Barbaric. That was Lucia's imdiate assessnt of the Lower District's Battle Festival.
The arena was less a sporting stadium and more a primal beast cage enclosed by thousands of frenzied, bloodthirsty spectators. It was a chaotic theater where brilliant, pierces of magical pyrotechnics wove through deafening waves of cheers and gutter insults. Fighters with cords of knotted muscle clutched sharp halberds, broadswords, and twin-axes, their eyes burning with a desperate, crimson blood-lust. Amidst the spray of sweat and teeth, they systematically dismantled their opponents' bodies and spirits until the loser collapsed and was hauled away by guards like at-cargo, while the victor stood in the red sand, basking in the roar of the crowd.
In the tiered galleries, the wide ring closest to the sands lacked pews. Instead, it was lined with dozens of heavy writing desks serving as the arena's gambling floor. Well-dressed actuaries sat behind these benches, maintaining a cold, systematic focus as they recalculated odds based on the shifting matchups, processing a non-stop rain of coin bags from shouting, spitting gamblers.
The fortunes of the sand changed in a heartbeat, and the betting lines moved with them. Wagering on a simple victor was rely the baseline; derivatives flooded the sheets—gamblers bet on consecutive win-streaks, the exact duration of a match, or the severity of the fractures inflicted. Ticket prices for entry were nominal, yielding a small profit for the venue, but the gambling matrix generated a staggering, exorbitant river of wealth. It was the precise reason why the capital's most powerful nobles continuously bought into the business.
The Battle Festival operated as a year-long competitive season. It was currently late autumn, aning the critical sumr leagues—the high-yield period where championship points were consolidated—had already concluded. The apex warriors who held a legitimate shot at the year-end grand championship were currently in deep physical recovery. Those still bleeding in the pits were either green novices or desperate, second-rate veterans scraping by on single-match purses.
Consequently, as the winter solstice approached, the technical finesse and bloodiness of the duels dropped noticeably. Yet, the congregation's fervor remained unyielding. Entertainnt for the common populace was a scarce commodity; this raw violence was the most intoxicating drug available in the lower city.
"Twenty-first match! Black Iron Rank fighter Lance claims victory! Elapsed ti: twenty-eight seconds!" In the epicenter of the ring, a portly host clad in a tailored velvet tuxedo announced the result through a brass amplifying horn.
A chaotic wave of rowdy whistles and cheers erupted from the rafters. A few high-stakes gamblers who had dumped significant purses on the opposing Black Iron veteran spat curses into the sand, but none contested the ledger. The duel had been an embarrassing, lopsided joke.
Of those twenty-eight seconds, the loser had spent twenty shouting threats and six marching to the center marker. It had taken Lansseax precisely two seconds to end the farce with a clean, blindingly swift roundhouse kick to his liver.
Lucia traced her movents with practiced ease. His sister had suppressed her raw strength and speed to the paraters of an ordinary mortal, using none of her devastating draconic arts. Her victory was a pure display of flawless, natural kinetic technique.
"See? That is the basic sequence," Lansseax murmured as she returned to their bench, dusting fine sand from her leather trousers. "The quality of the current roster is abysmal, but if you desire to hone your blades and form against a living target, these pits are a viable laboratory. Once you climb to the Mithril tier and face the Gold champions, the martial value rises. They are considerably more lethal than your average Leyndell vanguard knight."
"The absolute peak is Gold?" Lucia asked, surprised. Gold? That's it?
"Exactly," Lansseax replied casually, resting her chin on her fist. "Black Iron, Bronze, Purple Steel, Mithril, Gold. Gold reflects the supre architecture of the Erdtree, so the administrators set it as the highest sovereign rank for a fighter."
"Understood," Lucia muttered, rubbing the nape of his neck. Before he could inquire further, the brass horn blared his pseudonym across the rafters.
"Twenty-second match! Black Iron Rank fighter Lucifer versus—" The announcer paused with theatrical precision, a cunning, greasy smile splitting his face as he scanned his slate. "—the Purple Steel Rank titan, Bosares!"
The roaring stadium went dead silent for a fraction of a second, followed imdiately by an explosion of deafening cheers. Thousands of arms waved in unison, chanting Bosares's na like a war drum. Within seconds, the gambling desks were completely swamped by a tide of desperate bettors. Even though the actuaries slashed the odds to a miserable twenty-to-one, the disparity did nothing to slow the stampede.
"Three hundred Runes on Bosares!"
"Two hundred says the rookie doesn't survive three minutes!"
"Five hundred!"
The desks were rapidly buried beneath canvas pouches clinking with cold tal. Across the continent, Runes remained the universal currency, their mintage tightly controlled by a joint agreent between the Three Dynasties.
The physical coins were divided into three denominations: Gold coins denoting 50 Runes, Silver coins denoting 10 Runes, and Copper pieces representing a single Rune. The design across all three mirrored a dilated human pupil, embedded with complex divine security seals that made counterfeiting a physical impossibility. Crucially, these circulating tokens were pure fiat; they possessed none of the taphysical properties required to increase a demigod's strength.
"It appears your public reputation is sowhat lacking," Lansseax chuckled behind her silk veil.
"Sister," Lucia whispered, his eyes locked onto the chaotic queues at the desks. "How much hard coin did we pack into the carriage today?"
"Why?"
"Don't just sit there. Go dump every coin we have on my na." Mocked by thousands as a sacrificial lamb, Lucia felt no phantom injury to his pride. Instead, a deep, predatory thrill raced through his blood. To his eyes, the screaming spectators no longer looked like a crowd—they looked like an unsecured vault of walking purses.
Because of the sheer volu of bets flooding the floor, the wager phase was forced to extend for fifteen grueling minutes. By the ti Lucia slowly stepped into the glaring sunlight of the pit amidst a hail of boos and flying garbage, his soul was light with anticipation.
Before departing the rectory, he had tightly bound his distinctive silver hair and donned a common steel close-faced helm. His silhouette was entirely unremarkable; from collar to boot, he looked like a baseline novice who would likely break his own ankle in the sand.
Dozens of paces away, Bosares was basking in the adoration of the masses. He was encased in heavy, masterwork enchanted plate and held a massive, eight-sided war-hamr, its iron face dark with old, dried bloodstains from years of arena conquests. Purely on appearances, no sane man would have bet a copper piece on Lucia's side.
In the premium box offering the absolute best view of pit four, Old Hart had temporarily abandoned his ledger duties to watch his handiwork. It was a pleasant way to unwind after a long day of bureaucracy. Surrounding him were minor supervisors from the Colosseum's operational departnts, all offering sycophantic greetings to their master.
"Bosares secures his promotion to Mithril after this bout, correct?" the logistics chief asked, leaning forward.
"Aye. A single clean victory," another replied, checking his slate. "Once he climbs, he's practically guaranteed a seat in the winter solstice grand championships. He's the only legitimate heavy left in the autumn brackets."
"Exactly. The elite who had the points for the Grand Festival have already migrated north. The remaining fighters are just small fry trading bruises for coin. If they break their own necks, they won't salvage their record by the solstice. Business is going to be lean over the winter."
"Frankly, matching a future Mithril veteran against a Black Iron rookie... I don't know which complete idiot drafted this match-slip—"
"Quiet, all of you!" Old Hart snapped, his face darkening with sudden irritation. "Are you here to analyze the economy or watch the blood? If you keep this useless chatter up, you'll ruin my morning entirely!"
The supervisors wisely swallowed their words, bowing their heads in compliance. At that exact second, the grand iron opening bell rang across the listone arches, and every eye in the stadium shifted in unison to the sand below.
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