As we walk out the academy’s main gate, every cadet within sight stops to stare once again. But following the Freya incident, their gaze has shifted; curiosity and admiration have soured into contempt and disgust. In their eyes, I, the soulless cadet, had the audacity to draw a blade against their beloved maiden, the paragon of all that is good.
I don’t care.
The ssage was delivered. I trust Freya heard it.
Rae, on the other hand, has simply vanished. He hasn’t shown his face even after Dean stepped between and Freya. He didn’t even try to defend his own pupil after a rival house’s chancellor walked off with her. He’s plotting sothing.
Let think about it later.
"Oliver. We’re heading out. Wait for us at the Oathmark."
"On it, boss. See you in ten."
We make our way through the city toward the Oathmark. Veric strolls with both hands behind his head, walking with a calm that’s almost insulting under the circumstances. Pretending the stares don’t exist.
Rhayne keeps her head low, doing sothing my peripheral vision can’t quite catch. I glance at her directly and realize she’s still chewing on sothing she smuggled out of the dining hall.
"Am I really the only one nervous about all this?"
"You decided to throw us all into the fire," Veric says, light and warm as ever. Pure sarcasm syrup. "You’d better accept it. Hurts less that way."
When we reach the Oathmark plaza, we have to wait a few minutes for Oliver.
When we could see him, it was clear that he doesn’t blend into a crowd well. Even from the distance we spot him: the heavyset man with the massive hamr slung over one shoulder, carrying it like it’s nothing more than a duffel bag he forgot to put down before vacation.
He’s traded his old gear too. Still wearing the Vest I gave him from the Turtarex drop, but underneath he’s now in a camouflage combat set in shades of blue, gray, and white. The pattern actually looks good on him. Takes a few years off.
He spots . His face splits into a grin and he extends his arm.
I take it. We grip forearm to forearm, the way we did on the stone in Lost Ark when I told him, ’Count on .’
Veric watches with a sour expression. He’s openly thrown by my familiarity with Oliver.
"Sands... you actually know how to greet soone like a comrade. Wow. I’m completely lost over here."
"I’ve seen a lot of looks on you, Veric. Jealous is a new one."
"Shut up, Sands."
I ignore him. Rhayne is laughing softly behind her hand. First real laugh I’ve heard from her since the dorm incident.
"Hey, Oliver. Good to have you back."
"Oh-ho, Rhayne Vesper! Glad to see you in one piece. How’s the arm?"
"Better... I used so healing potions. It’s mostly recovered..."
I make the introduction official.
"Oliver belongs to a fighter class, Veric. He’s vanguard with you from now on."
Veric steps forward with his nose slightly elevated, extends a hand, and says, "Veric. Azurea." Putting just enough emphasis on the last na.
"Oh-ho. Looks like the boss has even royalty on a leash."
Oliver takes Veric’s hand and shakes it firmly.
"Did you just call my family a dog?"
"We’re all dogs compared to the boss."
"I see you’re still full of energy, Oliver. Let’s go to the Oathring and burn so of it off." I cut the conversation short before the fire could spread between them.
But the color visibly drains from Oliver’s face after hearing ’Oathring.’
After fifteen minutes of walking, we reach the most distant part of the city. The landscape changes completely. Even Azure Pri has its slums.
The marble façades and lantern-lit cafés of the upper districts give way to leaning wood-and-tarp tenents, narrow alleys, the sll of fish guts and stale OXI smoke, vendors selling things that might be food. From a distance, a mass of bodies clustered around a brightly lit space tells us we’ve arrived.
The Oathring.
An open-air arena built directly by Ocean’s Law. Pillars of energy mark out the periter, glowing a soft blue at the height of a man, locking the combat zone into a circle about fifty paces across. Around it, a crowd two-deep on every side—fighters waiting their turn, drunks shouting odds at each other, won selling skewered fish, teens ducking between the legs of adults to get a better view.
A street fight in the open air, civic-approved.
Inside an Oathring, combat between Divers is unrestricted. The Ocean’s Law treats damage between consenting fighters as legal. No Notoriety penalty. No system flag.
It’s the sa principle Headmaster Kaelen used to wrap the entire academy grounds in a permanent artificial Oathring through a long-term Ocean’s Law contract in the battle royale phase.
Two n are already fighting in the center as we approach. The shouting climbs as we get closer. A wiry old man works the crowd, moving from spectator to spectator collecting bets or paying winnings. He collects more than he pays. They always do.
"So this is how you want us to train, Sands?" Veric exhales hard. He clips his shield onto his right forearm.
"Is there a better way to train against people than fighting people?"
What Veric doesn’t know is that we’ll be raiding a Deepwarden base soon, and this is where he’s going to pick up real combat experience. Sparring against cadets isn’t worth much when the n on the other side of the dive are veterans rotated out of the trenches.
Unlike the Nomine Gladiatus, the Oathring has no rules. You can kill your opponent if you want. The system doesn’t punish it. With a Gladiatus, killing the nad opponent triggers severe consequences—uncurable OXI bleed for several days and a heavy Scale debt that nobody recovers from quickly.
I keep checking until I find it.
Beside the Oathring stands a small wooden stand. Two old n sit behind it with stacks of paper and a row of lacquered black boxes. They’re collecting signatures, registering challenges. The boxes are for the bets. Whatever you wager goes inside, and the box doesn’t open until the fight is over—not even if you smash it. It’s tamper-proof under the Law itself.
"Co on. Ti to challenge sobody."
I point Veric, Rhayne, and Oliver toward the registration stand.
Veric stares at it. Then at the open arena. Then back at .
He sighs the sigh of a man being walked toward his own funeral.
"Fine."
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