Luke had been watching.

From the moment they arrived, he had taken careful note of every movement, every whisper, every glance exchanged. What troubled him most wasn’t the fact that they were trapped in an alien colosseum, being forced into some bizarre selection process. No, what truly disturbed him was how normal everyone was acting. Even those with ridiculously high stats, the so-called prodigies, were just following orders without a second thought. They had no intention of standing out or trying to distinguish themselves beyond what was required. They simply did as they were told, moving along with the process without any attempts to appear more capable, more ambitious, or more deserving of attention.

It was almost laughable. They had been plucked from their world, thrown into an unfamiliar system, and instead of questioning their circumstances, they just lined up like obedient sheep. The crowd moved as dictated, whispering among themselves but never challenging what was happening. Where was the drive? The hunger? The instinct to seize an opportunity and make themselves known?

Luke had other plans.

So far, he had identified three distinct groups among the candidates. The first group was the utterly disappointing ones. These were the people with terrible stats, a complete lack of presence, and not a single outstanding trait to their name. They were as unimpressive as their numbers suggested. Congratulations, Luke, he thought to himself bitterly. You're part of this prestigious category.

The second group consisted of those who had slightly above-average stats. Not enough to attract sponsorship, but just enough to get the occasional murmur from the audience. These people would probably have a rough time ahead—too good to be ignored, but not good enough to be noticed. A special kind of suffering.

And then there was the third group: the ones who were flat-out exceptional. The moment they placed their hand on the medallion, sponsors pounced on them. Their stats alone guaranteed them a ticket to a cushier future, as long as they played along. Ram and Joshua fell into this category, drawing immediate attention with their above-average numbers.

But then there were the outliers. People like Jasmine and Roy didn’t fit into any of these groups because they were in a league of their own. They didn’t need to care about rankings or calculations. They weren’t just good—they were monsters. Jasmine’s divinity score and Roy’s absurd physical stats had sent the sponsors into a frenzy, with bids soaring into the tens of thousands.

That left Luke at a crossroads. He had no delusions about his chances in this round. No one was going to throw money at a guy with mediocre stats. But he had picked up on something interesting—this wasn’t the only chance to gain sponsorship. After this ‘auction,’ there would be another event: Class Selection.

From what he had gathered, this phase would allow people to unlock new abilities, effectively reshuffling the hierarchy. Many who were overlooked now would likely shine after receiving powerful classes. That’s my shot, he decided. If my stats aren’t enough to get me noticed now, then I just have to make sure I stand out later.

For now, he just had to endure.

With a deep breath, Luke stepped onto the podium. The crowd quieted slightly, curious about yet another contestant. But before he placed his hand on the medallion, he did something different—he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice carrying across the colosseum, “my name is Luke Raynott, and while I cannot say what my stats will reveal, I can promise you this—whoever chooses to invest in me will not regret it. I will work harder than anyone else. I will prove myself as a valuable asset. Even if my numbers fail to impress today, know this—I will rise.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the audience. It was an unusual move—no one else had attempted to sell themselves before their stats were revealed.

Even Martin, who had remained composed throughout, raised an eyebrow in amusement. Interesting, his expression seemed to say.

Luke smirked inwardly. Gotcha.

He could see it in their eyes—the flicker of expectation. After Jasmine and Roy, people were now on the lookout for irregulars, and Luke had just set himself up as a potential third surprise.

Then, with deliberate confidence, he placed his hand on the medallion.

The screen above flickered.

And then—

Silence.

Complete, crushing silence.

Luke barely held on to his smirk as they read his stats. The sponsors, who had been leaning forward in anticipation, slowly relaxed, their expressions turning to bemusement. Then, from the lower stalls, a chuckle rang out.

“Well, that was a letdown.”

Laughter followed, scattered at first but quickly growing. Someone from the audience spoke up, voice laced with amusement. “This dragon turned out to be a worm, not even a serpent.”

Luke sighed. Yep. That went well.

He still kept his composure, it was never his intention to get selected from doing some theatre act, he just wanted to set the stage for the latter event.

Martin, who had been briefly caught up in the moment, now felt a sharp sting of disappointment. He had genuinely believed he had uncovered a hidden gem, another prodigy in his batch, but Luke’s stats had proven otherwise. Resigned, he cleared his throat and motioned for Luke to step down. “Alright, let’s move on to the next—”

But before Luke could fully step off the podium, the unexpected happened.

“50,000 sils per academic year.”

A clear, vibrant, and melodious female voice rang out from one of the VIP stalls, sending a wave of shock through the colosseum.

“Huh?”

“Huh??”

“HUHH???”

Luke’s own “HUH?” was the loudest of them all, his perfect poker face cracking slightly as he struggled to process the absurdity of what had just happened. Martin, too, lost his usual composure, his mouth slightly agape before he hastily regained his professional demeanor.

“Uh, dear guest, I’m extremely sorry, but can you repeat your bid?” Martin asked, clearly hoping his ears had deceived him.

The feminine voice rang out again, this time sharper, slightly irritated. “50,000 sils per academic year for Luke Raynott. Do not make me repeat myself further.”

This time, Martin didn’t dare question her again. Instead, he immediately turned to his subordinates. “Escort Luke Raynott to the pre-selected gate—”

“Since when did you start being so clumsy as to forget basic rules?”

A new voice interrupted, deep, charismatic, and laced with the weight of authority. This one came from another VIP stall, its aged tone carrying a distinct air of power and experience.

“The final bid is only considered final if no one places a higher bid within a minute,” the old man continued, his tone both reprimanding and amused. “Why are you trying to end his bidding prematurely?”

Martin blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

“60,000 sils per academic year for Luke Raynott,” the aged voice declared. “That’s my bid.”

If the crowd had been stunned before, now they were downright speechless.

Luke, meanwhile, was doing his best to keep himself from saying, What the actual fuck is going on?!

And thus began the most intense and unexpected bidding war of the night.

“70,000 sils,” the female voice countered immediately, an edge of amusment in her tone.

“75,000,” the old man shot back, sounding vaguely irritated.

“80,000,” she responded without hesitation.

This time,the moment of silence stretched longer than expected, the old man’s voice carrying a distinct note of displeasure. “Eighty-five thousand,” he muttered, clearly unwilling but bound by his own bid. The female VIP, whom he had hoped would push it further, said nothing. The colosseum remained still for a few moments before Martin, realizing the auction had concluded, quickly moved to formalize the result.

“Eighty-five thousand Sils per academic year—final bid. Luke Raynott, sponsored by House—”

The old man cut in sharply, “Enough. Just send him over.” His tone made it painfully clear: he had no interest in Luke beyond getting him out of his sight as soon as possible.

Luke, who had been barely holding back his confusion, now had to stop himself from smirking. He didn’t know what had just happened, but one thing was clear—he had caught the attention of people way beyond his league. And even if the old man clearly wanted nothing to do with him, it didn’t change the fact that he was now among the sponsored.

Before he could dwell on the absurdity of it all, two figures approached him from the side. They were clad in dark silver armor, each piece intricately engraved with the image of a drake coiled around a spear. Their helmets obscured most of their features, but their sheer presence was enough to silence any lingering murmurs from the crowd.

“Follow us,” one of them said, his voice echoing slightly through his helmet.

With nothing left to do on the stage, Luke complied.

The walk through the colosseum’s halls was short but tense. The armored knights led him through a series of high-arched corridors, the torch-lit stone walls giving off an almost medieval feel. Soon, they arrived at a heavy wooden door adorned with an intricate crest. One of the knights pushed it open, revealing a grand dining hall inside.

The first thing Luke noticed was the elongated table at the center, large enough to seat at least thirty something people. However, what stood out was the seating arrangement—two chairs placed together in pairs, each duo separated by a large gap, as if the seats were deliberately meant to be shared between two individuals.

Luke’s entrance didn’t go unnoticed. Every person in the room turned their gaze toward him. Some glanced at him briefly before looking away, uninterested, while others held their stares just a second longer, as if trying to gauge who he was. But no one spoke.

The knights gestured toward the middle of the table. “Sit.”

Luke moved forward, noting that everyone was seated in the left chair of their respective pairs. He did the same, lowering himself onto the vacant left-side seat, the right one beside him left conspicuously empty—just like all the others.

A strange, unspoken rule seemed to hang over the room.

Time passed, and the room slowly filled with people. It seemed like all the sponsored candidates had finally arrived—even those who had been bid on after Luke.

Luke sat still, his mind racing as he discreetly rechecked everyone’s stats. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. The difference between him and the lowest-ranked person in the room was staggering.

“This is awkward. I feel like a fish at a cat convention,” he thought, masking his unease behind a neutral expression.

Instead of worrying about what was out of his control, he turned his attention to his surroundings. The room itself was a marvel—majestic in every sense of the word. The floor gleamed with polished marble, reflecting the soft glow of enchanted lights embedded in the ceiling. The walls were adorned with intricate floral designs and magnificent paintings, each one depicting scenes of great battles, legendary warriors, and mythical creatures.

However, what truly caught his eye were the weapons. Swords, spears, and axes rested in ornate display cases, their edges gleaming under the warm illumination. The craftsmanship was beyond anything he had ever seen—each weapon looked more ceremonial than practical, yet he could feel an almost tangible aura of power radiating from them.

His gaze shifted upward to the light sources. Upon closer inspection, he realized they weren’t bulbs at all, but rather luminous stones carved into delicate, elegant shapes, emitting a steady glow that bathed the room in a warm, golden hue. The sheer grandeur of the place was enough to make anyone feel out of place, but Luke forced himself to remain composed.

Seated around the elongated table were exactly sixteen individuals, each occupying a left-side seat in pairs of two. The vacant right-side seats remained untouched, an odd yet deliberate seating arrangement that had yet to be explained.

Some of the individuals in the room fidgeted anxiously, their feet tapping against the marble floor in nervous anticipation. Others surveyed their surroundings with wariness, their expressions betraying their unease. Only a handful maintained a composed front, exuding an air of confidence as if this entire situation was nothing more than an intriguing twist in their already exceptional lives.

Luke was among the latter. Despite the turmoil within, he forced himself to appear indifferent. His confidence wasn’t genuine—it was survival. He knew better than to let others sense his apprehension.

The air shifted as the heavy double doors at the far end of the room swung open. A group of around twenty figures strode in, their presence commanding immediate attention. Leading them was a familiar face—Martin, his ever-present fawning smile firmly in place as he guided the newcomers forward.

Luke’s body reacted instinctively. Years of social conditioning and ingrained etiquette took over as he smoothly rose from his seat, inclining his head in a subtle yet respectful nod before straightening his posture. His eyes locked onto the approaching figures with a carefully measured gaze—not too eager, not too disinterested.

A ripple of approval spread through the room. The sponsors, though masters of deception and intrigue, couldn’t entirely mask their pleased expressions. A few of them exchanged brief glances, acknowledging the young man’s composure. It didn’t take long for the others to catch on, and one by one, the remaining candidates followed suit, standing in quiet acknowledgment of the incoming guests.

Martin, satisfied with the display, clapped his hands together. “Esteemed guests, kindly take your seats beside your sponsored candidates.”

Luke finally understood the purpose of the empty seats beside them.

As the sponsors began moving toward their designated places, Luke sat back down, waiting patiently. He had no idea who his sponsor was, but he wasn’t about to let his curiosity show. Instead, he subtly scanned the room, taking in each sponsor’s presence.

One man in particular caught his eye—a figure who exuded quiet authority. He appeared to be in his early forties, his sharp features accentuated by a neatly trimmed goatee and a thin mustache. His light brown hair, matching Luke’s own shade, was slicked back, and he wore a simple yet elegant black-and-white suit that did nothing to diminish his imposing aura.

Curiosity got the better of him. Discreetly, Luke activated his ability to assess the man’s stats. The moment he did, a name and information flashed before his eyes.

Albert Heisenberg

Alignment: Neutral (Gray)

Title: Transcendent Count | ??

Class: The Revering Fist

Specialty: ??

Strength: ?? | Agility: ?? | Intelligence: ?? | Divinity: ?? | Luck: ?? | Wisdom: ??

Skills: Roaring Fang | ?? | ??

Overall Rating: A Monster of Fists

A shiver ran down Luke’s spine. Before he could even process what he had just read, he felt an intense gaze piercing through him. Albert’s eyes, sharp and calculating, met his own with a knowing glint.

Luke immediately averted his gaze.

'Did he just… snicker at me?'

A quiet chuckle rumbled from the man’s throat, sending a wave of unease down Luke’s back. He made a mental note—never check someone’s status carelessly again.

“The kids this time sure are funny,” Albert remarked, his voice carrying amusement laced with something more ominous.

Before Luke could react, a hand landed on Albert’s shoulder, firm and unyielding.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

An old man stepped forward from behind Albert, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. He was older—perhaps in his sixties—but his presence was anything but frail. His stark white hair framed a face carved with years of experience, and his eyes held the weight of countless battles.

Albert’s expression twitched in apparent displeasure, but he maintained a veneer of civility. “Nothing? I didn’t think we were close enough to put hands on each other’s shoulders, General Garhan.”

“We certainly are not,” the older man, Garhan, replied coolly. “So you had best control those fierce eyes of yours, lest you find them gouged out.”

A tangible wave of pressure swept through the room. A white aura flared around Garhan, heavy and oppressive, forcing an instinctual stillness upon everyone present.

Martin, ever the peacekeeper, quickly intervened. “H-haha. Dear guests, let’s not do this. At least for the sake of proceeding with the rules set by His Majesty.” The moment he mentioned ‘His Majesty,’ both men’s aggression visibly cooled.

Without another word, Garhan brushed past Albert, moving toward the empty seat beside Luke. With a huff, he sat down, arms crossed, eyes closed.

Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, deciding against speaking unless spoken to.

A quiet tension hung over the room as the last of the sponsors took their seats. At Martin’s signal, everyone followed suit, settling into their places.

With a smooth clap of his hands, Martin announced, “Since everyone has come a long way, you must all be hungry. Let us begin dinner immediately.”

At his words, the doors opened once more, and rows of servants flooded the hall, pushing silver trolleys laden with food.