Rise Of The Lesser-Blood

Instructor Cross stood tall on his elevated marble platform, his scarred face hard as he raised his heavy wooden rod. He didn’t waste any time waiting for the crowd to settle. He violently snapped his arm downward, dropping the dark fabric starting flag to the arena sands.

”Winner: Thomas of Class 1-A!” Cross’s amplified voice boomed across the summit. ”Medical mages, clear the sand immediately.”

A group of academy healers dressed in white robes hurried onto the field with their tools, rushing toward Victor, who lay kneeling in the sand with his legs badly mangled by the stone teeth of the traps. Another squad of healers moved toward Thomas, but he waved them away with a sharp, blood-stained swipe of his hand.

Thomas didn’t want their external mana interfering with his system. His body was slow to heal from the grueling attrition; his chest was still bleeding heavily from the obsidian cuts and he dragged his left leg slightly through the dirt, but his internal structure was stable. He turned his back on the arena, his face a perfectly neutral mask as he climbed the stone steps back toward the benches.

The moment he reached the top row, Ryan. Lina and Mina met him, quickly helping him wrap a clean linen sheet across his bleeding chest to staunch the flow.

”You actually did it, Tom,” Ryan whispered intensely, keeping his voice low as he gripped his shoulder. ”Nobody down front even knew what to say.”

Mina tightened the knot on the linen wrap, her hazel eyes serious. ”Thank you for fighting for us.”

”I just did what I had to do,” Thomas said quietly. He sat down heavily on the wooden bench, his face smooth as glass as he closed his eyes, allowing his talent to begin the slow, grueling process of healing his torn tissue far away from the prying eyes of the other classes.

Down on the field, Instructor Cross tapped his rod against the marble platform, his voice cutting cleanly through the ambient noise of the stadium.

”Moving immediately to the next block of the Round 2 elimination tier,” Cross announced, his sharp grey eyes sweeping across the arena. ”Julian of Class 1-A versus Karen of Class 1-C. Grade S Crimson Void versus Grade S Stormcaller.”

A deep, breathless hush fell over the entire stadium. This wasn’t another preliminary filter or a simple class match. This was the first official showcase of two Grade S talents facing one another on the black sand.

High above in the premium booth, the bright-eyed young lady with the vibrant violet hair sat back in her chair, her aristocratic features completely serious as she looked down at the sand. Julian slowly rose from his seat beside her. He didn’t look back at Thomas, nor did he acknowledge the crowd. He simply stepped over the marble railing, a cold, elegant distortion of space wrapping around his boots as his striking ebony eyes locked onto the opposite gate.

From the Class 1-C tunnel, a tall, handsome silver-eyed youth named Karen stepped out into the morning light. The moment his boots touched the black sand, the air pressure around him spiked violently, a massive, swirling vortex of dark storm clouds and localized lightning gathering directly above his head. The war for the top two tournament slots had officially shifted into its highest gear.