"All candidates who passed this round—return to the arena!"
From the opposite exit, the survivors began to emerge.
Slow.
Unsteady.
Covered in blood.
As they made their way toward the center, I threw one last glance at the burning bodies—
and had to fight not to gag.
The smell—
thick.
Heavy.
Disgustingly close to roasted meat.
I looked away.
Only then did I really see the arena.
No wonder I'd been stumbling.
Damn it.
I'd forgotten.
Taisha's voice surfaced in my head:
No matter what situation you're in—stay calm. The first thing you do is assess your surroundings. Your life depends on it.
She'd repeated it over and over.
And I hadn't used it.
Paid for it.
The arena was unrecognizable.
No grass.
Just blood.
Cracked ground.
Burned earth.
Pits.
Torn-up soil.
This wasn't an arena anymore.
It was a battlefield.
A real one.
"And here they are—the ones who survived!" the announcer called.
I looked at those who remained.
Less than half.
Cold spread through my chest.
So the rest—
were dead.
"You have proven yourselves worthy to advance!" Marta's voice rang out. "Those who did not falter, who carried out their duty despite the danger—these are true protectors!"
"Twelve candidates move on!" Bolton added sharply. "A strong result."
A pause.
"Seven showed weakness."
His voice hardened.
"They abandoned their objective to save themselves. Such people are unworthy of the title of protector."
Another pause.
"They are cowards."
The word landed hard.
"They will never hold positions of value."
My jaw tightened.
"And those who gave everything," Marta continued, just as calmly, "those who died fulfilling their purpose—twenty-two lives lost."
Her voice didn't change.
Not even slightly.
"A heavy loss. They lacked the strength—but chose death over disgrace."
Something twisted inside me.
That wasn't honor.
That was slaughter dressed up as something noble.
"And now—evaluation! Judges, raise the number of the weakest candidate!"
I looked up.
Only one card—
mine.
Number five.
Held by Gleb Bortsov.
So that's his choice.
"Twelve out of eighteen judges selected number six as the weakest. Last place—and punishment: the Evening of Shame. Remove your mask."
Number six stepped forward.
Removed it.
I recognized her.
From our academy.
"Amelia Amber," Bolton announced coldly. "Third-year student of Gordinstrit Academy. Candidate of Susan Rose."
No reaction.
No sympathy.
"You endured. But you failed to bring honor to your employer."
She didn't move.
Didn't react.
Just stood there.
Empty.
Like something had been stripped out of her.
"And now—the best performer!"
Cards went up again.
But I wasn't watching.
I was still looking at her.
There was nothing left in her eyes.
"And we have a tie!" Marta announced. "Number seventeen and number five—eight votes each! Step forward. Reveal yourselves!"
I stepped forward.
Pulled off the mask.
The reaction hit immediately.
Gasps.
Voices rising.
I looked up.
The Holivans.
My mother sagged back into her seat—
relief washing over her face.
My father—
rigid.
Furious.
Crushing the card marked five in his hand.
He'd voted for me.
Again.
Without knowing.
A thin, sharp smile crept across my face.
Beside me stood the Blocking candidate.
"Remarkable!" Marta exclaimed. "Second round—and these two take the lead again!"
The crowd erupted.
"Number seventeen fought like a beast—single-handedly brought down a possessed opponent and saved his partner!"
Applause thundered.
"And number five faced a fourth-level entity almost alone—and then, without hesitation, killed his own ally, recognizing what was happening and preventing a full transformation."
A pause.
"That kind of cold judgment… is rare."
The noise surged.
"Your winners—Alan Holivan, first-year student of Gordinstrit Academy, and Scott Roy of Blocking!"
The arena roared.
Louder than before.
"You are awarded the Evening of Glory. Enjoy it."
I felt nothing.
No pride.
No satisfaction.
Just—
empty.
"Now—let's rank the rest!"
Cards rose again.
Names followed.
I searched the line.
Robert.
Matthew.
Both there.
Alive.
Relief hit harder than anything else that day.
Robert—fifth.
Matthew—third.
Out of thirteen remaining—
four from our academy.
Three from Blocking.
One from Bortsov's school.
Two each from Margona and Grandana.
When it was over, we left the arena.
Clyde and Kristina were already waiting.
And—
someone else.
"Andrew!" The word tore out before I could stop it. "What are you doing here?!"
"My shift's over," he grinned, clapping my shoulder. "Thought I'd come see you. That was insane, Alan. When I realized it was you in that last fight, I almost lost it. Fourth-level showed up only four times in twenty matches before. Every single one ended in failure."
"Yeah…" I muttered. "And I killed one of my own."
"You did what you had to," Robert cut in immediately. "He panicked and let it take him. You stopped it."
"I'm starving," he added in the same breath. "Feed me before I collapse."
"You're seeing a doctor first," Kristina snapped, glaring at him. "You're completely reckless!"
"I told you I had something new," he grinned—
and got smacked for it.
"Hey! I'm barely holding together here!"
"Maybe next time you'll think before throwing yourself into something like that! That possessed thing almost tore you apart!"
"Still alive," he said. "Mostly."
"Food first. Then doctor."
"I'm with him," I said. "Andrew, you coming?"
"No."
"Why not?"
He smirked.
"Because you took first place."
A pause.
"Which means tonight—you're not eating with us."
I frowned.
"What?"
"You've got the Evening of Glory," he said. "Which means you'll be at the banquet."
Another pause.
"Like before."
"As one of them."
"…What?"
"Come on," Clyde said, pushing me forward. "You need to clean up."
"I'll explain on the way."