Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 73: Pledges

Chapter 73: Pledges

The arena was alive with energy, the deafening roar of the crowd vibrating through the massive stone walls. Thousands of spectators packed into the stadium, their voices colliding into a frenzied storm of anticipation. The air was thick with heat, excitement crackling between bodies, feeding into the chaos that was about to unfold.

Amari stepped forward with his team, his grip loose around the chains draped over his shoulders. His expression remained unreadable, eyes sharp as he scanned the battlefield. Around him, competitors from every school marched onto the stone platform, muscles tense, faces set in grim determination.

Then—

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, amplified by magic, cutting through the roaring crowd.

"WELCOME TO THE KRAFT TOURNAMENT!"

The stadium exploded with cheers, shaking the very ground beneath their feet.

Amari winced, jaw tightening. He raised a hand to cover his ear for a brief moment, barely suppressing the irritation rising in his chest. He never did well with this much noise.

But there was no avoiding it—not here.

The announcer continued, voice ringing across the battlefield, effortlessly commanding attention.

"As always, we begin with the preliminary round—THE BATTLE ROYALE."

The arena shifted. Fighters exchanged glances. Some nodded knowingly. Others stiffened, tension rippling through the ranks.

"The rules are simple," the announcer declared.

He gestured toward the side of the battlefield, where tournament officials stepped forward, banners gripped tightly in their hands. Four distinct colors—Red, Blue, Green, Yellow—flapped lightly against the wind, symbols of the competition ahead.

"First," the announcer said, his voice rolling through the stadium, "each school will receive a color flag. This will represent your team throughout the tournament."

Murmurs spread. Fighters subtly sized up their opponents across the battlefield.

"Second," the announcer continued, his tone dropping just enough to sharpen the weight of his words, "this is an every fighter for themselves match. The Battle Royale begins with ALL competitors at once. There will be no teams, no alliances—only survival."

The murmurs turned into a restless hum of energy.

Amari adjusted his grip on his chains, feeling the tension build across the battlefield. The meaning was clear—friendships didn’t matter here. Only strength did.

"The final sixteen fighters standing will advance to the next round—the one-on-one tournament," the announcer declared. "There, you will battle for the ultimate prize."

A pause.

The stadium hushed, anticipation hanging thick in the air.

Then—

"The winner will receive personal training sessions with the Knights of Algoria for an entire year—until the next tournament."

A stunned beat of silence.

Then—

The crowd ERUPTED.

The roar of voices crashed over the battlefield like a tidal wave, surging in excitement. The Knights of Algoria—the most elite warriors in the kingdom. Training under them wasn’t just a reward. It was life-changing.

Amari exhaled slowly, his gaze steady. The weight of the opportunity settled in his chest, a quiet but undeniable pressure.

He glanced at Johnny and Shylo, eyes narrowing slightly. "You two sure you’re ready for this? You’re younger than most of them."

They both answered immediately.

"It’s too late to back out now."

Amari smirked.

Then the ground shifted.

A massive stone circle rumbled beneath their feet, rising into position, carving out the battlefield for the first round. Dust scattered in the air, settling against the edges of the fighting ground.

Another wave of cheers rippled through the crowd, voices overlapping in waves of excitement.

Then—a shimmering magical barrier formed around the stone platform, locking the fighters inside.

One of the tournament organizers stepped forward, raising a hand toward the competitors.

"The banners will now be distributed!"

Assistants moved swiftly, handing out the colored flags to each school.

When the Yellow banner landed in Amari’s grip, he glanced down at it briefly before lifting his gaze to his team.

Yellow.

The color of the smallest school in the tournament—the most underestimated among them all.

Amari rolled the fabric between his fingers, feeling the weight of it. It didn’t matter.

This was it.

As the last banners were handed out, the stadium hushed.

Then—

Maverick’s voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and decisive.

"We stay together and fight. That’s the only way we make it through this round."

The team nodded—Kenneth, Milo, Johnny, Shylo.

Everyone except Amari.

He kept his smirk hidden, fingers tightening around the chains resting over his shoulders.

I’ve got my own plans.

The announcer’s voice BOOMED—

"COUNTDOWN BEGINS!"

The crowd ignited, voices rising in a synchronized chant—

Three... Two... One...

The horn blasted through the arena.

The battle had BEGUN.

Thousands of fighters collided at once—pushing, shoving, knocking each other down without hesitation. Some formed quick alliances, working together to eliminate threats. Others fought alone, reckless, determined to hold their ground.

Amari belonged to the latter category.

He tore through the battlefield, picking off competitors left and right—three here, four there—moving with the kind of deadly precision that barely seemed human.

His chains lashed through the air, slicing past opponents in fluid, controlled strikes—the hooked daggers at each end moving like extensions of his own body.

He was built for this.

And he was thriving.

But then—

Through the chaos, through the relentless fighting—he heard a voice.

Not just any voice.

Familiar.

Something inside him paused—for just a fraction of a second.

But he shoved the feeling away.

Whatever it was—whoever it was—he didn’t care. Not now.

His chains spun again, cutting through the air as he dove back into battle.

On the other side of the battlefield, Maverick, Shylo, Johnny, and Milo fought as a unit—tight, calculated. They weren’t just swinging blindly—they were executing a strategy.

Maverick stood firm at the center, his Voice of Command booming through the chaos, cutting through the battlefield like an unstoppable force.

"Shylo, flank left! Johnny, cover Milo! Kenneth, push forward!"

Their response was instant.

Shylo moved first, weaving through the chaos, daggers flashing as he struck fast, clean. Milo twisted his staff with rapid strikes, knocking opponents back with brutal efficiency. Johnny held his ground, watching their backs, making sure no one got the jump on them.

Kenneth? He didn’t need much direction. He was on a warpath.

One after another, competitors were shoved off the battlefield, their chances at victory vanishing in an instant.

And through it all, Maverick remained unshaken.

His team protected him, knowing that as long as his Voice of Command stayed strong, they had an edge no one else did.

And Amari?

He was on his own, and he was winning.

But that voice he had heard earlier?

It was still lingering in his mind.

Even if he pretended it wasn’t.