The portal's cerulean glow pulsed with uncaring precision, casting Emrys's silhouette in jagged shadows against his apartment walls. 00:00:03. 00:00:02. 00:00:01.

  "Time to find out what I'm worth," he whispered, shoving the prototype into his jacket's inner pocket. His fingers brushed against his journal—two years of forbidden knowledge compressed into leather and paper—before securing it in a waterproof pouch at his hip.

  The countdown hit zero.

  The portal's light intensified to blinding white before imploding with a sound like shattered glass, pulling Emrys into a tunnel of whirling blue energy. His stomach lurched as reality twisted, stretched, and compressed around him. For a moment that felt like eternity, he existed nowhere and everywhere, his consciousness scattered across dimensions never meant for human perception.

  Then solid ground slammed into his feet with bruising force. Emrys staggered, nearly falling before his hand found purchase against rough stone. His vision swam, blurred edges gradually sharpening into focus.

  A massive coliseum materialized around him, its architecture a blend of ancient design and impossible geometry. Obsidian pillars twisted upward, merging with floating platforms that defied gravity. The arena floor sprawled beneath a dome of pulsing energy that shifted between translucent and opaque, revealing glimpses of a star-filled sky unlike any Emrys had seen.

  Not Earth's sky. Not even close.

  "First human in the Crucible," came a voice both amused and derisive. "Betting pools have you lasting approximately seven minutes."

  Emrys turned to find Varek standing nearby, examining his nails with practiced indifference. The mage wore combat leathers dyed midnight blue, embedded with protective runes that occasionally flared with violet light.

  "Sorry to disappoint your gamblers," Emrys replied, "but I intend to be more interesting than that."

  Varek's smile never reached his eyes. "Oh, I anticipate you'll be very interesting, mortal. Just not particularly long-lived."

  Around them, other competitors materialized in flashes of colored light—ninety-four in total according to the massive scoreboard that hovered above the arena. Each arrival triggered a ripple of magic that Emrys could almost taste, metallic and electric on his tongue. The display of raw power was intimidating; some competitors arrived trailing elemental energy, others surrounded by familiars or animated weapons.

  Emrys felt absurdly mundane by comparison, armed with nothing but a stolen prototype, a journal of theories, and the faintest spark of magical ability he'd managed to coax from his supposedly dormant circuits.

  A thunderous voice boomed across the coliseum, vibrating the very stones beneath their feet:

  "COMPETITORS OF THE NINETY-THIRD CRUCIBLE OF FATES, ATTEND!"

  All movement ceased. Even Varek's smirk faltered as a figure materialized at the center of the arena—a woman composed entirely of light, her form shifting between humanoid and something infinitely more complex, geometries that hurt to look at directly.

  "I am Archmage Seraphina, Keeper of the Crucible," the figure announced. "You ninety-five have been selected as the finest magical talents of your generation. Before you stands the ultimate test of your abilities, your courage, and your adaptability."

  Her gaze swept across the assembled competitors, and Emrys felt the weight of it like physical pressure when it passed over him. The light-woman paused, her form flickering with what might have been surprise.

  "Interesting," she murmured, before continuing at full volume: "The Crucible consists of three trials, each more demanding than the last. You may withdraw at any time by activating the recall function in your medallion marks. However, once withdrawn, you may never return."

  The silver band around Emrys's wrist tingled at the mention of recall, as if responding to the possibility of retreat.

  "Our records indicate that the previous Crucible saw forty-three competitors enter the first trial. Twenty-nine survived to see the second. Twelve reached the third. Three emerged victorious."

  Emrys did the quick mental calculation. Slightly more than a thirty percent mortality rate. Grim, but not the near-certain death sentence he'd anticipated.

  "You will find the Crucible is both battlefield and laboratory," Seraphina continued. "It responds to your intentions, your fears, and your desires. Some call it sentient. Some call it sadistic. All who enter call it transformative."

  She raised her arms, and the entire coliseum trembled.

  "The first trial begins in one hour. Use this time to prepare yourselves. When the gong sounds, you will be transported to your starting positions. From that moment, everything within the Crucible is a potential weapon, ally, or hazard."

  The light-woman's form began to dissipate, particles of brilliance scattering upward toward the dome.

  "One final note," her voice echoed as her physical form disappeared. "The Crucible reveals your true nature, no matter how deeply you've buried it. Prepare to meet yourselves, competitors. It may be your greatest challenge."

  With that cryptic warning, she vanished completely, leaving ninety-five magic users in varying states of anticipation and dread.

  "Well," Varek remarked, turning to Emrys with a predatory smile, "that was appropriately dramatic."

  "Are all magical tournaments this theatrical?" Emrys asked, struggling to maintain his composure while his heart hammered against his ribs.

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  "Only the ones with impressive body counts," Varek replied cheerfully. "Still feeling confident, mortal?"

  Emrys met his gaze steadily. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

  "For approximately—" Varek made a show of checking an ornate timepiece, "—fifty-nine more minutes, at least."

  Before Emrys could respond, a group of elven competitors approached, their expressions ranging from curious to openly hostile.

  "Varek," the tallest among them greeted with cold formality. "I see your... pet... has accompanied you."

  "Ah, Thellerian. Still bitter about being second in class rankings?" Varek's smile was razor-sharp. "Emrys isn't mine. He's here on his own merit."

  The elf called Thellerian scoffed, green eyes fixing on Emrys with undisguised contempt. "A human in the Crucible. What next, training monkeys to cast cantrips?"

  Emrys had endured three years of similar comments at Nexoria. He'd mastered the art of silent dignity in the face of magical elitism. But here, on the precipice of the most important test of his life, something in him hardened into defiance.

  "I'd suggest monitoring the monkeys closely, then," he said, meeting Thellerian's gaze. "You might be surprised what beings you consider inferior can accomplish."

  A dangerous silence fell over the group. Thellerian's hand twitched toward a crystal wand at his belt.

  "Save it for the trial," Varek interjected, his tone light but edged with warning. "There will be plenty of opportunity to demonstrate superiority then."

  The elves departed with final glares of disdain, leaving Emrys alone with his unlikely... what? Sponsor? Tormentor?

  "You shouldn't antagonize them," Varek said, sounding almost concerned. "They're from the Celestial Harmony school. Their spatial manipulation can tear you apart atom by atom."

  "Why do you care?" Emrys asked bluntly.

  Varek's expression shifted to something unreadable. "I don't. But I'd prefer you die in some interesting fashion during the actual trial, not in some pre-game skirmish. I have substantial money riding on exactly when and how you perish."

  With that charming admission, he strode away, leaving Emrys to contemplate his predicament.

  Fifty minutes until the trial. Fifty minutes to formulate a strategy with pitifully few resources. Emrys found a relatively quiet corner of the coliseum and withdrew his journal, flipping to the section on Protection spells that Professor Lindham had recommended.

  The prototype hummed in his pocket, responding to the magical energies saturating the arena. Emrys retrieved it, studying the shifting runes that seemed more active, more purposeful than before.

  "You're the key," he murmured to the device. "Whatever you are, whoever built you—you're the reason I'm here."

  He placed it on the ground before him, positioning his hands on either side as he'd done during those intense preparation days. Closing his eyes, he focused on the feeling of energy flowing through his awakening circuits.

  "Help me survive this," he whispered to the prototype, to himself, to whatever power might be listening.

  The device pulsed once, twice, then projected a three-dimensional diagram of his body, overlaid with the faintly glowing lines of his mana circuits. The display was stronger than in his apartment, more detailed, showing not just the pathways but also the blockage points in his wrists, sternum, and temples.

  "Show me how to unblock them," he commanded, voice tight with urgency.

  The prototype's display shifted, zooming in on his right wrist where the medallion binding had merged with his skin. The blockage appeared as a tight knot of energy, constricting the natural flow of mana.

  [MEDALLION INTEGRATION DETECTED]

  [ANALYZING COMPATIBILITY...]

  [WARNING: INCOMPATIBLE MAGICAL SIGNATURES]

  [CRUCIBLE MEDALLION DESIGNED FOR ESTABLISHED MANA USERS]

  [CURRENT CONFIGURATION MAY RESULT IN CIRCUIT DAMAGE]

  Emrys stared at the projection, understanding dawning with grim clarity. The medallion wasn't just marking him as a competitor—it was actively interfering with his newly awakened magical potential, treating his anomalous energy signature as a threat to neutralize.

  "Can you override it?" he asked, the first hints of desperation creeping into his voice.

  [OVERRIDE IMPOSSIBLE WITHOUT ADMINISTRATIVE ACCESS]

  [HOWEVER: ADAPTIVE WORKAROUND POSSIBLE]

  [RECONFIGURING DIAGNOSTIC PROTOCOLS...]

  The prototype's surface temperature increased as its computational systems engaged more deeply. The projection of Emrys's body rotated, highlighting specific points along his arms and chest.

  [RECOMMENDATION: STIMULUS POINTS IDENTIFIED]

  [APPLYING PRESSURE TO THESE JUNCTIONS MAY TEMPORARILY CIRCUMVENT MEDALLION RESTRICTIONS]

  The display highlighted three precise locations—inside of his right elbow, center of his left palm, and a point two inches below his collarbone.

  Emrys immediately pressed his thumb hard against the inside of his right elbow, gasping as a jolt of energy shot down his arm. The sensation wasn't pain exactly, more like the pins-and-needles of circulation returning to a numb limb.

  "Interesting approach," came a voice from behind him.

  Emrys whirled, instinctively swiping the prototype off the ground and shoving it into his pocket. A woman stood watching him, her features marking her as neither human nor elf but something between—mixed heritage, perhaps. Her hair hung in silver-white dreadlocks decorated with small crystals that caught the light, and her eyes were the deep purple of twilight.

  "Most competitors are reinforcing existing skills," she continued, gesturing toward groups performing elaborate warm-up rituals. "You're trying to access new ones."

  Emrys said nothing, unsure whether this was a friendly overture or merely curiosity before an attack.

  The woman smiled slightly. "I'm Lyra. Battle Harmonist from the Western Archipelago."

  "Emrys," he replied cautiously. "Nexoria College."

  She nodded, her gaze assessing but not hostile. "The human competitor. Word travels fast."

  "Does it come with betting odds?" he asked dryly.

  "Seven-to-one you don't survive the first hour," she confirmed without apology. "I didn't place any bets, though."

  "Smart. I intend to disappoint the bookmakers."

  Lyra's smile widened fractionally. "Good. The Crucible needs more unpredictability. Ninety-four mages trying to out-blast each other gets tedious."

  A gong sounded, its resonance vibrating through the coliseum with preternatural depth.

  "Thirty minutes," Lyra observed. "First-timer advice: When the trial starts, get clear of the initial bloodbath. Half the deaths happen in the first five minutes when everyone's showing off."

  Emrys blinked, surprised by the genuine assistance. "Why help me?"

  "Because you're interesting," she replied simply. "And because my people believe diversity strengthens magic itself. Human, elf, dwarf—the source is the same, just channeled differently."

  Before he could respond, she pressed something into his hand—a small crystal no larger than his thumbnail, cloudy white with flecks of blue suspended within.

  "Focus stone," she explained. "It amplifies whatever spark you have. Not much use to full mages, but for someone with limited access..." She shrugged. "Might buy you a few seconds."

  The gong sounded again.

  "Good luck, Emrys of Nexoria," Lyra said, stepping back. "Try not to die too quickly. I find you interesting."

  She disappeared into the crowd, leaving Emrys staring at the small crystal in his palm. An unexpected ally? Or something more complicated?

  He pocketed the focus stone alongside the prototype, then returned to his preparations with renewed intensity. The prototype's projection had shown him potential workarounds for the medallion's interference. Pressing those three points simultaneously might allow him to access more of his blocked potential, if only briefly.

  The final minutes ticked away with agonizing slowness. Around him, competitors completed elaborate rituals, summoned familiars, or simply meditated in preparation. Emrys's preparation was simpler—he memorized the three pressure points, practiced the Protection spell one final time, and located multiple escape routes from his current position.

  When the final gong sounded, the world dissolved into particles of light around him.