Obinai's eyelids flutter as the weight of sleep clings to him—until his body shifts unnaturally.
Not this again.
His eyes snap open.
The void.
And, of course, the chair.
Obinai grits his teeth, fingers digging into the armrests.
"Where the hell are you?" His voice cuts through the silence. "And what the fuck do you want this time?"
A beat.
Then—laughter.
Low at first, a whisper curling around the edges of the void. Then louder, hysterical and unhinged.
From the darkness, a figure steps forward.
Beelzebub.
His face is Obinai's—but wrong. His white locs hang longer, swaying just past his neck, and his hands—blackened, as if dipped in ink, the darkness creeping up to his elbows like rot. His grin is too wide with his golden eyes that seem to pulse as he gets closer
"Did you miss me?" Beelzebub croons, tilting his head.
Obinai's jaw clenches. "Like hell I did." His voice is a low growl. "You're lucky you don't have a physical body, or I'd rip you apart right now."
For a moment, Beelzebub just stares.
Then—his face twitches.
And then he loses it.
He throws his head back, howling with laughter, clutching his stomach. "Oh—oh, you're serious!" he gasps between wheezes. "Oh, delightful! Mortals and their little tantrums—'I'll kill you!' 'I'll rip you apart!'" He wipes a tear from his eye, still giggling. "Adorable. Absolutely adorable."
Obinai's fingers twitch. "What the hell is so funny?"
Beelzebub's laughter tapers off into a smirk. "You. Always you." He saunters closer. "So full of fire. So entertaining." His grin widens, revealing teeth just a little too sharp. "But oh, my dear, dear Obinai… I've been feeling things."
A pause. The air grows heavier...thicker.
"My brethren," Beelzebub murmurs, voice dropping to a whisper. "Their children. Their followers." He says. "They're coming closer. Can't you feel it?"
Obinai's pulse spikes. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Beelzebub giggles again. "Oh, you'll see." He begins to pace, circling Obinai. "You're in foreign lands, boy. Surrounded by powers you can't even begin to comprehend." He stops abruptly, leaning in so close Obinai can see the flecks of gold swirling in his irises. "And they worship me."
Obinai doesn't flinch. "So?"
Beelzebub's grin turns feral.
"So?" He echoes, mocking. "So, darling, I could have you wake up in the middle of a slaughter." His voice drops to a whisper, lips brushing Obinai's ear. "Your friends. Torn apart. Screaming. Bleeding."
Obinai clenches his fist.
Beelzebub pulls back, delighted. "Ohhh, there it is." He claps his hands together, giddy. "That's the look I love!"
Then—his finger presses against Obinai's forehead.
Cold.
So cold it burns.
Obinai's body lurches backward, hurled into the void at impossible speed, the darkness swallowing him whole. The last thing he hears is Beelzebub's voice all playful and taunting.
"Wakey wakey, mortal."
…
Obinai jolts awake with a strangled gasp, his body thrashing against sweat-drenched sheets. His limbs tangle in the fabric as he twists violently—then thud—he hits the wooden floor hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Across the room, Bram shoots upright blinking groggily. "The hell—?" He scrubs a hand over his face, squinting at Obinai sprawled on the ground. "Ain't even dawn yet, man. You wrestlin' ghosts again?"
Obinai exhales sharply through his nose, pressing his palms against his eyelids. The afterimage of Beelzebub's grin still lingers behind them. Damn that parasitic bastard. Can't even possess me—my soul's mine. But shit... he's getting bolder.
"Just a dream," he mutters, pushing himself up. His fingers tremble slightly against the floorboards.
Bram yawns loud enough to crack his jaw. "Yeah, yeah. Next time, scream quieter. Or better yet—don't." He flops back onto his pillow, but after a beat, he sighs and hauls himself out of bed. "Ain't no way I'm sleepin' after that racket."
Obinai snorts, rolling his shoulders. "My bad. Didn't mean to scare you."
"Pfft. Scared?" Bram puffs out his chest, but the way his eyes dart to the shadows betrays him. "I just ain't wanna listen to you yelpin' like a kicked pup all night."
They shuffle toward the door, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Then—both freeze.
Three packages sit primly on the threshold. Two are wrapped in black paper so crisp it gleams, tied with silver ribbons sharp enough to slice skin. The third lies gutted, its contents half-spilled. Between them rests a folded note.
Obinai crouches, picking it up. He unfolds it, clearing his throat.
"'Dear students,'" he reads, "'Proud of you lot for not dyin' yet. Here's some fancy duds for the Trials. Don't stain 'em. —Headmaster Lyth.'"
Bram blinks. "...That how it really says it?"
Obinai smirks. "No. But that's what it means." He tosses the note aside and rips into his package.
The uniform spills out like liquid shadow.
Black fabric woven with threads of something that isn't quite silk slithers through his fingers. Silver embroidery curls along the seams in looping patterns. The padding at the joints is reinforced with slender, interlocking plates that flex when he presses a thumb against them.
Bram whistles, holding up his own. "Damn. This shit's nicer than my face." He pokes at the collar, where tiny, gear-like clasps glint. "How's it even—? Wait, don't tell me. Magic bullshit."
Obinai strips off his sleep shirt, pulling the uniform on. The fabric hisses as it settles against his skin, adjusting seamlessly to his frame. The inner lining hums faintly—enchanted, no doubt. He flexes his arms; no resistance.
Bram struggles with his sleeves, growling when a strap twists. "How come yours looks like it was made for you, and mine's tryin' to strangle me?"
Obinai smirks, adjusting a vambrace. "Maybe it knows you're a brute."
"Hey!" Bram yanks at the collar, then pauses. "...Wait. You think it does?" He eyes the uniform warily.
Obinai rolls his eyes—then freezes.
A flicker. A pulse.
The silver embroidery along his cuff glows faintly, then fades.
Bram's jaw drops. "Okay, that? That's creepy."
Obinai grins, rolling his wrist. "Nah. That's interesting."
Somewhere down the hall, a clock tower chimes.
Dawn.
The Trials begin today.
...
The hidden entrance isn't hidden so much as forgotten.
Obinai runs a hand along the combat room's back wall—rough stone, cold under his fingertips. A member of the staff murmurs something, her fingers flicking in a lazy arc, and the wall shivers. The stones ripple like disturbed water before dissolving into nothing, revealing a yawning tunnel.
Dark and Damp.
Bram wrinkles his nose. "Smells like my uncle's cellar after flood season."
Gideon, shuffling in front of them, lets out a nervous chuckle. "Ain't nothin' down here but shadows and regrets, I reckon."
They all step in. The torches lining the walls ignite with ghostly blue flames as he passes, casting jagged shadows that twist like living things. The air presses close, thick with the weight of the earth above them.
Then—sound.
A murmur, distant at first. Growing. Swelling.
Obinai's pulse kicks up. That's more of a storm then a crowd.
Bram elbows him, eyes wide. "You hear that? Sounds like the whole damn continent showed up."
Gideon whistles low. "Shiiit. After this, we's either gonna be legends or punchlines. No in-between."
A sneering voice cuts in from behind. "How quaint. The peasant brigade is already wetting themselves."
Obinai turns. An elven boy—tall, polished, with hair so blond it's nearly white—smirks down at them.
"Lordling got lost?" Obinai arches a brow. "Noble sector's the other way."
The elf's nose wrinkles. "I'd mind your tongue, mongrel. That arena isn't filled with farmers and fishwives. The Azure Consulate is here. The High Lords of Vel'Shar. The Crimson Matriarch herself." He leans in, voice dropping to whisper. "One misstep, and you're not just embarrassing yourself—you're entertainment."
Bram cracks his knuckles. "Yeah? Well, I—"
Obinai grabs his arm. "Save it for the fight."
The elf sniffs and sweeps past.
Gideon shakes his head. "That boy's stick's so far up his—"
The tunnel ends.
Light floods in, blinding after the gloom. Obinai blinks—
—and the world explodes with noise and color.
The arena.
But not like he remembers.
It's alive.
Tiered seating climbs skyward, packed with bodies roaring like a tidal wave. Velvet-draped balconies jut from the walls, their gilded railings carved into snarling beasts. Above them, glass-and-brass observation decks hover, held aloft by crackling sigils.
And the scent—smoke from roasted meats and perfumed nobles.
Bram gapes. "Holy shit."
Obinai's eyes snag on the royal box—crimson banners, throne-like chairs, attendants in livery so stiff they might as well be statues. And there, front and center, a familiar face.
Seraphina.
She's watching. Of course she is.
Then—movement.
A cluster of older students lounges in a raised booth. They're laughing, pointing. Judging.
Yep that should be everyone.
Gideon chuckles. "Wouldja look at that. Them fancy folks got drink holders in their armrests. Priorities, am I right?"
Obinai doesn't answer. His eyes catch on an empty section—seats upholstered in deep green, their armrests carved with what looks like... names?
Wait. Those are ours.
His stomach drops. No one told us how to get there.
Bram leans in. "Uh. We just... walk? Right?"
Gideon scratches his head. "Ain't no way they're lettin' us traipse through all them rich folk's laps."
A trumpet blares. The crowd's roar crescendos.
Obinai squares his shoulders. "Guess we're about to find out."
The crowd's roar fades like a dying storm as the arena lights dim to an eerie hush. Then—
BOOM.
A shockwave of light erupts from the arena's heart, sending ripples through the air. Obinai's skin prickles as the hair on his arms stands straight up—magic so thick you can taste it—before the colors converge into the figure of Headmaster Lyth.
His boots click against polished brass as the last sparks of the lightshow dance around him, catching on the silver-threaded embroidery of his coat. The crowd loses its collective mind.
"Welcome," Lyth's voice slices through the noise without effort, "to the Trials of Ascension!"
Obinai looks at him nervously. Why's he smiling like that?
Lyth lets the cheers wash over him before raising a hand. "But this year... is different."
Every muscle in Obinai's body locks. Different how? Different for me? His fingers dig into his thighs as he scans Lyth's face for any hint—
"Look up."
A thousand heads tilt skyward.
The Godkin's Gallery.
It floats thirty feet above the royal section, held aloft by nothing but copper-and-crystal latticework that hums. The banners draped around it aren't fabric, but shift between colors like oil on water. The seats themselves seem carved from moonstone and molten gold, their surfaces etched with sigils that make Obinai's eyes water if he stares too long.
And the figures seated there—
White hair. Red eyes. Vale's warning echoes in his skull. Beautiful. Dangerous. Avoid at all costs.
One turns its head.
Obinai looks away so fast his neck cracks.
"Holy shitsticks," Bram breathes, craning his neck. "That's the god-folk? They ain't even— wait, why's that one's face all—"
Gideon elbows him hard. "Hush up, you dolt! They'll hear you!"
Lyth's chuckle rolls across the arena. "As always—single elimination. Last one standing wins." He snaps his fingers.
The world lurches.
Obinai's stomach drops like he's been kicked off a cliff. When his vision clears, he's sitting in the first-year section.
What the—
The Bracket shimmers into existence above the arena, names etched in fire. Obinai's eyes dart frantically—middle, bottom, where the hell is my—
Top slot.
OBINAI.
"Fuck." It slips out before he can stop it.
Bram's laugh rings out behind him. "HA! Looks like you're kickin' off the party!"
Obinai's palms are slick with sweat. First match. First spectacle. No room to study opponents, no time to—
"Don't choke!" Bram adds helpfully.
Obinai flips him off without turning around.
Lyth's voice booms: "No killing. No artifacts. Just skill." His gaze lingers on Obinai for half a heartbeat too long.
"Begin."
Another snap.
The world twists.
One heartbeat, Obinai's in the stands. The next—
Sand under his boots.
Silence.
Then—
A voice like ground glass: "Oh. This'll be quick."
Across the arena, the tiefling cracks his knuckles. Crimson skin stretches over a frame, his yellow eyes glowing like swamp gas.
Shit. Obinai's mouth goes dry. He's not even trying to hide the murder in his smile.
The tiefling's tongue flicks over pointed teeth. "Try to scream, human. It's funnier that way."
The gong sounds...