The Spoils

The six Spirit Suns in the sky looked like six indifferent divine eyes. Each cast down a beam of light, and the six beams intertwined above the arena until they formed a huge, translucent sphere of color.

The sphere was not still. It turned like a vast, living, breathing heart, releasing gorgeous light across the hundreds of faces raised silently beneath it.

Some faces were young, others weathered. Some openly yearned for fame, while others concealed schemes too deep to fathom.

But at that moment, before absolute power and its rules, they were all as docile as lambs awaiting slaughter.

Humm—

An ancient syllable sounded high overhead. It seemed to come not from a throat, but from metal grinding against stone through the long years: dull and commanding.

Hearing it, the young wizards who had stepped forward from the various factions to compete seemed to receive a signal. Each forced out a wisp of Soul Force and sent it skyward.

This was more than a ceremony. It was a pledge of allegiance.

Dago did the same.

He moved without haste, almost carelessly, as though pulling a coin from his pocket to toss to a beggar.

He had been warned beforehand that this was necessary.

A contest of geniuses jointly held by the six great wizard factions sounded noble enough, as though they were selecting pillars for the Wizarding World's future.

In truth, everyone knew it was merely the prelude to dividing the spoils.

The results would determine who received two Miracle-Tier Spell Artifacts and a World Stone.

With stakes that high, human greed would swell without limit. Without the binding force of a Soul Contract, so-called fairness would be worth less than toilet paper.

Every competing wizard had to sign a simple Soul Contract. Its terms roughly required them to