Though the entire left side of his body was scorched and wracked with unimaginable pain, Garfield composed himself and fixed his gaze upon his six adversaries. Slowly, he lowered his axe, then raised his charred left hand, pointing directly at the markswoman responsible for the devastating explosion.
"You there. It was you who did this, am I correct?" Garfield asked, his voice low but unwavering.
The girl regarded him with a look of pure disdain before even considering a response.
"I am under no obligation to answer vermin such as you," she said, her tone dripping with contempt, yet disturbingly calm.
Garfield chuckled—an unsettling, resonant sound. Bella Grand, still aiming her rifle at his chest, stared at the golden-haired boy, bewildered by the laughter that defied all logic. He was outnumbered, grievously injured, and faced insurmountable odds. And yet… he laughed.
Why?
Why did he still exude such confidence?
"Why are you laughing?" she asked, her voice tense, fingers twitching near the trigger.
Wiping a single tear from his eye, Garfield answered, "Your abilities are painfully simple to decipher. I didn't want to be blindsided, so I allowed all of you to strike first. I focused entirely on dodging and defending, biding my time... but now that I know what you can do—what do you think that means for you?"
He paused, the silence thick with tension.
"It's simple, really. You're all getting eliminated."
In an instant, Garfield exploded into motion. Like a beast loosed from its chains, he charged at Bella. Though many would call his features attractive, the expression carved into his face at that moment chilled her to the bone—it was the face of inevitable defeat.
The moment she blinked, he was there.
With terrifying precision, Garfield snatched her rifle from her hands and flung it aside like refuse. Then, with the back of his axe, he struck her. The blow sent Bella flying through the air like a ragdoll, her body colliding with the Colosseum wall. A crater, human-sized and lined with jagged cracks, erupted where she landed, fragments of shattered stone scattering across the battlefield.
She lay unconscious—felled by a single, merciless strike.
Garfield turned slowly toward the remaining marksmen, his eyes smoldering with fury.
"Who's next?" he growled.
The crowd erupted into frenzied cheers—at least, those from the lower bloodlines. The Highbloods scoffed, repulsed by the idea of a Middle District fighter humiliating one of their own.
"Amazing. His strength is beautiful, and I love beautiful things," said Alice White, her voice smooth and refined.
"It is amazing," Ruben added thoughtfully. "Once every few years, the Middle District births a warrior of rare caliber."
Decker let out a derisive chuckle. "Still doesn't change the fact that he's from the Middle District."
Darren stared in stunned silence, his jaw nearly unhinged. Tristan smiled faintly, careful to keep the expression hidden from view.
With that single display of power, Garfield had turned the battle on its head. The other competitors were too shocked to respond. Even Francis, fast as lightning itself, struggled to grasp what had just occurred.
"That speed… it's unreal," Francis muttered.
Suddenly, slow and theatrical clapping echoed from Yaron, who remained still as stone.
"I don't know what to say. Oh, wait—I do. You're still not that special," he sneered. "You think you're strong because you took down our long-range specialist? Wake up to reality. You're still nothing… and you always will be!"
Garfield bit his tongue, but only for a moment.
Then, from among the spectators, a cloaked boy rose.
"I truly hate people like you," the boy said, his voice steady, cutting through the tension like a blade. "People who think they're better than everyone else. I hate it."
All eyes turned to the figure slowly descending from the stands, the crowd falling silent, captivated by his presence.
"All of you from the High District," he continued, "were born with everything—money, luxury, influence. But none of that means anything to me."
Yaron chuckled as the boy leapt from the stands, landing gracefully upon the battlefield.
"What are you babbling about, rat?" he sneered.
The boy's eyes burned.
"I hate people like you. Just because we have less doesn't mean we're worth less. You treat us like we're beneath you, like we're dirt—and I've had enough of it."
Yaron's amusement turned into roaring laughter.
"Those who have wealth are superior. Those who don't… are nothing," he declared, smug and absolute.
"Fine then. I'll beat you down and prove your wealth means nothing," the boy said, slowly removing the hood from his cloak.
The crowd erupted.
Crimson hair unfurled in the wind, the dirty brown cloak falling away as the Middle District's pride stepped forward.
Tristan Merigold.
Garfield's face lit up as he rushed forward. "Brother! It's you!" he exclaimed, arms outstretched.
Tristan sidestepped the incoming hug effortlessly. "I didn't come to help. These guys just really pissed me off," he said, his voice calm but cold.
Garfield grinned. "Okay, Brother!"
Yaron scoffed, his tone mocking. "You can't fight. The Headmaster restricted you from participating. And you don't even have your STAR weapon."
Tristan glanced up toward the amphitheater. Sylvia, eyes closed in contemplation, finally spoke.
"If the combatant is capable of competing, he may do so… but only if the Representatives agree."
All eyes turned to the five Representatives seated in judgment. Yaron smirked, confident no one would vote in favor of a Middle District rat.
But Ruben's hand rose immediately.
"I am fine with it," he said.
Yaron's smirk faded.
Then, a second hand—Alice White.
The crowd now waited in suspense for the remaining three. Anastacia Violet and Emily Garnet refused to budge.
"He wasn't part of the fight from the beginning," Anastacia said flatly. "Why should we allow him now?"
Alice responded sweetly, "Now, now… let's allow him. It's beautiful to witness such determination in a young man."
All eyes turned to the final Representative: Decker Vermillion. His eyes were closed in thought. Everything rested on his decision.
Tristan stared up at him, a flicker of loathing in his expression.
At last, Decker spoke.
"I believe what the crowd wants takes priority," he said, lifting his hand.
A subtle smile played on Sylvia's lips as she made the announcement.
"With the Representatives' acceptance of Tristan Merigold's request, he shall be allowed to participate in the final stage of the exam."