This Beast-Tamer is a Little Strange

Lukas Reeve’s bad luck didn’t come to an end the day after his match with Kain.

In fact, it might’ve gotten worse.

Because when the next phase of the Re-Ranking Tournament resumed the following morning, and the match assignments were projected on the arena’s central display, his name flashed in giant bold letters.

Next to Serena Storm’s.

A ripple of sound moved through the crowd almost instantly. Gasps. Murmurs. And then—laughter. Scattered, nervous, and far too loud from the back row where someone whispered, “Oh god, not again.”

Kain sat in the stands, wishing he had some popcorn to watch the coming show.

‘Unlucky bastard. Serves him right,’ he thought with some schadenfreude.

The next couple of matches of the day passed by in a blur, Kain barely paid them any attention. Not because he was thinking about his own match (the last of the day and will be against Kairos). He was completely focused on the upcoming match between Serena and Lukas.

The referee’s voice rang through the stadium:

“Stage One. Third match of the day: Serena Storm versus Lukas Reeve.”

The attention of the audience immediately shifted to that stage once that was announced.

Serena was already standing on it, arms at her sides, white-and-blue training uniform immaculately pressed. Her expression, as always, was unreadable. She didn’t look angry. Or bored. Or eager.

Just… calm.

Coldly so.

The other side of the platform, however, remained empty for several long seconds.

Until Lukas stumbled out of the tunnel, pale, slightly hunched, and eyes bloodshot, like someone hungover from a too exciting night. His steps were steady, but his face was blank. Exhausted. Not from pain—but from shame.

He stopped a few meters from the platform.

The referee looked toward him expectantly.

“Mr. Reeve?” The ref finally prompted once it had been several seconds of no movement to board the stage from Lukas.

The crowd hushed.

Everyone leaned forward, breath held.

Kain didn’t blink.

Lukas raised his head, locking eyes with Serena across the stage.

And then, in a voice loud enough for all to hear—though just barely—he said:

“I forfeit.”

Silence.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

And then—

Chaos.

The crowd erupted in gasps, shouts, scattered jeers, and scattered applause. Disappointment and sympathy warred with schadenfreude. Some students booed outright. Others muttered, “Yeah, I’d do the same.” A few stood up in annoyance to move to a spot closer to another stage once it was clear there was no show here.

Bridge, sitting a row behind Kain, let out a long whistle. “Not even gonna try. Damn.”

Addison folded her arms. “I was hoping Serena would get her turn.”

“Logically, he made the right call,” Kain said simply. Although, he wished he’d stubbornly persisted and gotten beaten up by Serena, Kain couldn’t refute that.

Because even at full health, Lukas was no match for Serena.

And now?

After the beating he’d taken the day before—mental, spiritual, reputational—there was no chance. He’d have lasted maybe 20 seconds. Maybe less.

But that wasn’t why everyone was so stunned.

It was the fact that he didn’t try. Forfeiting before the match even started was rare in the entire College’s history, even amongst the lower ranks, much less among the upper ranks.

That he didn’t even steel his spine to fight…many, even those ranked at the bottom, looked down on him.

The referee seemed caught off guard as well. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, realizing his cue, he raised his hand stiffly and called out, “Victory to Serena Storm by forfeit!”

Serena paused briefly but her expression didn’t shift at all.

She simply turned and walked off the stage.

The crowd was still buzzing with conflicting opinions as she stepped back into the staging tunnel, disappearing from view.

Kain remained seated, letting the reactions wash over him like background noise.

But his eyes had never left Roarke.

The professor stood off to the side of the referee’s platform—not an unusual place for an instructor during re-ranking—but the way he was watching Lukas…

It wasn’t disappointment.

It was focused. Intent. Something personal.

And when Lukas was led away by a medic, likely because he still looked so poor and they wanted to run a checkup. Roarke didn’t return to the instructor’s section.

He followed.

That was all the confirmation Kain needed that there was some underlying connection between them.

He let out a slow breath, then casually brushed a hand along the inside of his coat and pulled out a small, flat vial from his spatial ring—engraved in curling script. Inside shimmered a golden substance: thick, glossy, and faintly glowing.

Some of Queen’s Royal Jelly.

He dipped his finger lightly inside and allowed a small amount to stick to his finger.

He didn’t need to wait long.

Within seconds, a small blur darted in from the side. A fly—nothing special. Completely ordinary with no spiritual power. Exactly what Kain wanted.

It hovered, then landed on the sweet surface, its wings buzzing happily.

That was the cue.

Without needing a word from him, Kain felt Bea stir. A faint pulse of mental energy flashed and disappeared so quickly one would think it was an illusion.

The fly briefly stuttered, as if a pause button was pressed on it, before resuming its activity.

It buzzed away, completely unbothered.

It zipped up into the air, unnoticed by anyone in the stands or on the field. It passed through the upper arches of the arena, through a crack in the exterior columns, and spiralled down one of the side corridors, where Roarke had gone moments ago.

Kain let his eyes fall shut.

The world blurred as Bea transferred the visuals of what her split within the fly was seeing into his mind.

Through the compound eyes of the fly, he saw Roarke striding through a dimly lit stone hall lined with staff-only doors. Bea controlled the fly to land further back behind him and follow him mostly by walking—albeit slowly. The heightened senses of a 6-star beast-tamer would easily notice the buzzing of a fly’s wings following him.

Moments later, Lukas appeared at the far end of the hallway, no longer flanked by medics. They must have let him go after determining he was fine, or he had insisted on walking alone.

The two stopped in front of each other.

Neither smiled.

Neither spoke immediately.

And then, with perfectly synchronized motion, they raised their right hands—two fingers extended, palm outward—then pressed them to their own foreheads, followed by their chests.

Like a salute—but not one Kain had ever seen used in the College.

Or anywhere in the Empire.

His brows furrowed deeply.

‘What the hell was that?’

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