The silence of the arena was heavy, like the air before a lightning strike. Kael stood alone in the center of the pit, the dust of the shattered leeches settling on his boots.
Instructor Grog stepped onto the sands, his boots crunching on the grit. He looked at Mordecai's broken form, then at Kael. For the first time, the old veteran didn't look at Kael as a student. He looked at him as a peer—or perhaps, a threat.
"The winner," Grog announced, his voice lacking its usual bark, "is Kael of the Mist-Woods."
From the VIP box, the Count was a statue of fury. He didn't move. He didn't applaud. He signaled to a page, who carried a small, ornate silver box down the stairs. The boy was trembling so hard the box rattled.
Kael met the page halfway. He took the box without a word.
Inside, resting on a bed of white velvet, was a single glass vial. Within it floated a golden liquid that seemed to have a heartbeat. It pulsed with a warm, rhythmic light that made the shadows in the arena retreat. The Drop of Yggdrasil.
"Don't open it here, kid," Silas hissed, appearing at Kael's side. The adventurer's hand was on his sword hilt, his eyes darting toward the noble guards lining the walls. "We need to get you to the barracks. The air is turning sour."
"No," Kael said.
His voice wasn't a child's voice anymore. It was deep, resonating with the authority of a man who had commanded fleets.
"They want to see a show," Kael whispered, looking up at the Count. "I'll give them one they'll never forget."
Kael snapped the seal on the vial.
The scent hit the arena instantly—the smell of a thousand springs, of ancient earth, and of primordial power. Varg, perched on Kael's shoulder, began to shriek. The Shifter didn't have a mouth, but the sound vibrated through the air, a high-pitched frequency that cracked the stone floor beneath Kael's feet.
Kael poured the golden drop onto the grey mass of the Shifter.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, the world went white.
A pillar of golden light erupted from Kael's shoulder, shooting into the sky. The mana-tree in the center of the city groaned, its leaves rustling in sympathy.
Varg didn't just grow; it unfolded.
The Shifter's grey matter turned pitch black, then crystalline, then liquid gold. It began to pull mass from the very air, consuming the ambient mana of the arena. It surged down Kael's back, weaving itself into his tunic, hardening into a set of living, organic armor that moved like silk but looked like obsidian.
But it didn't stop there.
From the mass behind Kael's shoulders, two enormous, skeletal wings made of grey smoke and golden light unfurled. And in the center of Varg's shifting form, a single eye opened. It wasn't the eye of a beast.
It was a Viking Shield-Eye—the symbol of Skane's old clan, glowing with the fury of a dying star.
Varg had evolved. It was no longer a "Puddle." It had become a Mythic-Tier Mimic: The World-Eater's Shroud.
The crowd screamed. Nobles fell over their chairs trying to escape. This wasn't a "Spirit Beast" recorded in any bestiary. This was an anomaly—a creature of the "Between-Worlds" that Kael's soul had dragged into the light.
Kael felt the power surge through him. His muscles thickened, his height seemed to increase, and for a moment, the handsome face of the boy merged with the scarred, terrifying visage of the Viking Chief.
He looked at his hands, now encased in Varg's obsidian claws.
"The sap didn't change him," Silas whispered, backing away in awe. "The sap just gave the boy enough fuel to show us what he really is."
Kael looked up at the Count. The golden wings behind him flared, casting a shadow that covered the entire VIP box.
"You wanted to see my talent?" Kael's voice echoed, amplified by Varg's power. "This isn't talent. This is a debt... and I've come to collect."
With a single leap, Kael didn't run—he flew. He shattered the sound barrier, a golden streak of vengeance heading straight for the high balcony.