembled.
"I want blood. I want something worth watching. Why else would I come here?" Loen spread his arms.
His feet lifted off the ground.
He hovered.
Black smoke thickened beneath him, lifting him higher—like something unseen pulling him upward. Higher and higher, until he could see everything—the arena, the stands, the buildings beyond.
"Let's see…" he said lazily, scanning the surroundings. "What can we break to make this interesting?"
No one moved.
No one even dared to breathe too loudly.
The entire arena locked up.
I scanned the upper rows, fast—too fast—trying to find familiar faces among the aristocrats and their guards.
Clyde. Kristina.
There.
Both surrounded by tight circles of Specials.
Lower tiers—fewer guards.
Weaker protection.
My eyes kept moving.
Searching.
One more.
Where the hell—
I stepped forward.
Then another step.
Passed one of the duelists frozen at the entrance and looked again.
Andrew was nowhere.
"Oh?" Loen's gaze snapped to me instantly. A smile spread across his face. "Little mice crawling out of their holes."
Every head turned.
Right at me.
"Eager to entertain me, boy?"
I frowned but didn't answer.
What was I supposed to do?
This was a demon.
Even the Head of Administration—with guards—wasn't daring to push back.
I raised my head.
Not toward him—
but toward the two demons behind the reinforced glass.
At that exact moment—
Blocking looked at me.
And smiled.
"I asked you something," that same cold, high voice rang out across the arena.
"This student isn't strong enough to entertain you," I said.
The words came out—
and I heard it.
The fear in my own voice.
It made my stomach twist.
That laughter again.
Sharp.
Ugly.
Cut off mid-sound.
"I've got it," Loen said, already looking past the arena. "The little mouse can entertain me after all. And the audience up there as well."
My whole body tensed.
This was going to end badly.
The upper stands had no visual barriers.
Clear glass.
They followed his gaze—
looking beyond the arena.
"Lord Loen," the Head of Administration spoke again, forcing the words out, "that building only houses the injured. There is nothing there of interest."
"A wounded Special is useless," Loen said lightly. "So tell me—what will the little rabbit do? This should be fun… very fun."
He dropped down lightly—landing on the glass roof of Socrati's chamber.
Then turned—
toward a small one-story building.
The medical station.
"My lord…" Socrati's voice broke. He sounded old now. Powerless. "Please…"
"What exactly are you asking for, Nathaniel?" Loen replied calmly. "You should've thought about that before deciding I wasn't worth inviting."
"There are still healthy Specials there," Socrati pushed on. "They deliver medicine. And three student medics caring for the injured… they… they are not useless…"
"If two healthy Specials can't get themselves out, they're not worth noticing," Loen said. "And as for healers—why keep so many? Fewer mediocre ones means less trash weighing this world down."
Then—
he turned his head.
Looked straight at me.
Around me, the defenders shifted—fast, controlled. Some preparing to move. To intervene.
No one knew what he'd do next.
But everyone understood one thing—
nothing good was coming.
"No one moves!" Loen barked suddenly.
The sound cracked through the arena.
"Anyone who takes a single step to save that useless trash dies on the spot."
The Specials froze.
Waiting.
Orders.
"All except you."
His long, thin arm—wrapped in chains—lifted.
Pointing straight at me.
"Go on," he said, smiling wider. "Entertain me, little one."
"Everyone… stay where you are," the old man's voice echoed weakly across the stands.
And it sounded like a verdict—
a death sentence—
for the wounded who had no idea what was coming.