<h4>Chapter 132: Lunargarde, The Coliseum</h4>


    Sheer cliffs rose like ancient sentinels on either side of the valley, their granite faces weathered by time and etched with the marks of countless centuries. The wind whispered secrets through crevices and cracks, carrying the echoes of old songs long forgotten. Cascading waterfalls... Staubbach, Trümmelbach, and several nameless others... thundered down the cliff faces, sending silver ribbons of water plunging into the emerald depths of the valley. Their constant roar drowned out all other sounds, forming a natural curtain that concealed the sacredness of whaty hidden here.


    A narrow, forgotten path twisted through the dense pine forest, winding over gnarled roots and under low-hanging branches. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of damp moss, blooming wildflowers, and ancient stone. Edelweiss and alpine roses clung to rocky ledges with quiet defiance, blooming in ces untouched by human hands.


    Then, as if stepping into a forgotten tale, one would see it... hidden behind the veil of a waterfall, an ancient stone arch revealed itself. Vines clung to its surface like skeletal fingers, and faintly glowing runes etched into the stone shimmered under the moonlight. The arch wasn’t merely constructed... it was carved over a long time and protected by the Moon goddess, revealing itself only to the werewolves destined to pass through.


    Beyond this veily a vast alpine meadow, lush and eerily quiet, ringed by towering fir trees that guarded the secret within. Snow-capped peaks stood in the distance, silent watchers that had seen countless duels unfold here under their gaze. asionally, the sharp cry of an eagle pierced the sky... either a warning, or a witness.


    And there it stood... Lunargarde. To the unknowing eye, just another hollow in the mountain cliffs. But to the werewolf ns, this was sacred ground. The final sanctuary of tradition, where honor was earned in blood and sweat beneath the moon’s solemn gaze.


    Nestled deep within Lauterbrunnen Valley, hidden behind nature’s most breathtaking illusions, the werewolves’ sacred coliseum waited.


    Lunargarde, the Coliseum blessed by the Moon. The dueling ground of the werewolves. Located in Lauterbrunnen Valley, Bernese Obend, Swiss Alps.


    Inside the stone coliseum, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation and ancestral power. Ten thousand stone-carved seats spiraled upward in perfect concentric rings, surrounding the sunken duel pits at the center like the ribs of a sleeping beast. Each seat was marked with the symbols of the ns that had once fought and bled here, names now spoken with reverence.


    Above them, the sky opened like a divine eye... an irregr, jagged hole in the rocky ceiling, formed naturally over millennia. Through it, the moonlight poured like silver rain, illuminating the heart of the arena in a cold, pale glow. The silence it cast wasn’t empty... it was heavy, filled with the weight of what was toe.


    The spectators were far from ordinary. Most were young werewolves, their eyes wide as they witnessed the sacred duel grounds for the first time. But among them were also veterans... n elders, family council members, and battle-hardened warriors who had shed blood under this very sky. Today wasn’t just about entertainment; it was about evaluation. The strength of the new generation was under the lens of the old.


    This particr duel had drawn more attention than usual. It was rare for the members of the Ten Great ns to settle disputes in the old way... through singlebat. And rarer still for the Raynor n, reclusive and powerful, to allow one of their own to fight in such a public setting. Everyone was eager to see what the legendary n had to offer.


    "There’s still no sign of the Raynors," someone whispered among the crowd, their voiceced with curiosity and judgment. "Do you think they’ve changed their minds?"


    "No," another replied. "Didn’t you hear? They said only Ethan Raynor will being. The rest of the n has ’more important matters’ to attend to."


    "How arrogant," scoffed the first voice. "Even if they believe in their fighter’s victory, they could at least show support. What if Ethan Raynor loses?"


    Another chimed in, "That’s entirely possible. Ethan Raynor isn’t a warrior. He’s a businessman. Sure, he was born an Alpha, but he hasn’t even awakened his bloodline."


    "And Lucian Greymoore?" someone asked.


    "Lucian is the Young Master of the Greymoore n," the speaker said with admiration. "He’s already awakened. He’s next in line for the n head. He’s strong, trained all his life, and lives for battle. It’s obvious who’s going to win."


    "Then why is Ethan Raynor fighting at all?" another asked in disbelief. "Surely the Raynor n could send someone else."


    "They couldn’t," came the grim response. "The rules of the duel state that recements must be within ten years of the main fighter’s age. The only person who qualifies is the Raynor heiress. And from what I’ve heard, she’s terrifyingly powerful. They won’t reveal her strength just for a minor dispute like this. So Ethan had no choice."


    "What a setup," murmured another. "Lucian challenged him over a business disagreement, knowing full well he had the advantage. This whole duel is just a trap to humiliate the Raynor name."


    "Yes," said another bitterly. "And look at them." He gestured toward one of the terraces where over a hundred Greymoores sat proudly, d in matching uniforms, someughing, others whispering confidently.


    "They know they’ve already won. They came here to celebrate."


    "In that case, why did I evene?" groaned a younger werewolf. "I left behind a million-dor contract just to witness a rigged duel?"


    "Don’t give up hope yet," someone else said gently. "I also realized the situation only after arriving. But I’m curious. If Ethan Raynor is truly a member of the Ten Great ns, he must have some strength, right? Even if he isn’t trained, maybe there’s something more to him."


    "Damn the Greymoores," someone suddenly shouted. "Let’s support Ethan Raynor! Even if he’s not a fighter, he deserves respect for showing up!"


    "Yes! Let’s back him up! If we cheer him on, maybe his spirit will rise and we’ll get to witness at least a decent fight."


    "Let’s support Ethan!" whispers began to spread over whole coliseum.


    From a few voices, the support spread like wildfire. The lower ns, often bullied or ignored by the powerful ns, resonated with the underdog. They didn’t care about Ethan’s business background or bloodline. All they saw was a man walking into what looked like a trap... and they admired him for it.


    Unbeknownst to most of them, this groundswell of support was no ident. It was Fiona Elizabeth Raynor’s n all along.


    The first voices in the crowd, the ones who subtly turned the tide of opinion, were nted by her. Whisperers, seeded into the audience just after they arrived, slowly shifted the perception of the duel. From what appeared to be a certain humiliation, it had transformed into a narrative of silent courage and unjust challenge.


    Soon, the mood of the coliseum turned. The spectators weren’t just here to see a fight. They were rooting for an upset, for a miracle, for justice in an unjust arena.


    And as the moon crept higher above the open ceiling, its glow sharpening against the stone, the duel was about to begin.


    At that moment, a figure emerged from the grand arched gate leading into the VIP section. Instantly, silence swept across the crowd like a tide. It was Matthias Halden Graventhal, the Arbiter of the werewolves and the respected head of n Graventhal of Switzend.


    His tall and Imposing figure was draped in a silver-threaded ceremonial coat, the fabric gleaming faintly under the moonlight. Upon his chest was the insignia of his house... a pair of bnced scales atop the silhouette of a howling wolf, symbolizing both justice and primal strength. His thick silver hair was swept back neatly, resembling the crest of a cier, and his eyes.. cold, piercing alpine blue... scanned the vast coliseum with a gaze so intense that those who met it feltid bare, as though their very intentions had been examined.


    A single ring glinted on his hand... an heirloom forged from steel mined deep within the heart of the Swiss Alps, passed down through generations of Arbiters, each chosen for their unwavering sense of neutrality.


    As the mediator of inter-n affairs, and the voice of the lesser packs, Matthias was widely respected across the werewolf world. His judgments were known to be fair and without bias, and his presence in any conflict brought a sense of calm, a promise that bnce would be upheld. His poprity stemmed not from charisma or showmanship, but from the irond integrity that clung to every word he spoke.


    Behind him followed several other key members of the Werewolf Council. Among them were three towering figures, each exuding immense authority: Sten Ragnar Fenroth, the Warlord of the werewolves; Sarika Somavati Harivamsa, the Priest of the werewolves; Lucien Marceau Valemont, the Treasurer of the werewolves council.


    Several other prominent n heads followed them, each taking their seats in the exclusive VIP section, their eyes focused on the duel pit below.


    Matthias stepped forward to the podium built from alpine marble and took a breath. His voice, though soft and low, rolled through the coliseum with uncanny reach and power... clearly aided by subtle werewolf enchantments.


    "Thank you for gathering here today to witness this sacred duel between Ethan Raynor and Lucian Greymoore," he said, his tone solemn. "As Arbiter and host of this ancient rite, I wee all werewolf ns to Lunargarde. Let us honor this tradition with dignity, and may the Goddess bless the victor with strength and rity."