After nearly an hour of aimless exploration, Martin found himself pulled by something deeper than boredom—instinct, or perhaps the low magnetic hum of bloodlust in the air—toward the nearest sanctioned combat yard.
He didn't need a map. These places always left a subtle trail: scorched mana in the air, bruised echoes in the stone, and the faint, iron-sweet taste of magic pushed to its limits.
This particular arena was one of the older ones, woven into the cliffside bones of Varncrest's western district. It didn't flaunt enchanted architecture or polished obsidian floors. It bore its history openly. The cracked sandstone had absorbed countless impacts. Old sigil scars ran along the walls where containment fields had barely held. The smell of ozone, burnt hair, and sweat lingered like incense at a brutal temple.
Martin stepped through the threshold. A low buzz of anticipation greeted him.
The arena was a half-circle amphitheater, with stepped seating rising high and wide, carved into the living stone. Dozens of students loitered, many alone, some whispering in small groups. Observers here weren't looking to be entertained. They were here to learn—or scout threats.
Martin chose a seat in the upper rows, away from the core groups, where the shadows gave him the illusion of solitude.
As always, his badge did the heavy lifting. The Independent classification repelled idle curiosity like a ward against mosquitoes. A few glanced his way, their eyes catching the soft, pulsing sigil on his coat's lapel, then quickly looked away. His kind had a reputation—solitary, dangerous, often unstable.
Below, a duel was just finishing. One combatant—a broad-shouldered woman with frost-chalked skin and a floating crystal array—had just collapsed to her knees. A final strike from her opponent had sliced through her defenses, sending her sprawling. The dueling ward pulsed as it absorbed her momentum, cushioning the fall. A beat later, a magical healer was already moving to assist.
Scattered applause followed. Polite. Clinical.
Varncrest students didn't cheer. They assessed. Everything here was data.
Martin raised an eyebrow, then leaned back, arms folded behind his head.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Timing was sloppy, though. Should've led with the right-hand array before the evocation swing."
He let his eyes close for a moment. The magical thrum of the arena's core beneath him was almost meditative. But before he could settle fully, movement below snapped him back.
A new duel was beginning.
Two students entered the ring—one from the main central stair, another emerging from a side gate.
The first was a tall boy dressed in black-and-silver robes with an elegant, curved staff. His grip was formal. Ritualized. The kind of mage who had practiced under tradition and structure. His robes bore the golden embroidery of House Vellidrix—a minor noble house with a reputation for elemental precision.
His opponent was shorter. Sleeveless black shirt, tight pants, a long weatherworn cape fastened with two metal pins, and—Martin's eyes narrowed—a badge of independence on her chest.
"Interesting," he muttered. The second Independent he'd seen all day.
She looked relaxed. Not cocky, not bored—just aware. That dangerous, predatory calm of someone who'd fought enough times to know how little most people were worth in a real fight.
"No wonder she's nonchalant," Martin said aloud. "If the other badge-bearers are even half as good as me, they're already above the majority."
He retrieved his spell medallion, flipping it over his knuckles before tapping the core.
"Analyze."
The medallion shimmered, threads of mana unfurling from it like radar pings. It scanned the arena's immediate conditions—density of wards, kinetic flows, residue sigils, opponent vitals, probable threat outputs.
The signal flickered once, then solidified.
The duel began.
The girl moved first—exploding forward with no hesitation, a straight-line sprint toward her opponent that ignored caution entirely.
The boy reacted quickly, slamming his staff into the ground. A gravity well bloomed at her feet, pressing down with crushing force.
She didn't slow.
Her body adjusted as if she'd trained under pressure greater than this. Her posture shifted forward, weight redistributed. Blood vessels popped near her temple, but her momentum didn't die.
The boy followed up with a rapid-fire spell—fire braided with wind, designed to burn and knock off balance. The flame hissed toward her like a serpentine whip.
She tanked it. Flames washed over her, burning cloth and skin—but even as they scorched, her body regrew. Rapid regeneration flared across her limbs. Her stride never faltered.
The boy tried again. Three more fire spells in quick succession.
She took them all.
And then she was out of the gravity well.
Before the boy could raise his staff again, her fist connected.
It was an ugly, brutal, no-theatrics kind of punch—shoulder behind it, elbow locked. The impact cracked through the boy's ribs loud enough for the arena to hear. His body ragdolled backward, crashing into the ward field like a thrown puppet.
Silence.
The girl didn't look smug. Just adjusted her cape slightly, cracked her neck, and walked off.
Martin blinked once, then grinned.
"…Hehehehehe."
He stood, stowing the medallion.
"I never thought I'd see something that I destroyed here," he muttered. "But there she is. Little fire-walker."
He didn't clarify whether he meant the girl or the technique.
Either way, he left without looking back. The match was over. The curiosity, satisfied. But the recognition—that was something deeper.
Because her fighting style? That wasn't random brutality. That was trained madness.
It was familiar.
Too familiar.
And if she'd crawled out of one of the ruins he'd left behind in the ashes of his past, then this campus was going to be even more entertaining than he thought.