Chapter 5
The Arena
The Viridis Survival Guide is a YA sci-fi serial about Ava, a people-pleasing 17-year-old who enters a virtual program while she sleeps to save her dying brother, only to discover she may never wake back up.
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NEW MESSAGE:
[SOURCE: UNTRACEABLE | 09-22 10:00 PM] Follow.
That word pops up again in the holographic message that blooms above my wrist. I have no idea who sent it or what they want me to follow this time. I’ll have to ask Rosie or Custos, not that they’ve been much help so far.
Ironically, I do follow someone—all of the other first-year students who make their way to the transporter square. The Trials Selection Ceremony is about to start. And I’m hoping I’ll be picked to meet Levi Sen and get this mistake sorted. I need to get back to Leo and reassure him that I’m going to do everything I can to fund his treatment.
I squeeze myself on the square between a tall guy with freckles and another whose patchy goatee looks like it’s still buffering. Someone yells, “Arena,” and before I can even process that, the world shifts.
A moment later, I’m swept up in the crowd as it funnels through a narrow entrance into an enormous stone amphitheater. Stadium seating encircles a stage and a gaping hole in the ceiling lets in ample moonlight. A miracle. Finally, a room that isn’t drowning in ominous darkness.
The energy in the air crackles with excitement as Guardian Custos strides onto the central platform.
I climb the blocky steps, looking for a seat. It’s a sea of emerald-clad first-years just like me, but also students in red, orange, and yellow clustering in their respective colors, shouting with excitement and stomping their feet in unison. I make a mental note: student year color coordination is a thing. I select an empty row in a green section.
A girl plops down right next to me, like we’re long-lost besties with two feet of air between us. A flash of something on her feet grabs my gaze downward. Her shoes are fire-engine red high-tops with laces that move like flowing lava. They’re incredible and make me feel instantly self-conscious about my standard issue black flats.
“Oh, thank Sen,” she declares, like she just escaped a tunnel monster. “Someone here who isn’t chanting to see bloodied corpses.”
She raises a chipped, ink-dark chalice to her lips and takes a loud sip, the scent of strawberries and cinnamon rolls wafts toward me. I bet it tastes amazing.
“You new? I’m new too. I mean, technically not. Started when everyone else did, but we Viridis are all pretty new.”
I smile, relieved that someone is actually talking to me and not pelting me with rocks.
“Yeah, just arrived and already questioning all my life choices.”
She grins and tucks a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear, revealing a cascade of piercings. She’s one of those rare people who walks into a mysterious school already fully assembled. Effortlessly cool, like she downloaded the premium update and I’m still glitching through the beta version.
She sets her chalice on the dusty floor and sticks out a hand like we’re not surrounded by shouting strangers.
“Welcome to the mayhem. I’m Izzy.”
I shake her hand, as some guy nearby lights a fire with zero supervision. I pretend not to notice it.
“I’m Ava.”
“You’ve got good vibes, Ava,” she says, grinning.
Good vibes. I’ve never been called anything other than bookish, and I so want to believe her.
A few adults in black uniforms labeled “Security” across the chest pass us as they march up the stone steps, and I notice more of them gathered around the central stage.
Izzy regards them too. “Don’t freak about all the guards—they’re just there in case. There’s been more hacking lately. It almost never happens, but if it does, they jump in and do some weird implant override stuff.”
“We can be hacked?” This just keeps getting worse.
Izzy shrugs. “Perk of being at Sen Academy. They don’t know who’s doing it, but it’s basically mind control. Probably spies. They slip into your implant, take over your avatar, and walk it around like it’s theirs. Free access to everything we’re taught.”
A chill crawls up my spine, and I shove it down fast. Nope. Not going there. Not today. Not when I might actually get picked to meet Levi. I should be thinking about the competition, what it is, how bad it’s going to be, not glitching out over getting hacked.
“So, what are The Trials exactly?”
“Oh, it’s mostly an excuse for students to punch each other,” she says, leaning back on her elbows. “The rest of us are here for the snacks and the spectacle.”
Alarm bells start blaring in my skull.
“Wait, so . . . it’s fighting?”
Izzy raises an eyebrow. “Volunteering for the Trials is like announcing you’ve got a death wish and no impulse control.”
Something inside me cinches tight and I can feel the blood draining from my head. Death wish? Of course, Rosie didn’t mention that. I should have asked more questions before signing up. I don’t fight. I don’t even know how to throw a punch.
“Everyone wants to prove themselves the best student, and of course, work with Levi. Apprenticing under him would be like studying fashion design under Vivienne Westwood.”
She points at a boy reading a book a row below us. “That’s Declan. Says he volunteered. The kid can barely float his pencil via control. I don’t know how he expects to be selected, let alone win.”
“One should not discuss others as if they are not present,” a voice from behind us says.
I turn. A guy with curly hair and black-rimmed glasses sits behind us, completely expressionless. I can’t tell if he’s serious or making a dry joke.
Izzy just rolls her eyes.
“Enough with Gentleman Gio already, Sebastian. That’s the fourth time today you’ve brought him up.”
He stays impassive. “There’s only a 17% chance a Viridis will be chosen. The first seven will be Rubers.”
“How do you even know that?” Izzy says before continuing, “Wait, don’t answer. I don’t care. What I do want to know is why anyone would volunteer for this thing. My AI Guide said competitors have to sign waivers in case they get painfully axed or something. Can you imagine?”
Waivers. Axed. I go a little numb. This is definitely not what I thought would happen when I signed up.
She turns to me. “Are you okay?”
I’m not okay. My stomach is staging a full-scale revolt.
“Fine,” I manage. “H-how do they pick who competes?
Izzy starts to answer—but then bam. The hole in the ceiling shuts.
The Arena plunges into total darkness.
A hush ripples through the space. Then, floating lanterns flicker to life, their warm light bouncing like disco balls. A spotlight lands on Custos, who smiles like this is the best day of her life.
“Welcome to the Apprenticeship Trials Selection Ceremony,” she announces. “Contestants selected tonight will face three trials later this year, competing for an extraordinary opportunity: an apprenticeship under Levi Sen himself.”
Izzy belches loudly after sipping more of her drink.
Sebastian clicks his tongue, muttering something about Izzy never being quiet.
“Relax. I grew up with three older brothers. That was nothing,” Izzy says.
Custos continues from the stage. “Tonight, ten volunteer contestants will be chosen based on their overall student score. If your name is called, please rise and take your place on stage.”
A giant holographic scoreboard blazes into the air.
Your student score consists of your three C-skills—combat, control, and creation. The more experienced students (Ruber upperclassmen) are likely to have higher scores. Or at least that’s what Izzy whispers to me under her breath.
Guess I’m safe.
Silent electricity buzzes through the crowd as Custos begins.
“Our first contestant is,” Custos says, pausing for dramatic effect before a name, year, and student score appear magically on the scoreboard, “Dash Maddox, Ruber. ”
The whole stadium erupts. Cheers crash like waves against stone walls, stomping feet rattle the ground, and somewhere a trumpet blares three triumphant notes.
A guy in scarlet with slicked black hair saunters forward, every movement deliberate, like he knows half the audience would kill to be him and the other half already worships him. His grin is wide and unhurried, the grin of someone who’s had a lifetime of practice basking in applause.
“An impressive score of 590 out of 600,” Custos announces.
The number blazes on the scoreboard, and an impressed-sounding whistle trills from the scarlet Ruber section, followed by raucous laughter and pounding applause.
Sebastian leans forward, his voice low but smug, like a professor correcting a misinformed student.
“Ruber.”
Izzy groans. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Probability. Of course it’s Dash. Head of the freaking Twenty-Four Club.”
I stiffen and ask, “What’s the Twenty-Four Club?”
Izzy turns to me, incredulous. “They’re the Academy’s elite monster hunters. Dash took down all twenty-four Sen-created monsters in year one. Record time too.”
Her eyes gleam with both disgust and reluctant admiration.
“Every Ruber wants in their club. You have to destroy all twenty-four to be invited though.”
Sebastian adjusts his glasses. “Waste of time.”
“Still,” Izzy mutters, folding her arms. “I feel sorry for whoever’s competing against him. Dude kills monsters for fun.”
On the stage, Dash raises his hand like a victorious gladiator. The crowd roars.
Custos moves down her list, each new name igniting fresh applause.
Five Rubers take the stage, each radiating a different kind of threat: the chiseled Cloudkind prodigy, the feral crowd favorite, the charming daredevil, and the silent powerhouse with the highest score. Together, they form an intimidating wall of red—less students than a recruitment poster for war.
“They can’t all be fourth-years,” Izzy says.
Custos clears her throat, voice brightening. “Our sixth contestant…”
The name glows: a female this time. Orange-clad.
The crowd’s mood shifts instantly. Cheers cut sharp into jeers and wolf-whistles. I sink lower in my seat, embarrassed for humanity.
Izzy shoots up, scanning the crowd with murder in her eyes.
“Sexist pigs,” she growls. “That’s Elara Vasquez. She bench-pressed Professor Ramsey’s pet wyvern last week. Who the hell boos that?”
Sebastian clicks his tongue again, though this time I don’t think it’s directed at Izzy.
Elara strides down the steps with the unbothered poise of someone who’s been booed before and decided not to care. She’s tall, shoulders wide, muscles defined under her orange tunic. The scoreboard blazes: 588.
Izzy mutters, admiring, “Hell yeah, Elara.”
Contestant seven is another Ruber who emerges without fanfare, until his score proves he belongs among them.
Contestants eight and nine are both listed as Flavus—second-year males—dressed in the unmistakable mustard hue of their year. The scoreboard flashes 575 beside each of their names, identical scores that feel more like a challenge than a coincidence.
They climb the stage in sync, two figures who don’t mirror each other exactly but somehow seem cut from the same cloth.
The first is James Marwood, who I recognize instantly as the attractive blond guy with the scar I saw earlier in the tunnel with Rosie. He waves casually to the crowd, as if this is all just theater to him.
Beside him is Hugo Tyler: darker hair, darker presence. Where James shines like sunlight, Hugo is shadow, his gaze inward, posture grounded. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t even acknowledge the cheers or the jeers. His attention flickers instead to the scoreboard, studying the numbers like they’re sacred text.
There’s something magnetic about the two of them together. A push and pull—one all brightness and bravado, the other gravity and seriousness. Their differences make them more striking, not less, like they’re two halves of a story I haven’t learned yet. And despite myself, I can’t look away.
Izzy leans closer, voice pitched low. “If anyone in this place deserves to meet Levi Sen, it’s Hugo.” She nods toward the brunette; her tone tinged with something like respect. “The kid worships him. Probably has his biography memorized.”
“That’s inaccurate,” Sebastian interrupts flatly. “There is no Levi Sen biography.”
Izzy doesn’t even glance at him. “You know what I mean.”
On stage, James flashes another grin, soaking up the attention like a sponge, while Hugo’s eyes flick briefly in our direction. The look is unreadable, but it makes my pulse skip, as if for that one second the noise of the arena dropped away and he saw me.
One spot left remains on the list.
Silence descends as everyone waits with bated breath for Custos to say the final name.
And when she does, my heart slams into my ribs.
“Ava Lumen, Viridis.”
I freeze.
There has to be a mistake.
The likelihood that I would be picked, out of everyone here, students who have trained and studied for their moment of glory, is laughable. I’m instantly regretting my impulsive decision to swipe my wrist, to volunteer, to follow. I want to go back in time and shake myself, but I can’t. Because I’m here, a spotlight locks onto me, pinning me in place. A thousand eyes glued to my pathetic face.
“You volunteered?” Izzy says, her mouth agape.
I could run. I could bolt right out of this colosseum. That’s what I should do.
Izzy nudges me with the kind of shove that’s half-friendly, half-football practice and says, “You’re braver than me, new girl. Don’t puke. Or if you need to, just don’t get it on me.”
My legs betray me. I stand. I walk. The stage looms closer.
I have one shot to get out of this.
I step forward, heart hammering against my ribs, prepared to tell Custos there’s been yet another mistake—because there has to be. I know I don’t belong in this contest.
But no one is looking at me.
Everyone is looking up. They’re looking at the scoreboard.
I follow their stares, my breath catching in my throat.
There’s my name—Ava Lumen, Viridis.
But where the other names have scores, next to mine, there’s just one word.
Cleared.
One word. The spotlight hits like confession. My name goes up without a number, just a stamp—CLEARED—and I feel suddenly borderless, like paperwork someone else filed in my name. My mind races: Did the implant do this? Did I?
Silence grips the Arena. Not the stunned, excited kind that came before. No—this is something else. A vacuum of sound. The air itself feels like it’s holding its breath.
“Cleared?” The brunette Flavus boy’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade. “That’s not an actual score.”
He is glaring at me, lips pressed thin, like something holy just got violated.
Custos takes a full step back, her poised expression flickering—just for a moment—into something that looks a whole lot like fear.
Then—
Total chaos.