Every family has its own way of doing things—some more so than others—and the River family is no exception. The Rivers hail from the Second Sector of Constella and report directly to the White family, the ruling household of that sector.
The River family was blessed with three children—one older than the other two. The disparity between the eldest and his younger siblings was stark. In the River household, the firstborn is regarded as the primary successor to the bloodline and is treated accordingly. He receives all he desires, while the other children are reduced to afterthoughts. Tradition dictates that the first son continues the legacy, while the others are cast aside into branch families once they come of age. It is this cold doctrine that built the River family into the largest among the noble houses of Constella.
Yaron came to understand the vast chasm between himself and his brother at an early age. On a bitter winter's night, both Yaron and his elder brother fell gravely ill. Their conditions were dire—life-threatening even—and with most of the doctors either asleep or otherwise occupied, only one was available.
Led by a maid, the doctor was brought to Yaron's chamber first. The physician, sensing urgency, believed the youngest should be treated immediately. However, Yaron's father disagreed.
"The eldest carries the purest blood of our lineage. His health takes precedence," Laurence River said coldly, not sparing his bedridden son a glance.
"But sir," the doctor pleaded, "the young are more vulnerable to sickness—he could die if not treated swiftly!"
Laurence River, a man who viewed the lesser bloods with nothing but disdain, was repulsed by the doctor's defiance. He valued tradition above all else, even above his children's lives.
"I won't be lectured by the likes of you. You're being paid to follow orders. See to my eldest son, and then you may return to tend the boy—if he's still alive," he said, finally offering Yaron a fleeting, soulless glance.
For a brief moment, father and son locked eyes. In that moment, Yaron saw no remorse, no compassion—only cold indifference.
The doctor hesitated. Abandoning the child meant sentencing him to death.
"Lord River, may I at least give one of your maids instructions to ease the boy's suffering until I return?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.
Laurence sighed, as though even that much was a burden. "Fine. But be quick."
The doctor instructed a maid to place a warm towel on the boy's forehead, replacing it when needed. Then, he vanished into the shadows of the hall to treat the heir of the River family.
The doctor would come back to treat the boy, but his parents did not return and instead spent the night in their eldest son's room.
From that day onward, Yaron understood his place in the world—he was always second, always lesser. And so, he embraced the cruel hierarchy he had been born into. The rich dominate the poor. The strong suppress the weak. He could never surpass his brother, nor his father, nor even the members of the Five Great Families. So, who could he look down on?
He found his answer: everyone else.
He began with the lower-ranked nobles—those with names but no real power. Then, he moved on to the merchants, and finally to the citizens of the lower Districts. He treated them all as he had been treated: with disdain, disregard, and cold superiority.
But that arrogance would be his undoing.
He insulted the wrong person.
You see, most from the lower Districts would bow their heads and endure. But even in the deepest darkness, a flicker of light can endure. And that light was Garfield.
Garfield ignited the spirit of the oppressed, reminding them of their worth, uniting them. Unlike the nobles, they did not divide themselves by status. Though some were stronger, wealthier, more skilled, they stood together as one.
Yaron could not bear it.
Their unity enraged him. He sought to snuff out that light—to break the spirit Garfield had rekindled. But in doing so, he inadvertently inspired another flame. And with two lights burning, the darkness that once ruled the room began to recede.
"Why is it like this?" Yaron wondered bitterly. "I entered this exam to gain the acceptance of my mother and father... but why? Why? They don't even need to fight to be loved. They're accepted without question."
Jealousy coursed through him like venom. He yearned so deeply to be accepted, he was willing to sacrifice anyone for it.
And now, he kneeled—defeated. A scar marked his chest, a wound both physical and symbolic. He lifted his gaze to the darkened sky and saw only the haunting image of his father's empty stare from that long-ago night. Then, he thought of his older brother—and how desperately he had wished to be him.
"I really wish you had accepted me. I could have been like him," he whispered.
Lowering his gaze from the stars, he turned to face the one who had defeated him. His opponent said nothing, but the fire in his eyes—pure, righteous hatred—spoke volumes.
Tristan looked down at the boy, then silently sheathed his blade.
And then, a voice echoed across the Colosseum like a thunderclap.
"Yaron River has been eliminated," the Headmaster declared.
Yaron collapsed, the blood from his chest wound soaking into the arena floor. Guards rushed to him, assuring the crowd that he would survive. They carried him off to receive medical attention.
The nobles roared with outrage.
"He tried to kill that young man! He should be expelled!"
But the Middle and Lower Districts responded with defiance.
"You're all speaking nonsense!"
The argument raged until her voice, sharp as frost, silenced them all.
"Enough!" the Headmaster shouted. "If Tristan had intended to kill him, he would have. The fact Yaron River still breathes is proof that Tristan spared him."
'I actually did consider it…' Tristan thought, a flicker of darkness in his heart.
With the crowd now subdued, Sylvia rendered her judgment.
"Since the participant survived, Tristan Merigold will be allowed to continue. That leaves us with our final four combatants."
But the two remaining long-range fighters had already fled the Colosseum after witnessing the terrifying strength of Tristan and Garfield.
"Ah… my mistake," Sylvia continued, her voice echoing across the arena. "It appears only two remain, and they shall now fight for victory—to determine who will be ranked number one."
Tristan and Garfield turned to face one another.
What will they do now?