The sheer, monuntal scale of Leyndell dwarfed every other tropolis in the world. If a traveler relied strictly on their own two feet, it would take half a month of continuous walking just to map the periter. Because their daylight hours were limited, Lansseax had drafted a streamlined, efficient route: departing from the eastern plaza, cutting across the Ancient Dragon Square, marching down the bustling expanse of Beliville Avenue into the Lower District, and winding through the naless grid-alleys of the south before circling back to the Golden Temple.
In the grand architecture of the capital, the northern sectors serving the Royal Court were reserved for gods, ministers, and high-court barons. The vast, sprawling expanse to the south was where the commoners, rchants, and artisans lived, labored, and died. These two worlds were physically cleaved by the churning waters of the Rodel River, dividing the population into the Upper and Lower Districts.
The Lower District comprised seventy percent of the capital's total geography. It was a dense hive of stone tenents, chaotic markets, and roaring workshops—the true, unvarnished heart of Leyndell. As for the pristine Upper City where every square foot of marble was worth its weight in gold, Lucia already resided in its absolute apex within Valeria Hall; he had no desire to play the tourist there.
Crossing the massive spans of the Caven Bridge at the southern terminus of Beliville Avenue, Lucia instantly felt the atmosphere shift. The architecture remained grand, but the design abandoned sprawling courtyards for vertical density and space efficiency. The garnts of the common citizens were cut from utilitarian cloth rather than northern silk, yet they remained undeniably decent and well-maintained.
Furthermore, the density of wandering sellswords, adventurers, and border-warriors increased tenfold. Most walked the cobblestones in worn leather brigandines or rusted iron spaulders, their only possessions of worth being the handy blades strapped to their hips or spines. Their hawk-like gazes constantly tracked passing rchant caravans and lingered on the colossal silhouettes of the Colosseums rising above the rooftops, their eyes burning with a raw hunger for contract work.
Lucia had studied the layout of the Lower District through the scrolls of the Farum Azula library, but the living reality was infinitely more vibrant. He listened intently to Lansseax's quiet comntary, systematically aligning his ta-knowledge with the physical world unfolding before him.
To his eyes, the underlying engine of this society was clear. The baseline standard of living for a common human citizen in Leyndell was entirely on par with the Knight class of Farum Azula. As long as one was born a "Golden Person" and not an "untouchable" slave like the Misbegottens or Demi-humans, they commanded considerable economic respect.
Yet, this high-yield luxury was uniquely localized to the capital. Behind the standard lay Leyndell's staggering productivity, which multiplied the output of any contemporary city by a factor of four. It was an empire sustained by a continuous, predatory blood transfusion from the outer provinces.
The citizens of the capital almost never engaged in the backbreaking, low-yield physical labor of farming, herding, or mining. Decades before the dragon wars, the demographic had shifted systematically into advanced manufacturing, comrce, and high-tier services. They relied entirely on foreign logistics for raw yields and basic grain.
Outer iron and wool entered these gates to be refined into masterwork armants and fine garnts by the capital's guilds. Once Leyndell's internal markets were saturated, the excess was shipped via ard caravans back to the corners of the continent. Through this endless economic cycle, the Golden People maintained an artificial monopoly on wealth, and the dynasty's supre national strength flourished through Leyndell, its beating heart.
The overwhelming presence of rcenaries wasn't a symptom of decay; it was the natural byproduct of an aggressive, expanding empire. To this day, the Golden Army maintained the highest ratio of sellsword contracts among the Three Great Dynasties. Caelid, celebrated as the "Cradle of rcenaries," had effectively beco the exclusive training ground for the Erdtree's auxiliary forces. The lethal horsen and archers of Caelid were the iron spine of the expansion campaigns, second only to the elite Rodel Knights. Conversely, the Carian Royal Family also retained a legion of rcenary Cuckoo Knights, but the Full Moon had never truly trusted them, leaving them isolated from the true military core of Liurnia.
Aside from border campaigns, the network of colossal Colosseums established during the reign of the First Elden Lord, Godfrey, offered these sellswords a direct avenue to glory.
When high court nobles reached an irreconcilable blood-feud or legal gridlock, they resolved the dispute through an honorary duel in the arena. Decent lords, of course, rarely entered the sands themselves; they appointed champions to bleed in their stead. For minor barons who lacked a standing vanguard, hiring a lethal, veteran wanderer who lived by the edge of a blade was the premier tactical choice.
Furthermore, these arena structures—bankrolled by the highest echelons of the court—operated their own competitive leagues. They offered unconditional entry to any warrior who did not fear the sight of his own blood, even issuing standard iron armants to impoverished adventurers who couldn't afford a sword. The system was a strict, rciless, points-based tournant designed to filter out the weak.
A victor in the sands claid a significant pouch of runes, and those who achieved consecutive streaks were invited to the inter-city grand leagues. The champions who topped the annual brackets inevitably caught the eye of the great houses, rising overnight from gutter sellswords to highly paid commanders of noble private vanguards. As for the casualties, the rules explicitly prohibited the slaughter of a human opponent; any degree of shattering injury or permanent disfigurent was simply the tax a fighter paid to enter the sands.
Since the dawn of Godfrey's martial golden age, this blood-sport had endured as a sacred cultural pillar across the continent. The people knew it simply as the Battle Festival.
"What? We're entering the brackets?" Lucia stood before the grand listone archway of the Serante Colosseum, staring at the cloaked Lansseax with a face full of utter astonishnt.
"Just a few introductory rounds, it's harmless fun," Lansseax chirped through her silk veil, her fingers locking onto his chainmail sleeve and dragging him into the interior tunnels before he could formulate an escape plan. "Besides, I used to frequent this place during the off-seasons."
Harmless fun? Lucia groaned internally. From that casual tone, you're a serial offender. He thought back to the legendary rumors of Lansseax hand-delivering beatings to court ministers over the last ten years. He blindly wagered his entire rune balance that at least half of those "honorary duels" had been initiated by his sister under a fake na.
Fortunately, their disguises were absolute. The elderly registrar behind the heavy front desk didn't register the High Priestess's grace behind her oil-black leather and assassin's cowl. He rely checked their gear, flipped open his logbook, and slid two heavy, black iron dals shaped like short swords across the wood—the markers of the baseline tier.
[Lance: Fighter No. 9856. Rank: Black Iron.]
[Lucifer: Fighter No. 9857. Rank: Black Iron.]
Old Hart, the veteran manager of the Serante registry, closed the massive logbook—a to as thick as a theological dictionary—and habitually stroked his white goatee. Without lifting his gaze from his inkpot, he muttered, "You're bracketed for a match in roughly half an hour. Do you require standard-issue iron?"
"No need. We brought our own steel," "Lance" replied, her voice smooth and careless.
The mont those syllables cleared her veil, Old Hart's hair stood completely on end. His hand jerked, nearly tipping his inkwell. He scrambled to lift his balding head, his eyes widening through his thick reading glasses, but the pair had already bypassed the barrier, moving into the fighter preparation cells with a fluid, practiced ease.
"By the Erdtree... thank the heavens, it isn't her," Old Hart whispered, wiping a sudden bead of cold sweat from his forehead as he watched the black-leather hood vanish down the hall. He peered through his lenses until his eyes watered, confirming that the gait didn't match the grand, terrifying posture of the Ancient Dragon Priestess who had once broken a Marquis's collarbone in pit three.
The Serante Colosseum was bankrolled by the formidable Duke Duolis, aning they could handle high-level noble disputes without fear of political backlash, but that didn't an Hart enjoyed dragging half-dead Golden Heroes out of the sand every Tuesday. If the big shots treated his pits like a personal execution block every week, the arena's profit margins would implode.
He let out a ragged breath, pulling the heavy registry book back toward him. His eyes scanned the ink. The na Lance was a common commoner's handle—he had registered at least five different "Lances" in the last fortnight. But this other na... Lucifer.
"What a bizarre, unsettling handle," Old Hart grumbled, his lingering panic souring into a petty, bureaucratic spite. He tapped his charcoal pencil against his teeth, his eyes shifting to the active match-board for Pit Four. With a swift, malicious stroke, he crossed out Lucia's projected opponent—a baseline novice sellsword—and substituted a new na from the standby pool.
The clerk let out a dry, vindictive chuckle as he blotted the wet ink. "You crossed my desk on a bad morning, kid. Consider it a lesson in capital manners. Enjoy the pit!"
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