A light at the end of the tunnel. Atoy Muzazi had always wondered how such a thing would feel. He hadn't expected menace, sinking deep into his bones.

It wasn't that they were unprepared. On the contrary, they'd made meticulous preparations for this day. The majority of the Phases were here with him, in the hallway leading to the stadium proper, ready to strike back at any assassins lured out by the promise of an easy kill on the Heir. A humanoid lump of Ionir Yggdrassil was accompanying them too, clad in a cloak, just the right height and size to be a disguised Aclima. Were anyone to attack them now, in this last vulnerable moment out of sight of the world, all they would accomplish was the exposure of their malice. All the while, the real Aclima was safe in a secondary location, with Morgan and her personal guard.

Yes. That was the reason Atoy Muzazi was doing this.

He swallowed one last time, lingering before the blinding light that led to history. He'd worn a white ceremonial uniform for this occasion -- from the age of Gael the Golden, with a crimson cape fluttering behind it. That was the impression he wanted to give here. A Supreme that cared. A Supreme that looked down before he took a needless step.

It was all very ceremonial. A ceremonial sword at his hip and a ceremonial pistol strapped to his leg. Neither of them he would need or use, even if an enemy did make themselves known. All the power he needed already resided within him.

He clenched his fists, and was surprised to find them slick with sweat. He'd defeated so many adversaries, conquered so many obstacles, and yet the eyes of the galaxy were still enough to strike fear into his heart? He was surprised.

Just a few minutes until the ceremony began proper. Just a few minutes until he began directing the rails of his life in the direction he needed. Just a few minutes… until either success or failure became inevitable.

“Muzazi,” Marcus muttered, standing next to him. His keen Cogitant eyes were fixed at the darkness on the other side of the tunnel -- the direction they'd come from. Muzazi followed his gaze.

There, framed by the black, loomed Nael Manron. His unkempt antlers nearly scraped against the ceiling as he stared, red eyes glaring into grey. The red coat he wore was a tattered thing, like it had been shredded and reassembled countless times, a parody of the pristine cape Muzazi wore. This was a man who had been through it, clearly.

Finally, as if to match Muzazi's unused blade, some kind of musical instrument hung limp from Manron’s hip. A guitar? Muzazi wasn't familiar.

“What do you want, Mr. Manron?” Muzazi called out, his voice echoing down the corridor. “This isn't your entrance.”

Nael Manron didn't answer straight away. He just continued to stare with dull eyes, as if looking right through Muzazi. It was strange… despite the reputation this man held, he had a peculiar lack of presence -- as if the slightest breeze would scatter him to the winds.

So this was the King of Killers.

“It could be my entrance,” Nael finally replied, his voice low and husky, barely audible. “Maybe I want it to be.”

The other Phases around Muzazi stiffened, but he held up a hand to quiet them.

“You wouldn't,” he asserted, his own gaze steady. “You're not that foolish.”

Nael raised a stark white eyebrow. “You think… I'd lose?”

“I've neither fought you nor seen you fight -- I really couldn't say,” Muzazi spoke calmly. “But even if you did manage to eliminate me here, you'd only be making yourself a primary target for the other contestants. After seeing how far you were willing to go before the matches, they'd have no choice but to kill you in self-defense.”

Nael blinked placidly. “Maybe I'd just kill them too.”

Muzazi ignored those words. “As I said -- this is the first time we've met,” he declared. “But, by reputation, I know you're not a frivolous man. Why have you come here, Nael Manron?”

Nael’s eyes slowly scanned the body of the Full Moon, up and down, calmly taking in every detail. A movement mechanical in its efficiency. The smirk that curled Manron's lips, on the other hand, was not.

“Funny,” he mumbled.

“What's funny?”

Nael let his head fall to one side, that tired smile never leaving his lips. “I was going to ask you the same thing… Atoy Muzazi. Why have you come here?”

Muzazi blinked. “The same reason as you. I compete to --”

“Not the same reason as me. You want to become, uh… Supreme. But why?”

Not the same reason? Nael Manron had some other motive for participating in the Dawn Contest? Muzazi adjusted his stance slightly. If that was the case, then maybe he wasn't as safe as he'd thought.

“Does a man need a reason?” he asked.

Nael glared. “A man has a reason.”

Muzazi adjusted the position of his hand, just a bit, just enough that he could bring out a lightning-fast Radiant if he needed to. Then again… this Nael Manron was a man who concealed everything about himself. What better weapon to meet him with than the truth?

He opened his mouth. “I want… I'm going to become a true Supreme, because someone must. Someone must follow the example of the First, someone must follow the example of Gael, someone must guard after the people as they are sworn to. This world is sick -- and for too long, false Supremes have amused themselves by playing in the pus. I intend to be the cure.”

As he spoke, Muzazi got more than a few glances from the Phases gathered around him. Was that a twinkle of approval in Marcus’ eyes? Ash del Duran's stoic expression was as unreadable as ever. The roll of Gregori Hazzard’s eyes was just as expected.

But those words were not for them -- they were for Nael Manron. The King of Killer's smile spread out into a mirthless and unsightly grin that did not reach his eyes. Not a display of joy, but a display of teeth.

“Your mouth is full of shit,” Manron said -- and without another word, he turned and stalked away.

It was only when he'd vanished into the darkness that Muzazi finally let out the breath he'd been holding in. For a man with so little presence… Nael Manron could surely make his malice known.

Azrael joined Nael halfway down the tunnel, ducking in from an alcove and matching him step-for-step.

Three months ago, the second-in-command of the Crimson Carnival had been the newest recruit of the Crimson Carnival. In that time, he'd learnt Aether, forged the special ability that was the Carnival’s trademark, and strengthened it until he was second only to Nael himself.

“So?” Azrael asked, looking up at his supposed superior. “What did you think?”

He cut a distinctive -- if monochrome -- figure as he strode through the tunnel. Long black hair and chalk-white skin, with a face full of piercings. His eyes were just as pale as his body, lacking pupils, making it difficult to tell just where he was looking. A black shirt far too big for him brushed against the floor like a robe, the logo of a bugpunk band adorning the front.

Nael glanced down at him. “About what?”

“Atoy Muzazi. You were interested in him, weren't you?”

Nael grunted noncommittally. That made up about half of his vocabulary these days. Azrael didn't much mind -- it gave him less to worry about while he was basically running the organization.

“Doesn't matter,” the words finally drifted out of Manron's mouth. “We’ve got a job to do. Is everything ready?”

Azrael nodded. “On your signal.”

“Fine. You'll know it when you see it.”

The two of them vanished into the darkness, their intentions unknown -- but anyone who knew them could easily have guessed. They were the Crimson Carnival, after all. They were assassins.

They killed for money, and nothing else.

The roar of the crowd was like the crashing of a wave.

When the Three Wise Men had made their appearance, a reverent hush had settled over the masses, but the arrival of the contestants themselves had been enough to break that. No displeasure was visible on the massive faces of the three holograms, however. This was permissible -- no, more than that, it was essentially part of the ceremony itself.

They had to show the future Supreme that they were loved, after all.

Atoy Muzazi kept his head forward as he marched dutifully towards the stage that had appeared at the center of the arena. Some of the contestants, like that Chicken Punk man, were doing their best to grandstand to the audience, throwing out poses and boasts -- but that was not the impression Muzazi wanted to give off.

He would be a Supreme of responsibility and duty. Otherwise, all of this was pointless.

Not everyone was as extravagant as Chicken Punk -- but few remained as focused as Muzazi. Dorothy Eiro offered the crowd a casual wave as she made her way to the stage, then smiled at Muzazi as their eyes met. He looked away, towards the metal cage being escorted across the stadium opposite him. Two armoured guards accompanied it, stun-spears clutched in their hands.

It was disgraceful that PALATINE, the monstrosity, was being allowed to participate. What strings had the Absurd Weapons Lab pulled to bring their experiment into the fray? Even if some Supremes had been cruel, they were still human. A thing like PALATINE sitting the throne would be unacceptable.

Tealin Jade, the dread preacher, raised his four blue arms in greetings as he strode resplendent across the arena. He wore nothing but a waistcloth -- leaving the eyes that dotted his muscles free to flick this way and that, inspecting the area around him. Yet another monster to be wary of.

The only man who truly matched Muzazi's focus was the man from the past, Mereloco. The brute was short but strong, body tense with muscle, dull eyes staring forward as he walked with utter placid relaxation. It was the kind of comfort to be wary of -- the kind that could be possessed only by those truly confident it would never be broken.

Xander Rain, the young head of the Tree of Might, made a valiant effort at regality -- but the paleness of his face against his traditional grey war-robes gave the game away. Nervousness, but an understandable nervousness, given his age. Fourteen years old. The ultratraditionalists of the Supremacy often rallied against age barriers for combat, but even so…

Nael Manron, the assassin, the King of Killers. His ragged red coat billowed behind him as he walked, a cigarette dancing between his lips. Despite their confrontation just a few minutes ago, he didn't so much as glance at Muzazi. Had he already lost interest?

None of them gave him pause. They were powerful enemies, to be sure, but that was what Muzazi had come here for -- to prove they were something he could handle. But then, of course, there was…

Dragan Hadrien.

He walked in from the opposite side of the stadium -- and he had the same grace as Mereloco, grace born from utter belief in oneself. His lips were tugged upwards into the slightest smirk, and his blue eyes shone slightly. A stark white business suit made it seem like he was almost glowing as he made his way to the stage.

How long had it been since they'd last seen each other? Two years now. Two years since Muzazi had felt that pressure -- that Supreme pressure -- from Dragan Hadrien back on Elysian Fields. If Bone Heaven was any indication, he'd only grown since then.

One by one, they assembled on the stage at the center of the arena, ready to make the pledge. They stood in a large circle, each contestant a safe distance from the next, facing outwards towards the crowd. Tiny flying recorder automatics flew in, hovering under their mouths as they spoke the words to themselves.

Their words would not remain their own. This was the pledge, after all, the words that gave this whole thing significance. It would not do for one voice to be out of sync, or too quiet, or too muffled. Not a blemish could be allowed.

So it was that when those words were repeated -- so many times louder -- from the floor of the arena itself, they were changed. Voices slowed, voices quickened, adjusted in whatever way necessary so that they spoke as one and with strength. A chorus enforced.

Their will rumbled through the earth.

With this hand, I become Supreme, said the Arena of the Absolute. With this hand, I strike down the unworthy, the false, the Inferior that would lead all to ruin.

Rex watched and listened with great interest as the pledge vibrated through the air around them. He'd seen archive footage of previous opening ceremonies to prepare for this job, but there was a difference between watching through the distance of time and actually being there. Despite his best efforts, a shiver went down his spine.

“You know,” he said, leaning in towards Ruth next to him. “According to history, these were the words that ol’ Azez said when he took Azum. Victory speech, you know?”

Rae glanced away from her camera, over her shoulder towards him. She looked annoyed. What with the noise of the pledge, Rex hadn't realized he was still audible -- hopefully he hadn't ruined the footage. The last thing they needed was trouble with the employer.

Ruth didn't respond -- it was doubtful she'd even heard him. Her gaze was fixed right on the dot that was Dragan Hadrien.

With these eyes, I discern what ‘can be’ and what ‘cannot be’. With this tongue, I inform the world of its proper order. With these feet, my march becomes a drum that leads my subjects to greatness.

Jamilu scowled from within the crowd, his expression a stark contrast to the cheering faces all around him.

This pledge… they were just words, he knew, but still they boiled his blood. This was the philosophy of the Supremacy -- a philosophy that had devastated his homeland for nearly a century, that had driven their best and brightest to become the Old Demons of the Dawn. This was acid, pouring from rotten mouths.

Deep within the spear, he could feel Victory's rage at every syllable. It was a rare occasion when he found himself in sync with the infernal.

From my back sprouts a tree of might, to grow through the workings of the world and fix each aspect in its proper order. My blood is its sap that will never spill. My flesh is the food for my legend. My name is superseded by my aspect.

All through the crowd, figures drifted. Anonymous faces and false names, positioned here carefully, organized long in advance. They did not listen to the pledge. Their attention was elsewhere and divided -- each focused on a different contestant, each line of sight unbreakable.

These were not admirers succumbing to obsession. These were killers acquiring targets.

I am Supreme, the power over all the world.

I am Supreme, the father and mother of mankind.

I am Supreme, and that is all that must be said.

As the pledge came to an end, the cheering erupted once more -- this time with such ferocity that Muzazi couldn't help but wince at the sudden shift of volume. He supposed it only made sense. As so many people were saying these days, this was history in action. Everyone wanted their voice to be distinguishable among it.

The first shot rang out, tearing through the noise for but a brief moment. The signal for contestants to begin leaving, one by one, each a minute apart. This was the first and last time they would all be together in one place.

PALATINE’s escorts took it away as the first contestant. From deep within the metal box, Muzazi heard two sounds -- an inhuman screech, and a cacophony of mocking whispers. Not for the first time that day, a shiver went down his spine.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

One by one, the contestants left, disappearing into the same tunnels they'd entered through. Even as the stage grew emptier and emptier, however, the cheering from the stands didn't abate for a moment. The Dawn Contest had officially begun, after all. There was much to celebrate.

Bang.

Contestant 17, Atoy Muzazi, began his stride back to the tunnel. Again, he didn't look at the other contestants or the crowd. There would be no showmanship from him. He would demonstrate why he should be Supreme with his actions alone.

He crossed the threshold between arena and hallway --

Crack.

-- and, for the first time, turned his head.

On the stage, still elevated, Nael Manron had stepped forward. Red Aether coursed chaotically around his arm like a sheath of light -- the crawling of the crimson sparks audible from their sheer strength. Without a word, he raised that arm up…

…and a lightning-bolt of Aether surged up, piercing through the clouds and -- for a brief moment -- leaving an afterimage like a thin scorched tree.

The crowd went quiet, just for a second, and Muzazi too regarded the sight with confusion. What exactly had that been meant to accomplish? Before he could question further, however, before he could step back -- the doors to the tunnel closed, sealing him in darkness.