The whispers in the Cold Hall died the moment the iron door swung open.
A man stepped into the blue glow, his movements light as if he were dancing on air. He wore robes of polished black silk embroidered with silver coins, and his face was split by a smile so wide, so fixed, it seemed carved into his skin. Shiranai—the one with the coin symbol on his pillar. The refugees fell silent, every eye on him as he moved to the center of the hall, his boots making no sound on the stone floor.
"Good morning, my dear guests!" His voice was bright as birdsong, echoing off the high ceiling. "I trust you're settling in well? Such a lovely space we've prepared for you—so safe, so organized."
Yoshiya sat up straight, his hands resting on his knees as he listened. He'd spent years studying systems—how mana flowed through the body, how communities held together, how balance kept life alive. Now he dissected Shiranai's words like a faulty log from a broken machine, parsing every phrase for meaning beneath the cheer.
"Good morning"—as if this were a tavern, not a prison.
"Guests"—as if they'd been invited.
"Organized"—the word landed heavy, like a stone in still water.
Shiranai spread his arms wide, and the ceiling crystals flared brighter, casting his smile in sharp relief. "Eldoria thrives on balance. We have rules here—simple ones, really. Strength sustains. Weakness drains. Every resource in our great city must earn its place. Every person, too."
Yoshiya felt a chill crawl up his spine—not from the cold, but from the clarity of the logic. He saw it now, laid bare: the Cold Hall was not just a holding space. It was a filter. The refugees were raw material, and what Shiranai was about to propose was a sorting algorithm designed to separate what the system could use from what it would discard.
"A tournament!" Shiranai continued, his smile never wavering. "A chance to prove your worth! Combat, craft, cunning—whatever your gift, bring it forward. Winners join the Division's ranks, or earn homes in the Pillar District. Losers… well. Let's just say we'll find a use for every part of you. Nothing is wasted here!"
Anger rippled through the crowd first—shouts of "Slavery!" and "We're not cattle!" from Kaisei's group. Then fear—hushed whispers from those who'd already seen what the Division did with "unused resources." Yoshiya tracked the emotions like a storm front, watching how they moved through the hall, how they fed the crystals above.
Omina's hand tightened on his arm, her fingers digging into his skin. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the low thrum of energy that meant her Berserk State was waking—simmering just beneath her calm exterior, triggered by the casual violation of something basic and vital. Dignity. Respect. The idea that a person's worth could be measured like grain in a sack.
"He's talking about culling livestock," she murmured, her voice low and rough. "'Prove your worth'—that just means 'show us you're worth the feed.'"
Yoshiya nodded, his eyes still on Shiranai. The man's cheer was a mask, but underneath was something cold and precise—like a merchant weighing coins, or a farmer counting heads in his pen. There was no malice in it. No cruelty. Just a total lack of regard for anything that didn't serve the system.
Then a voice cut through the noise—clear, sharp, unafraid.
"I'll enter."
Seiko stepped forward from her cluster, her braided hair tied back with a strip of leather, her shoulders squared. She'd been a Leader in Ostoria; Yoshiya remembered seeing her lead defenses during the first Valerian raid. Now she stood in the blue glow, her eyes locked on Shiranai's smiling face.
"Fight, craft, or cunning," she said. "I'll fight."
A murmur ran through the crowd—part admiration, part fear. Kaisei moved to stand beside her, his scarred jaw set. "Count me in too." Soon others were shouting their names, their voices rising with a desperate hope that felt more like surrender.
Yoshiya looked at Omina. She met his gaze, and in her green eyes he saw exactly what he felt in his own chest: understanding. Seiko wasn't being foolish. She was adapting. In a system that only respected strength, only rewarded those who could prove their utility, displaying strength was the only way to survive. To keep control. To maybe, one day, change the rules.
Shiranai clapped his hands together, his smile widening. "Wonderful! Splendid! We'll begin preparations at once. Rest well, my friends—you'll need your strength!"
He turned and walked back toward the iron door, his steps light as before. The door swung closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving the hall in silence once more. The whispers started up again, but they were different now—charged with a nervous energy, a mix of resolve and dread.
Yoshiya pulled Omina close, his hand covering hers where it still rested on his arm. "The factory farm is always most efficient," he murmured, quoting a line from a book he'd read back in Orleaf, about the dark side of industrial progress. "The pigs never see the slaughterhouse design."
Omina leaned her head against his shoulder, the heat from her skin beginning to fade as she reined in her Berserk State. Her fingers traced the edge of his white robes, then she looked up at him, her eyes hard with determination.
"Then we don't be pigs," she said. "We be wolves that learn the fence."