A deafening thunk rang through a dusty, old room. The accompanying sparks were expelled with such force that it almost seemed like they would set the greying stones alight. And in fact, many of the ancient bricks were blackened from that very experience—the flickering particles were just that hot. And yet, their producer was entirely unfazed.

The greying rabbit, Drusa of Alephium, didn't even register the bits of flaming dust. Keeping her eyes focused on her work, she simply raised and lowered her hammer again. A pulse of magic accompanied each descent. She gathered it in her hand and poured it into her tool, filling it with as much pure mana as the material could possibly contain. It wasn't all too different from a battlemage's technique. And in fact, it was precisely from that which it was ultimately derived.

Her magic invaded her target at the moment of impact. Following her instructions, it spread throughout the artifact-to-be and perfectly compacted the surrounding matter. Each time she repeated the process, it would dig a little bit deeper, slowly but surely forging the artificial mana veins exactly as she had defined them. Only after her twelfth strike did she finally stop to take a breath. She slowly turned her eyes to her youngest disciple, only to heave a sigh when she found him with his chin on his desk and his arms sprawled all over. The giant rabbit wasn't quite asleep, but his eyes were glassed. It was clear that his mind was elsewhere.

"Pay attention, Priscian. This is an important step."

"I am paying attention," he said. He was thorae-sized, nearly three meters tall from ear to foot, but his voice was as squeaky as any ten year old boy's. The mix of traits was uncommon, but for Priscian, it was a constant; the overall shape of his body was thoraen; but his head was rabbit-shaped and he was covered in brown fur from head to toe. His tail was especially peculiar. Attached to his waist was the hallmark abdomen possessed by all members of his father's species, but he had a fluffy puffball in place of the usual stinger.

"Then can you explain what I just did?"

"Uhhhh..." The half-rabbit smiled. "You forged something?"

Drusa almost frowned, but she cut herself short, set down her hammer, and pulled up a chair opposite her pupil. "Maybe we're due for a change of pace. Would you like to try something different today?"

"Different how?" Priscian didn't exactly perk up, but he raised one of his big floppy ears.

"Why don't we go into town?" suggested Drusa. "We're running a bit low on iron and we've been due for a grocery run." Seeing that neither of Priscian's ears had risen any further, the older cottontail slumped her shoulders and gave in. "We can stop by the colosseum on our way back. We'll likely make it to the afternoon event if we leave within the next ten minutes."

"Good idea." The boy shot to his feet in an instant. "Our groceries aren't going to buy themselves."

Drusa smiled wryly. She'd wanted to keep Priscian away from the colosseum, but it remained his only source of motivation. Perhaps, it was simply in his blood. Both of the halfbreed's parents had lived their lives as gladiators. They were Alephium's strongest and most famous, a pair of stars that rose through the ranks and made their names in record time. But while the world at large saw them as grand applicators of violence, to Drusa, they were simply her close friends. Both were regulars, clients that had staked their lives on the artifacts she made, time and time again.

Despite having spent their careers soaked in blood, neither had ever been much of a proponent of the standard Cadrian art. If anything, Tertullian and Praxades were precisely the opposite; they refused to fight lest forced or paid. Chances were, they would have preferred for their son to have any other interest. At least, that was how she understood their reasoning; there was no other reason for them to have foisted their child upon her while they were out on tour.

The only other possibility that came to mind was that they needed some time to themselves, but she doubted it. There were over fifty staff members accompanying them on their nation-wide trip. If they wanted another child, then all they needed to do was ask anyone else to briefly entertain him. And yet, they'd chosen to leave him at a shop that crafted goods he cared little about whilst claiming exactly the opposite; both parents had explicitly insisted that their son was fond of artificy.

Tertullian had even boldly claimed that the boy knew how to make his own devices, though he'd demonstrated no such talent in the week he'd spent under Drusa's care.

It was difficult to say if one could even really call Priscian an apprentice with how little attention he paid, but Drusa was fond of him regardless. The kid was shockingly polite for someone raised by two gladiators, and never once mentioned his parents when heckled by the other disciples. He might not have paid much attention during his lessons, but at the very least, he didn't ruin them for those who were engaged. And though neither fellow apprentice treated him particularly well, he'd even called for them both as soon as Drusa suggested heading into town.

Cato, the older boy, had immediately rejected him so he could continue his work. He was in the middle of hammering out an artifact for a client—a shield that would concentrate and reflect any light shone upon it. It was a simple tool with a simple circuit. Frankly, it was unlikely that he would need any more than an hour to finish it, he'd already failed three times on account of his nerves. It was his first commission, and he really wanted to nail it.

Clena was far more open to joining. She practically threw her project out the window and wandered over to the front door still dressed in her work clothes. Only when Drusa glared at her did she reluctantly return to her room, hang up her overalls, and throw on a spring dress.

The trio set out as soon as they returned with one of Drusa's creations in tow. The floating wooden block hovered in the space behind them and followed them wherever they went. It seemed useless at a glance, but it was a truly convenient tool. It would save them the effort of lugging their purchases around and it was even equipped with a function that would allow it to return to the workshop on its own.

The shopping trip itself was uneventful; they picked up their items, loaded them onto the floating block, and sent them on their way, as was their usual routine. Priscian's energy levels aside, the only notable standout was the freshness of the fruit they'd purchased. Honeyblossom season was in full swing; the bright yellow berries were in such abundance that they cost less than a dagger a bundle. Drusa had bought six, enough to make a full week's worth of Honeyblossom pies.

Priscian's excitement peaked when they finally arrived at the colosseum. Completely cutting loose, he flung himself over the ticketing gate and ran over to the poster that marked the day's scheduled fights.

Drusa didn't bother rebuking him. The behaviour wasn't exactly proper, but he wasn't doing anything wrong. As a gladiator's son, he had near full access to the colosseum. He was free to watch whatever fights he wanted and he was even permitted to visit the fighters in their luxurious underground chambers. The only place he couldn't freely go was up into the VIP stands, as they were often reserved for private events hosted by and for the nobility.

"How many fights are you hoping to see today?" Drusa and Clena, however, had no such privilege. The agent by the gate greeted them with a smile as they reached it. Perhaps, he might have explained the different types of tickets had they appeared more foreign, but they were both traditionally Cadrian species dressed in traditionally Cadrian garbs, and there was no such thing as a Cadrian unaware of the national standard.

"We'd like a pair of trident passes," said Drusa. "First ring, please."

"Alright, that'll be four daggers," said the ticketmaster. He quickly grabbed a few papers out from under his desk and stamped them when she presented her payment. "Thank you. Here's your receipt."

"Thanks." Drusa quickly noted their seat numbers before carefully folding up the documents and putting them in her purse. The seat numbers themselves weren't all too relevant. Alphium's colosseum was divided into three distinct levels, and in most cases, no one cared which seats they took exactly so long as they remained within the level for which they'd paid. The only exception was when the colosseum was packed for a special event.

The tickets themselves still needed to be treated carefully, however, as they could be taken to the town hall at the end of each season; every dagger spent on colosseum tickets was a dagger that the government would credit against one's taxes. Similar discounts could be found from weapon shops and ateliers, like Drusa's own, though they weren't full write-offs like the colosseum's fee.

As far as the state was concerned, any money spent on improving one's combat potential was money well-spent and it would happily support any such endeavours even if it meant forgoing its share of the citizens' funds. Some warriors and their families even had limited tax exemptions, as was the case with Priscian's.

"So? Is whatever they're doing today even worth watching?" asked Clena. She didn't allow herself to get as carried away as Priscian, but there was a clear spring in her step.

"It should be," said Priscian, as he scanned the afternoon bracket.

All Cadrian colosseums followed the exact same structure. Most of the battles were typical ranked matches, with one's position on the local leaderboard constantly at risk. Adding additional spice to the mix were the miniature tournaments hosted once every few days, wherein the organisers would grab a number of individuals of a similar perceived strength and have them fight in a series of duels. And on the rare occasion, they would feature a chaotic battle royale, as was the case in the present. Again, it was focused around individuals of the same approximate power level, but that was really the only constraint.

"Should be?" Clena tilted her head and looked up at the poster. "Wait, aren't these all the colosseum's biggest names!? Ventus of Scrya literally won six of the last ten battle royales, and Lyrex the Blooddrinker is the latest rising star! The only ones that are missing are Praxades the Swarming Sword and that bum she's got for a husband!"

"Come on, now. You can't be calling our valued customers bums," said Drusa. "And Tertullian might be a little unkempt, but he's got a good heart."

"He's definitely a bum," muttered Priscian, before pointing to one of the last names listed. "Do either of you know who this is? I don't recognize her."

"Let's see… Gladora… the Bloodbreaker!?" Clena' eyes opened wide. "What the hell do you mean you don't know who she is!?"

"I've never heard of her. Is she supposed to be famous?"

"Famous!? She's more than just famous! Everyone thinks she's going to be one of the seven!" shouted Clena. "She's so strong that they think she might even end up as the third seat!"

"Really?" Priscian's eyes lit up. "I can't wait to see her fight."

"We'll be in for a treat if it's really her, but I dunno." Clena crossed her arms. "She doesn't really have any reason to be hanging around a backwater town like ours." Alphium was located on Cadria's coast. Far to the east of Valencia, it was a tiny domain whose only notable feature was its maritime border. Elves, cottontails, and thorae loved gathering on the beaches during the warmer seasons, and there would even be the occasional lamia who would venture up north and do the same.

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The sea's stewards weren't exactly fond of the Cadrian's leisure. In fact, they often grew so annoyed that they would launch invasions or sic giant sea creatures upon their landlocked neighbours. Alphium's warriors would always quickly deal with the ensuing threat, but it was impossible for them to retaliate. Traditional methods of Cadrian warfare didn't work well underwater.

Locked in an eternal stalemate, those who lived all across the coast had no choice but to become decent fighters if they wished to protect their homes. And at least in Drusa's mind, that was why the warrior had paid a visit.

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough." Smiling, she led the two children up into the stands and took a seat with an ample view of the stadium.

There was still a bit of time before the scheduled battle royale. The fighters had already entered the colosseum, but they had yet to take their starting positions. Some greeted the crowd, raising their arms and waving to their adoring fans while others warmed up their bodies for the battles ahead.

"I think that's her," said Clena. She pointed to the only fighter with an unfamiliar face. She was a bull of a woman, and not only on account of her bovine lower body. She must've measured at least two meters across; her shoulders were so broad that she looked like she was sure to break the average door just by stepping through it. "She looks pretty strong."

"Muscle size isn't strictly indicative of strength at higher levels," said Drusa.

"Yeah, but it still helps when you're built like that."

"She looks strong even without all the extra muscle," said Priscian.

"Huh? What do you know about people looking strong?" asked Clena.

"She's leaning just a little bit forward so her center of gravity is on her front feet. That means she can pivot more quickly and use her back legs to kick. Her weapons are probably just for show. I think she's more of a fist-fighter."

Clena looked between the two for a second, eyes wide open, before slapping her knee and breaking into a laugh. "Wow, Priscian, you had me there for a second! You almost sounded like you knew what you were talking about!"

"It was legitimate," grumbled Priscian.

"Yeah, sure it was. It'd totally make sense for her to haul around two giant axes just to bluff. Those things have got to be at least two hundred pounds each," said the older child, with another laugh.

"That's nothing for someone high level," said Priscian.

Drusa watched over the whole exchange with an awkward smile. Clena still hadn't the faintest clue as to Priscian's identity—she hadn't even noticed when Drusa bought two tickets instead of three. Though chances were, she was unlikely to respect his opinion even if she knew it. After all, it was his parents, not him, who had proven their might on the battlefield. Drusa herself had no way of vetting the claims. While certainly a high level artificer, she wasn't even remotely capable of combat. All three hundred of her racial levels had come coincidentally, often as a result of testing her creations.

"The battle royale will be commencing in fifteen minutes." One of the announcers' voices rippled through the colosseum. "Today's match will be taking place between…"

He started listing off the candidates and their famed techniques as his coworkers went around the colosseum and made a last call for anyone looking to gamble. Drusa didn't bother engaging. Gambling was tax-incentivized in much the same way as the tickets themselves—judging fighters was considered as valuable a skill as defeating them—but the only way she could have possibly even tried to evaluate their strength was through the use of an artifact, and she wasn't too confident even then. Priscian, however, immediately threw a spear on the newcomer. Drusa hadn't the slightest idea when or how he had gotten the money, but if it was his, then she had no right to speak against its use.

From then, it didn't take long for the battle to begin. The fighters got into position, the referee blew his whistle, and the clash was underway.

Seven of the sixteen participants immediately leapt into action. Many engaged old rivals, but not all were of the entertainer's mindset. The more cautious either backed off or engaged selectively, choosing their opponents based on their relative affinity, while the mindlessly aggressive attacked whoever was closest or otherwise inserted themselves into ongoing conflicts.

The guest fighter, Gladora the Bloodbreaker, fit into none of those categories. She simply walked towards the middle of the arena with her arms crossed and her weapons undrawn. It was a clear taunt, clear enough for Idrian of Sokapor and Lustra the Silent Edge to take it.

Idrian made the very first move. Clasping his hands together, he summoned a pillar of flame that eclipsed the heavens and swallowed the cow-centaur whole.

Gladora didn't even try to dodge. She simply stood in it, maintaining her pose until the flames petered out. It wasn't like the spell had no effect. Charred as black as coal, her flesh crumbled off of her bones. Little of it still remained, but her physical form had returned by the time her second opponent attacked.

The lamia in question was obviously a rogue. She was dressed from head to toe in sound-dampening cloth and she even had a mask to obscure her features. Of course, the hiding of her face was not the item's true purpose. Lustra fought in the arena for long enough that everyone who cared knew exactly what she looked like. She mainly wore it for its filtering effect—its ability to cleanse the air of the poisons with which she filled it.

She threw four vials with one hand and four daggers with the other. It was an explosion of poisons, a deadly melange capable of crippling even the most poison resistant. But Gladora faced it head-on. She caught the throwing knives with a bare forearm and allowed the poisons that coated their blades to seep straight into her flesh. She didn't even stifle her breath when the rogue's concoctions exploded and filled the air with powder.

She simply stood strong. As would a model soldier.

It wasn't until the lamia drew closer that she finally kicked into high gear. She grabbed the snake by the wrist when she thrust her knife and slammed her hand into the ground. The sheer force of the interaction ripped Lustra's arm from its socket, but another immediately replaced it. She shot up Gladora's body and wrapped her tail around her skull, only to be torn off and launched into the fiery blast inbound.

Idrian immediately prepared another spell, but the bovine centaur closed the distance in a heartbeat and drove her hooves straight through his chest. The mage was still conscious, but a second kick sent him out of bounds and disqualified any further intervention.

The crowd immediately burst into a cheer. And the fighters' attitudes took a one-eighty.

It wasn't like the fire mage was weak. He'd always hovered somewhere between ranks 4 and 10, and everyone knew that he'd long hit the 850 wall. He was supposed to be one of their best fighters, a rare pure caster capable of holding his own in close quarters.

But he'd already been defeated.

Two pairs of rivals broke from their petty squabbles and immediately engaged, but they stood no chance. Gladora lashed out with her fists, broke their arms, and sent them flying away. It didn't matter what skills they used or what concepts they employed. She simply punched through them with resilience, speed, and martial technique.

Just five minutes later, and the battle royale was over. She was the only one standing, and the only trick she'd revealed was that she could punch people from afar with the energy blasts that shot from her fists. She crossed her lips, frowned, and sighed as the announcer proclaimed her victory and advertised her potential position among the seven.

She should have been reveling in glory.

But Gladora was simply miffed.

She crossed her arms and breathed a sigh as she scanned her fallen foes.

"With this as her competition, Praxades' techniques probably won't live up to the rumours."

She started walking towards the colosseum's exit, but a particularly bulky rabbit leapt out from the crowd and blocked off her path.

"Priscian!?" Drusa shouted from her place in the stands. "What are you doing!? Get back here!"

The halfbreed didn't listen. He simply drew a sword out of nowhere and raised it overhead. "Praxades' techniques are the strongest."

"Show me," said Gladora, with a smile.

Drusa climbed over the railing and ran out in front of Priscian. "Please wait, Ma'am. He's just a child. He has no ide—"

Her words were cut short by a burst of violence.

Priscian flew across the ring in the blink of an eye and extended his blade. For those capable of perceiving it, the weapon's movement almost seemed impossible. Though it was a solid lump of metal, it seemed to flicker and shimmer. Suddenly, one weapon split into fifty, all closing in at once. It was a technique that all of the spectators knew. A perfect replication of Praxades' eponymous swarming sword.

The bovine centaur twisted her lips into a grin as she scanned the storm of swords. And then, with a light-speed flurry of fists, she deflected each and every single one. She suffered only a single cut for her troubles, a quick slash that went halfway through her neck and left the arena splattered in red.

Cackling, she threw a fist at the rabbit's exposed side, only for a translucent lattice-shaped shield to appear in its path. The barrier swallowed her hand as she made contact, bending and flexing until her fist came to a complete stop before suddenly snapping back, shattering her wrist, and breaking her arm to pieces. Again, it was a borrowed technique, something the rabbit had copied from Tertullian, his father.

Everyone in the cheering crowd, even the thoroughly confused Clena, immediately arrived at the conclusion that he was their son; the family was seen together often enough for most to recognize his unique body. But Drusa knew better. As a longtime artificer, she knew, just by observing the flow of mana, that Priscian did not inherit his parents' abilities. Nay. He was simply making use of the magical devices that had appeared on his waist—the magical devices that bestowed upon him a set of abilities perfectly tuned to match his parents'.

It was complete and utter nonsense. Both for the artifacts to exist, and for them to come with an additional circuit that ensured no harm was applied to his person.

But even with his abilities enhanced, he was still outclassed. The cow-woman grew closer to punching through his shield with every strike. Tertullian's defense could only last as long as his mana, and even the original would struggle to stay protected for long against someone of Gladora's caliber, let alone his copycat son.

The observers awaited with bated breath, convinced that it would only be a matter of time before she ground him to paste.

But a third artifact appeared in Priscian's open hand.

Lined with streaks of gold, the glass bottle contained an ever-swirling blue liquid whose quantity never diminished, even as he raised it to his lips. The effect was immediately apparent. His mana was restored in an instant, immediately replenished to full.

There was only one problem.

Gladora drew her axes.

Contrary to Priscian's expectations, the weapons weren't just for show. Lightning coated the bovine's body as she smashed both blades into the halfbreed's neck at once. His father's shield only lasted for a moment, shattering into a million pieces beneath the weight of the electrified blow.

And yet, the edges never reached him.

The axes stopped just half an inch from his neck, and not because the cow-woman had intended to pull her punches. Her whole body was frozen in place, its colour overridden by a sickly grey.

It was an effect born of the giant pocket watch that hovered in the space behind her—yet another ridiculous artifact.

Only with the fourth was Drusa finally certain. Priscian wasn't crafting the magical devices or otherwise pulling them out of some sort of stash. It was as his father had said. He was creating them.

Or more accurately, he was hallucinating them into existence.

Priscian immediately pounced on his timestopped foe and drove his sword towards her neck. But a hand caught him before he could make contact.

Though ridiculously potent, his spell was still imperfect.

He himself was too weak, too inexperienced to prevent the centaur from breaking through it with her raw strength. All of a sudden, he was on the floor, and she was standing with a hoof on his back.

The crowd erupted into a series of cheers, both for Gladora, and for her last-minute challenger. Exactly zero people minded the fact that he hadn't registered to fight her. The only thing that mattered was that he'd made her work for the win.

"Good fight. Best one I've had in months." The cow-woman raised her foot and backed away. "What'd you say your name was again?"

"Priscian," he said. "Priscian of Broken Time."

"Priscian." Gladora grinned. "Come with me to the capital. Valencia needs your power."

Priscian paused for a moment before taking the warrior's outstretched hand—

"Gladly."

—And embarking on a journey to polish his blade.

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