The massive Erzel Stadium fell entirely silent.
A million pairs of eyes locked onto the single, lone figure standing at the iron gates.
Rias stood on the edge of the dirt arena. He didn't wear shiny silver armor like the noble heirs. He didn't carry a massive, glowing weapon like the seasoned mercenaries. He just wore his simple, dark blue coat, his hands resting casually in his pockets.
For a few seconds, the crowd didn't know how to react. They just stared at the messy blonde hair and the sharp, relaxed crimson eyes.
Then, someone in the lower stands pointed a trembling finger.
"That hair... those red eyes..." a man whispered loudly.
"It's him," another voice gasped. "That is the Fiancé of the Princess Amyra. That is the son of the devil!"
"Leonhart!" a woman screamed from the middle tiers, her voice cracking with pure, unadulterated hatred.
"That is the Leonhart trash!"
The realization spread through the massive stadium like a drop of blood in an ocean of sharks. The sheer, overwhelming hatred of a million people erupted all at once.
"Die!" a massive mercenary roared from the stands, throwing a half-empty wooden mug of ale toward the arena floor. It shattered against the dirt, dozens of feet away from Rias.
"Kill the bastard!"
"Tear him to pieces! Avenge the northern army!"
"Skin him alive!"
The noise was deafening. It felt like standing in the middle of a massive thunderstorm. The sheer killing intent rolling off the crowd was thick enough to choke a normal person. These people had lost fathers, brothers, and sons to Duke Reinhard's blade during the border war.
To them, Rias wasn't just a fifteen-year-old boy. He was the living, breathing symbol of their pain. They wanted to watch him get butchered on the dirt.
Up on the floating crystal balcony, the Velmer Royal Family watched the chaos unfold.
Crown Prince Karlos let out a loud, mocking laugh. He leaned over the crystal railing, looking down at Rias with a cruel smirk.
"Look at the pathetic rat. He is going to wet his pants before the match even begins."
Second Prince Mark nodded eagerly.
"He should have stayed hidden in his bedroom. Now the whole empire gets to watch him get stomped into the dirt."
Princess Amyra sat rigidly in her chair.
She was still furious that he had made her wait, but as she listened to the roaring death threats from the crowd, a tiny sliver of doubt crept into her mind.
'He knows exactly how much this empire hates him,' Amyra thought, her golden eyes narrowing.
'He knew walking out there would put a massive target on his back. So why did he show up looking so calm? Why isn't he trembling?'
Down on the arena floor, Rias didn't tremble. He didn't flinch.
He just kept walking.
His boots crunched softly against the dry dirt. He ignored the screaming crowd. He ignored the garbage and empty cups being thrown from the front rows.
The heavy, suffocating pressure of a million angry voices simply bounced right off him. With his [Divine Lawbreaker] skill resting in his soul, the concept of fear or intimidation simply did not exist for him anymore.
'Look at them scream,' Rias thought cheerfully.
'They really hate my father. Good thing I am just a transmigrator. I don't feel a single ounce of guilt for a war I didn't fight in.'
He reached the designated waiting zone for the participants and stopped, leaning casually against the high stone wall of the arena.
The other fighters standing nearby immediately stepped away from him. They backed up as if he were carrying a highly contagious disease. They glared at him, gripping the hilts of their swords and axes with white-knuckled intensity.
Rias just smiled back at them.
Suddenly, a loud, magical gong echoed through the stadium, completely cutting through the noise of the angry crowd.
*BONG!*
The head referee stepped up to a massive, elevated stone podium in the exact center of the arena. He was an old, heavily scarred veteran of the Imperial Army. He wore dark black armor and carried a massive broadsword strapped to his back.
He raised his hand, and the stadium slowly quieted down.
"Fighters!" the referee shouted. His voice was magically amplified, echoing like thunder across the stadium seats. "Welcome to the Imperial Tournament! Today, two thousand of you stand on this dirt. But only a fraction of you will advance to the main event!"
The crowd cheered wildly.
"The rules for the first elimination round are simple!" the referee continued, pointing down at the massive dirt ring. "There are too many of you to fight one-on-one. So, we will cut the numbers down in the most efficient way possible."
The referee pulled a glowing magical scroll from his belt and held it up high.
"The two thousand participants have been randomly divided into four separate batches!" the referee announced.
"Batch A, Batch B, Batch C, and Batch D! Each batch contains exactly five hundred fighters!"
The participants in the waiting area began to whisper among themselves, looking around nervously.
"When your batch is called," the veteran referee explained, a cruel smile forming on his scarred face, "all five hundred of you will step into the ring at the exact same time. There are no teams. There are no safe zones. This is a free-for-all battle royale!"
The crowd roared in absolute approval. A free-for-all was the bloodiest, most chaotic type of fight. It guaranteed pure entertainment.
"You may fight whoever you want! You may use whatever weapons you brought! You may form temporary alliances or stab your friends in the back! It does not matter to me!" the referee shouted.
He held up a single, metal-gloved finger.
"The match will not stop until exactly four hundred and fifty fighters are either knocked unconscious, thrown out of the ring, or surrender! Only fifty fighters from each batch will remain standing! Those fifty will advance to the next round!"
Rias listened to the rules, nodding slowly.
'Five hundred people step in. Only fifty step out,' Rias analyzed the situation. 'That means ninety percent of the fighters in the ring are going to be eliminated immediately. It is a pure meat grinder. The weak will be crushed in the first ten seconds.'
"If you are knocked out of the white chalk ring outlining the center of the arena, you are eliminated! If you fall and cannot stand back up for a count of ten, you are eliminated! If you try to run away, you are eliminated!"
The referee lowered his hand, his eyes scanning the sea of eager, nervous fighters.
"We will begin immediately! Will all fighters assigned to Batch A please step into the center ring!"
A massive, glowing magical screen appeared floating high above the arena. Thousands of names rapidly scrolled across the blue light, sorting the participants into their groups.
Rias looked up at the screen.
There it was. Right at the very top of the list for the first group.
Rias von Leonhart - Batch A.
"Well," Rias muttered, pushing himself off the stone wall.
"Looks like I am up first."
He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and started walking toward the massive white chalk circle drawn in the exact center of the dirt arena.
All around him, other fighters began to march forward.
There were massive, hulking mercenaries carrying giant war hammers. There were sleek, fast-looking assassins wearing lightweight leather armor and dual daggers. There were several minor noble heirs, wearing shiny silver chest plates and carrying expensive, glowing magical swords.
They all stepped into the massive white ring. Five hundred people packed into the center of the stadium.
It was crowded. The tension in the air was so thick it felt like trying to breathe underwater. Every single fighter was looking at the people standing next to them, sizing them up, trying to decide who to attack first.
But as the seconds ticked by, a strange phenomenon began to occur.
One by one, the fighters in Batch A stopped looking at each other.
A tall mercenary with a scar across his face turned his head, his eyes locking onto a specific spot in the ring. A minor noble heir slowly shifted his stance, pointing his silver sword in the exact same direction. A group of heavily armed street thugs stopped whispering to each other and turned their heads.
Within a minute, the chaotic, nervous energy of the five hundred fighters completely vanished. It was replaced by a singular, focused, and overwhelming bloodlust.
Four hundred and ninety-nine fighters were no longer looking at each other.
They were all looking directly at Rias.
Rias stood perfectly still in his spot. He looked to his left. A group of ten mercenaries were glaring at him, their weapons drawn. He looked to his right. A dozen noble heirs were sneering at him, mana already gathering around their hands. He looked straight ahead. A massive wall of angry, heavily armed fighters blocked his path.
He was completely surrounded.
Up in the VIP deck, Kaelen laughed out loud.
"Look at that! The entire batch is going to jump him at the exact same time! He won't even last three seconds!"
Lukas frowned, leaning over the railing.
"That's not a fight. That's an execution. The referee should step in."
Nia sat silently, her violet eyes locked onto the blonde boy in the ring. Her face remained blank, but her eyes narrowed slightly in deep observation.
Up on the royal balcony, Emperor Valerius smirked. This was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to show the empire that the mighty Leonhart bloodline could be crushed into the dirt by the common people of Velmer.
Down in the ring, the head referee saw exactly what was happening.
He saw that all four hundred and ninety-nine fighters had formed a silent, unspoken alliance. They had all agreed on one single rule before the match even started: The Leonhart kid dies first.
The referee didn't care. His job was to officiate the match, not to ensure fairness.
"Fighters!" the referee yelled, raising his hand high into the air.
The stadium held its breath. A million people fell completely silent, waiting for the slaughter to begin.
The fighters in Batch A tightened their grips on their weapons. Some of them began to slowly step forward, shrinking the circle around Rias. They wanted to be the one to land the first blow. They wanted the glory of taking down the son of the enemy Duke.
Rias stood in the dead center of the hostile circle.
He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even drop into a combat stance. He just stood there, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
A slow, terrifyingly calm smile spread across his face.
'Four hundred and ninety-nine people,' Rias thought, 'They think they have me trapped. They think I am a helpless sheep surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves.'
He looked around the circle one last time, making eye contact with the glaring fighters.
'They don't realize,' Rias chuckled internally, 'that I am not locked in here with them. They are locked in here with me.'
The referee swung his hand down in a sharp, violent motion.
"Begin!"
The massive magical gong echoed across the stadium.
The match had officially started.