Duskfall felt different the moment Astra stepped into the streets. The tournament was in full swing now and multiple matches had already happened it was day three of the tournament.
The city had always belonged to the night, but now it seemed to breathe—charged with an energy that had been building for months, thick enough that he could almost taste it. Anticipation clung to the air like something alive. The Springtime Advent Tournament had finally arrived. Glory waited for some. Ruin waited for many more. And somewhere between the two lay obscurity, quiet and unforgiving.
Warriors crowded the streets from every corner of the realms. Astra saw it in their eyes as he passed them—ambition sharpened by desperation, pride barely masking fear, the faint, dangerous belief that this might be the moment the world learned their name. He had once worn that same look.
High above the plazas and market districts, massive arcane screens shimmered into existence, suspended by unseen anchors of mana. Astra slowed, tilting his head as their crystalline surfaces flickered to life. Battles from years past unfolded in impossible clarity—legendary duels, mana colliding like storms, techniques so refined they bordered on sacrilege.
Missionaries crowded the streets, voices rising above the din as they proselytized the names of their gods. They had come from every corner of the realms, draped in sacred colors and sigils, preaching faith amid the press of steel and ambition.
The Church of Knowledge moved quietly among the crowds, offering free food and carefully bound books. They dispensed history as readily as bread—records of the realm, chronicles of past tournaments, annotated treatises meant to educate rather than convert.
By contrast, the Church of War was anything but restrained. Emboldened by the Guild of War's patronage, its zealots roared sermons of blood and glory, calling warriors to earn the War Father's favor through victory and carnage. Drums thundered as prayers were shouted skyward, and many listened—some in reverence, others in hunger most in disdain.
The Church of Illumination promised something gentler. Its clergy spoke of revelation and renewal, of a brighter dawn beyond suffering. They offered visions, whispered blessings, and assurances that endurance would be rewarded with light.
And they were far from alone.
Countless other faiths pressed into Duskfall—Faith's of the New Gods. Every belief sought a foothold, every god a voice.
Beyond the churches, organizations of every stripe moved through the city with equal intent. Some served the most holy seraphs, others the most vile of sins. All of them watched. Recorded. Evaluated.
And when they found someone promising—
They recruited.
Crowds huddled beneath the projections, voices rising as the displays shifted to prize announcements. Astra caught flashes of it as he passed—mountains of coin, sovereign-grade weapons, unique armors etched with living runes, rare artifacts whispered to carry wills of their own. He could feel the tension tighten around those watching. Riches and glory had a way of sharpening hunger into something ugly.
Commentators' voices rolled through the mana network overhead, dissecting victories and failures with reverent precision. Astra listened just long enough to recognize the tone—half worship, half warning. Champions were spoken of like scripture. Failures like cautionary tales.
As he moved deeper into the city, statues began to dominate the streets.
Champions stood frozen at nearly every turn, immortalized in stone and spell—an old tradition of the tournament. Astra paused before one without meaning to. It didn't matter who a victor had been, or what became of them afterward. To win at any rank was to be remembered forever. Those who had reached the summit of divinity were honored most of all, their statues said to carry lingering blessings woven into mana itself. The closer the statue stood to the central arena, the greater the legend it represented.
Astra knew the law well enough. Desecrate one, destroy one, even defile it by accident—and death would be the least of the punishment. Mana itself did not forgive such insults. Although these statues were well made, of a common rank three material the milk drop marble found in the depths of Duskfall, it would take considerable effort to destroy one.
The arcane displays shifted again overhead, flashing names and faces. Princes. Prodigies. Experts whose reputations preceded them like storms. Some Astra recognized instantly, spoken of with awe—or dread. Others he knew only through rumor and prestige, their legends half-forged by speculation alone. Each appearance sent ripples through the crowds: excitement, envy, unease, all tangled together.
The nobility arrived in force.
Astra watched as exotic mana vehicles thundered through streets and skies alike, their presence forcing crowds aside. The most ostentatious houses paraded ancient carriages drawn by rare and mythical beasts, wealth displayed without shame. Saharan delegates rode sun-scaled drakes, hides gleaming like forged gold. Envoys of Wai glided past in vessels sailing on rippling waves of liquid mana. The nobles of Snaer moved through the crowds in frost-forged armor etched with ancient runes, their breath misting despite the warmth of spring.
Duskfall felt like a tapestry stretched too tight—wealth, ambition, and danger woven so closely Astra doubted one could be pulled free without tearing the rest apart.
Then the arenas came into view.
They rose at the heart of the festival like monuments to excess and mastery. Vast coliseums of legend—some forged from seamless obsidian that drank in light, others woven from shifting constructs of mana that subtly rearranged themselves as Astra watched. A few hovered above the ground entirely, massive platforms suspended by roaring mana currents. Thick enchantments shimmered along their boundaries, layered densely enough to survive Rank Three combat.
The stands already overflowed with spectators, their collective voices merging into an electric hum that set the city's pulse.
Elsewhere, Astra glimpsed colossal training halls through open gates and fractured sightlines.
Pawns clashed in relentless drills, many still discovering the limits of their mana, sweat and steel colliding as they fought for control as much as victory. Squire-rank warriors moved with colder precision, bodies reinforced by hardened cores, techniques honed into tools meant to kill efficiently rather than impress.
Guild masters, noble instructors, and mercenary captains watched them all with discerning eyes. Astra recognized that look too—guidance offered sparingly, judgment given freely.
Beyond the arenas, the festival spilled into the streets themselves. Smaller duels erupted without warning. Friendly wagers sharpened into violence. Pride demanded satisfaction. Young warriors tested themselves beneath lantern-lit skies, mana flaring briefly before guards intervened or crowds roared approval.
Astra exhaled slowly.
Duskfall had become a crucible.
A battleground of ambition.
And as he walked among them—hidden in shadow, watching faces twisted by hope and hunger—Astra knew the truth they all shared, whether they admitted it or not:
This could be the moment that changes everything.
He chose to walk the city during the festivities. It might be his last week here. For all the bitterness of his upbringing, Duskfall held an inexplicable pull on him. The city was beautiful—majestic, even in its rot. Even in the ghettos, he had once found himself captivated by its rhythm, by the life clawing stubbornly forward.
He could have taken private transport with the other contestants, shuttled safely between House Shadow and the arenas. Instead, he walked—to watch, to learn, to breathe before the storm. A bodyguard followed at a distance: a Rank Three knight of House Shadow.
To some, it would have seemed beneath a Rank Three to guard a Rank One. That would have been true, had Astra been a commoner. He was not. He was House Shadow's champion, his fame already eclipsing even their Rank Three contenders. To the knight, a man of humble birth, the duty was an honor bordering on reverence.
They had met only briefly. The knight was to remain unseen unless needed—protection against assassination, abduction, or worse.
Rolling his shoulders, Astra wove Nightshroud around himself, letting shadow swallow his presence whole. His mastery had grown startlingly refined. Training under a talent like Vesperion—and instruction from a demigod such as Alistair—had reshaped him entirely. His masking now bordered Rank Two. Without dedicated investigative measures, Astra would pass unseen and unfelt.
I used to hide in these streets, he thought, avoiding duskguards and nobles, thieving like a rat.
Now he hid because he was the champion of a great house.
The irony almost made him smile.
Almost
He shifted his attention to the Coin's interface, letting the world around him fade as two unread messages surfaced before his eyes. One bore the sigil of the tournament officials. The other carried the shadowed seal of House Shadow.
Whatever amusement lingered in him vanished the moment he read them. In its place, something sharper took root.
The Pawn Division alone numbered over seventy-seven thousand Rank Ones.
An ocean of fighters, each of them hardened enough to have survived the regional trials and winter qualifiers simply to stand within Duskfall's walls. Most of them would never reach the main tournament. They would be fed instead into the early rounds—a merciless meat grinder of massive battle royales meant not to test skill, but to erode it. Combatants were forced to fight again and again, sometimes multiple times a day, until exhaustion claimed those who strength could not. Only the most brutal, the most unyielding, remained standing.
Normally, Astra would have been thrown into that grinder with the rest.
Normally.
But his life had long since parted ways with anything resembling normalcy.
House Shadow stood behind him.
And with that backing, he would not be made to claw through fodder simply to prove what others already knew.
The great guilds of the realms took turns hosting the tournament, each shaping it according to their own creed. This year, the honor belonged to the Guild of War servants of the Warfather. As expected, the coming battles promised to be harsher, bloodier, and unrelenting—combat stripped down to its rawest truth.
Even so, the ruling had been clear.
The guild of war overseeing the event, supported by the Houses that funded it, had deemed him too strong for the early rounds. He, along with eight others, had been seeded directly into the final sixty-four.
Astra's eyes lingered on the ranking.
Seventh.
That placement alone ensured his path would be anything but gentle. To reach the finals, he would have to cross blades with the second and third seeds.
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him.
So that was their intent—to force him into a collision with Dusk and Dawn.
His gaze slid down the list.
First seed: Aster Hunt.
Of course. The rumors surrounding her were enough to unsettle even veteran contenders—power vast, precise, and utterly unforgiving.
Second seed: Lucien Solaris, the Golden Prince himself.
Third: One of House Dusks princes, Arrats Xolotl a figure shrouded in secrecy. An illusionist, perhaps. A shadowmancer. Maybe something darker still. Little was known of him, save that he had been kept carefully hidden, a possible contender for the position of crown prince.
Astra felt his amusement darken.
Hunt.Dawn.Dusk.
The same houses. The same banners.
The very bloodlines that had conspired to wipe House Night from existence, leaving its heir to rot in obscurity, were now the ones standing between him and the summit.
"How ironic," he murmured, the words heavy with understanding.
He already knew what had to be done.
Win or lose, there would be no hiding anymore. His star magic. His lineage. His true position. If the realms insisted on setting him against the ashes of a past he did not even know, then the realms would be made to remember just exactly what it had tried to erase.
He felt it then—a slow, insidious curiosity threading through his veins.
What were they like, truly?How did they fight? How did they think?Did any of them already suspect who he was?
The thought of defeating them—of watching realization dawn too late—sent a pleasant chill through him.
The blessing of curiosity stirred, pulling him deeper into a part of himself he had never fully acknowledged.
Astra had never enjoyed bloodshed for its own sake. He believed in cause and effect, in purpose and consequence. But he loved the act of training, of fighting, of refining himself against worthy opposition. He loved competition. He loved chasing heights he could barely imagine reaching.
Now that love had sharpened into something closer to hunger.
To learn. To adapt. To overcome. To conquer.
Those impulses had always been there. The blessing merely stripped away his restraint. He was becoming something dangerous—almost a true battle addict, not unlike Vesper.
Astra exhaled slowly, eyes gleaming as he dismissed the Coin's interface.
Beyond him, Duskfall roared with celebration, unaware of what the coming battles would awaken.
And Astra smiled into the noise as he made his way toward one of the many arenas.
Calling them arenas hardly did them justice. Duskfall itself had been reshaped into a colossal stage for blood and glory, its streets and plazas surrendered to spectacle and violence.
Some battlegrounds had been raised within existing squares, their stones reinforced with layered arcane barriers meant to contain the carnage within. Others had been carved deep into the earth—vast pits lined with enchanted stone and ancient runic lattices designed to drink in excess mana before it could tear the city apart. High above, floating platforms drifted like suspended islands, hovering arenas where only the strongest dared to fight, their clashes visible from miles away.
And then there was the Midnight Arena.
Ancient. Monolithic. A relic of another age. It loomed like a scar upon the city's heart, reserved for the final rounds alone. Legends were forged there—and just as often, broken.
And the people—gods, the people.
They flooded the city in numbers too great to measure. Hundreds of thousands at first, then millions. Warriors, merchants, nobles, pilgrims, gamblers. The streets choked beneath the weight of bodies, voices, ambition. Duskfall, already a city of shadows and secrets, had been forced beyond its limits, stretched thin to accommodate the press of the realms.
Every realm was here.
Watching. Waiting. Betting.
With so many powerful figures gathered in one place, House Dusk had been forced to increase security tenfold. Even then, it was not truly enough—but no mortal, no rogue demigod, dared to lash out openly. Not here. Not in a city riddled with angels sworn to royal houses and devils bound to supreme demonic guilds and organizations.
If violence erupted, it was mortal violence—petty theft, bloodless brawls, quiet murders lost in the noise. And such things were… tolerated. What could be done, when hundreds of millions already lived within Duskfall's bounds, and now millions more had poured in?
Most of the crowd were Rank Ones and Twos. Some Rank Threes. House Dusk's mortal armies were vast beyond comprehension. They were a royal house of the realm—the High Kings of the Heart Dunes of Sahara, overlords of Duskfall itself. Their standing forces alone numbered near fifty million, largely Rank Two warriors. Their Rank Threes likely hovered between ten and fifteen million.
And that was merely their peace-time strength.
If need be, they could conscript more. Recruit more. Expand endlessly. But such efforts were costly, and unnecessary for a tournament—even one of this scale. So instead, they looked outward.
Guilds had been contracted. Mercenaries patrolled the streets with watchful eyes and hands never straying far from their hilts. Other noble houses had sent their own enforcers—Dune, Dawn, Shadow, Kadir, Luna, Solace, Steel. Great and Royal houses of the realm with simmilar armies, all reluctant to allow the festival to spiral into bloodshed before the tournament even began.
Yet none of them—none of them—could stop what stirred beneath the surface.
Because Astra was not the only one hiding.
There were divine beings here. He could see them. Barely. Enough to make his stomach twist.
The realization alone unsettled him. A mere Rank One—even a Rank Four demigod—should not have been able to perceive beings of Rank Five or Six, especially when they were actively masking their presence or using magics to hide. And yet Astra could. Not clearly. Not directly. But enough.
It had to be his connection to the divine.
The Cloak of Secrecy—Umbra's godhood.The Crown of the Stars—Noctis's godhood
Neither was truly his. Not yet. He held only a claim, a promise etched into fate. And yet their influence had already begun to bleed into him the day he obtained the right to them, strengthening him in subtle ways. He possessed rudimentary authority over the Sacred Realm the Kingdom of Stars—a scattered remnant of Noctis's fallen divine throne.
Even so, it should not have been enough. And it hadn't been.
And yet—
Silver, ethereal threads flickered at the edge of his vision. Threads laced with faint hints of gold.
Fate. Authority. Power.
They moved through the crowd disguised as ordinary people, but reality bent around them. The air shimmered where they passed. Their forms blurred, their movements slipping just beyond mortal perception. Astra had learned—brutally—not to stare. Not to follow the threads when they burned across his sight.
He had once glimpsed a single golden thread for less than a heartbeat.
It had cost him a full day of unconsciousness.
Astra had long realized that he had not see the Harbinger of Twisted Truths—but that devil had seen him. Worse, it had noticed the distortion around Astra's fate and acted upon it. Whether it had pierced the Cloak of Secrecy or merely sensed its absence, Astra did not know. Only that the Harbinger's affinity for fate made it… dangerous.
That was what frightened him most.
He knew Dawn.
He knew Dusk.
He knew Hunt.
He knew Shadow.
He even knew the Eternal Keeper of Knowledge.
But the Harbinger?
Ally or enemy—he had no idea.
Astra kept his gaze lowered, forcing himself not to look up, not to search rooftops or empty air for watchers unseen. The last time he had caught the attention of a divine being, the encounter had been… unpleasant.
And the last thing he needed now was another angel or devil who could see straight through him.
He exhaled sharply, steadying himself, and stepped into the shadowed mouth of a massive coliseum.
The roar of the city followed him inside.
The Midnight Colosseum was drowning in noise.
Astra stepped into the stands, and for a moment the sheer immensity of it stole the breath from his lungs. The structure loomed like a living thing, hewn from dark stone polished smooth by centuries of blood and mana. Vast ribs of obsidian arched overhead, their surfaces inlaid with mana-reactive glyphs that pulsed faintly in the gloom, drinking in sound and returning it magnified. Tier upon tier of seating climbed into the shadows, crammed shoulder to shoulder with spectators—nobles draped in sigils and silk, scarred warriors in battered armor, commoners wide-eyed with awe, mystics veiled in spellcraft. Even the lowest benches, distant from the killing floor, were packed tight, a sea of faces washed in the glow of enchanted lanterns drifting above like pale stars.
The match itself was beneath notice.
Another qualifier. Another culling for a place among the final sixty-four.
Two Pawns circled one another at the arena's center, both competent, both earnest—and both painfully lacking. Astra watched with mild disinterest as one, a young man clad in silver-trimmed robes, overextended on a reckless thrust. His opponent—a woman with a heavy gauntlet encasing her left arm—sidestepped and answered with a sluggish counterpunch that sent him sprawling across the stone.
Predictable. Slow. Boring.
Astra exhaled softly through his nose and let his attention drift inward.
With a flicker of intent, the Coin responded. Its interface unfolded across his vision in translucent layers, the tournament's structure resolving into clean lines of information. Rank One and Two battles stretched across the opening days, vast in number, merciless in pace. Rank Three followed, fewer fighters, deadlier bouts. Rank Four was reserved for the closing days—ceremonial clashes between demigods whose presence alone drew the gaze of the realms.
The finals would be held on the seventh day, when spring surrendered to summer.
A measured slaughter, day by day.
With each passing round, the contestants would dwindle. The weak would be broken or bled dry. The strong would endure. And by the time Rank Four took the field, only a handful of warriors would remain—those standing at the pinnacle of mortal combat, whose battles drew the eyes of billions.
Rank Four was spectacle more than contest. No house ever sent its true monsters to fight in earnest. These clashes were demonstrations—displays of lineage, restraint, and power—meant to impress rivals rather than destroy them. Even so, the might of demigods was terrifying. Unrestrained, they could shatter mountain ranges and scour battlefields into wastelands. The Midnight Colosseum could withstand basic Rank Four exchanges, but even peak Rank Three combat had left it scarred. Anything more would reduce it—and much of Duskfall—to ruin. That was why those battles were held beyond the city's walls.
Astra let the information settle, rolling it through his thoughts like a coin between his fingers.
Then he tilted back the flask in his hand and took a slow drink.
The spiced liquor burned pleasantly as it slid down his throat. He shouldn't have been drinking—not before a match, not with so many eyes already on him—but he needed something to dull the edge of his nerves. His mind was too sharp. Too aware. Of the divine things lurking unseen throughout the city. Of the enemies seeded above him. Of what he intended to reveal—and what that revelation would cost.
In a few hours, his first battle would begin.
So he did the only sensible thing left to him.
He messaged Vesper.
—Need your advice on domain spells. I know we barely covered them, but it's starting to click—and something still feels off. Can you walk me through it again?
The reply came almost instantly.
—Awww. My little princess needs guidance?
Astra closed his eyes. Drew in a breath. Let it out slowly.
—Vesper. I swear to the gods—
—Swear to me instead. I'm far more reliable.
Astra seriously considered throwing his flask into the arena.
Instead, he took another measured sip and settled deeper into his seat. It was going to be a long day.
As the hours trickled by, Astra made his way downward through the colosseum, toward the heart of it—the main arena where the finals were held. With every step, his anticipation grew sharper, more insistent.
The Midnight Arena revealed its true scale from below.
It rose like a mountain of obsidian and stone at the city's core, a monument to war that rivaled the tallest towers of Duskfall. Astra stood within its underbelly as the roar of the crowd thundered through the walls, each cheer and chant crashing like surf against stone. Hundreds of thousands screamed within the stands, and hundreds of millions more watched through the mana network. Each realm had its own battle cry, and they hurled them at one another with such force that the arena itself seemed to tremble.
At one point, the ground shook hard enough for dust to spill from the ceiling.
Not from the clash of Pawns—but from the crowd losing its mind.
Astra exhaled slowly, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. He had spent the last few hours refining every detail—armor checked, weapons balanced, thoughts sharpened—but now, with minutes remaining, the weight of the moment finally pressed in.
He was led through a vast hall filled with contestants waiting their turn. He felt the stares, the measuring gazes, the quiet tension—but he didn't look back. He was guided into a private chamber reserved for those about to fight.
Alone at last, Astra began to pace.
He had too much energy coiled inside him. Too much anticipation twisting into something sharper. Hungrier.
"Relax," he muttered under his breath. "Stay loose. You're of the stars—bright and distant. You're of the shadows—formless and unseen."
The darkness around him stirred in response, rippling faintly along the walls as his emotions bled into his mana—nervous, excited, alive.
He flexed his fingers. Rolled his shoulders. Breathed.
The mantra followed him back and forth across the small, dimly lit chamber beneath the colosseum.
It wasn't working.
And that, more than anything, made him smile.
A notification blinked into existence before his eyes.
— Good luck, princess. I'm watching. Go show these bastards what an annoying, pretty asshole like you can really do.
Astra dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly.
Of course.
Another message followed almost immediately.
— Good luck. Don't overextend. — Velora.
Simple. Practical. Grounded. Everything Vesper wasn't.
Then another presence slid into his vision, heavier somehow, carrying weight beyond the words themselves.
— It is time the realms remember the glory of Night. Show them that glory. — Saint Satalus.
A smile tugged at Astra's lips. "The glory of Night," he murmured. "Yeah… I like that."
He was just about to dismiss the rest when his breath caught.
A name he hadn't expected—one he hadn't been ready for.
Princess Seraphine.
— Good luck, my dear Astra. I can't wait to see the real you.
His stomach dropped.
For a heartbeat, the shadows around him froze, suspended mid-shift, before flowing again—brighter somehow, as if touched by unseen fire.
"What the hell does that mean?" he muttered. "And why now? She's been ignoring me for weeks."
Cryptic. Flirtatious. Unsettling. And unmistakably deliberate.
The stadium above him shook as the crowd erupted, another match reaching its crescendo. Astra barely noticed. He stared at the message as though it had personally insulted him.
The real me? He let out a quiet laugh. All in due time.
No. Not now. Absolutely not now.
He had minutes before his match.
Time to breathe. Time to focus. Time to—
The arena above exploded into thunderous applause.
The roar reached a fever pitch, and something sharp and dangerous curled into a smile across Astra's face. The shadows around him stilled as his thoughts narrowed, honed to a single edge.
This was it.
This was his moment.
"Alright," he exhaled. "Showtime."
As the Round of Sixty-Four approached, he reminded himself of his opponent—a Rank One from the Guild of War's Apu branch. A massive dwarf, wielding fire and earth. Strong. Durable. Dangerous, by all accounts.
"Alright," Astra murmured. "Let's make this interesting."
He wasn't here to merely win.
He was here to be remembered.
The air thrummed with tension, mana crackling faintly as the final seconds before his entrance ticked away. A man in sleek black approached, movements crisp, expression composed despite the storm of energy swirling around them.
"It's go time, my lord," he said, offering a firm thumbs-up.
Astra exhaled slowly, fingers brushing over the cold, polished surface of his Nightshroud armor. The dark plates gleamed faintly beneath the dim lights, fitting him like a second skin. It wasn't just armor—it was a mantle of shadow, made for war and nothing else. The darkness around it seemed to bend inward, as though the metal drank it in.
His black longsword, forged by the Angel of Steel himself, rested over his shoulder. The hilt wrapped in shadowed leather felt familiar in his grip—natural, inevitable. The weight of it spoke of his journey so far, and of the war he was about to begin.
He looked like a harbinger of the abyss, a knight clad in Shadow.
The tunnel ahead stretched long and dark, but with every step, his stride grew steadier, surer. The low hum of the arena rolled toward him like distant thunder. Fighters already bound for battle glanced up as he passed.
"Oh yeah!" one shouted.
"It's go time!" another called.
Their voices faded as the passage narrowed, the roar of the crowd now a living force beneath his boots. The stone trembled. Dust sifted down from above.
Around him, the production crew moved with practiced urgency. Cameras adjusted. Mics crackled. Then—
"Three… two… one… and we're live!"
The broadcast flared to life. The camera locked onto Astra's face, capturing the calm intensity in his violet eyes, his dark curls framing a gaze sharpened by resolve. Across the realms, millions watched.
His heart beat slow and steady, in time with the rising thunder beyond the gates.
The man beside him waved him forward.
"Now, my lord."
And Astra stepped toward the light.
The crowd outside had already begun to chant, a rolling wall of sound rising like an approaching storm. Astra's chest tightened with each step as he moved toward the mouth of the tunnel. He drew in a slow breath and set his resolve. His first step echoed against the cold stone beneath his boots, the ground firm—almost expectant—beneath him.
With every stride, the darkness of the tunnel receded. Light spilled in, harsh and blinding, and the roar of the arena surged to meet him. As stone turned to the coliseums jet-black sands, riddled with specks of gold. The sound pressed against his body like a physical force, but Astra did not falter. His gaze stayed forward, steady, measured, as he prepared himself for the weight of hundreds of thousands of eyes bearing down upon him.
The chants crashed together overhead, voices weaving into a single, frenzied roar as they drew closer.
"From the mountains to the inferno! APU! APU!"
The cry thundered from the far side of the arena, fierce and molten, like a volcano finding its voice.
"From the ice to the rock! APU! APU!"
The response came just as violently, heat and cold colliding in sound alone.
Then the announcer's voice cut through the chaos—deep, commanding, impossible to ignore.
"From the vast deserts of Sahara, from the twilight skies of Duskfall—he is the Seven Seed! Lord Astra of Shadow! Champion of House Shadow!"
The arena exploded.
As Astra stepped fully into the light, the world seemed to pause, stretched taut by anticipation. From the Saharan stands, a new chant rose—unyielding, thunderous.
"From the heat of the sun to the cold of the moons!"
"S-A-H!"
"HA!"
"RAAAAAA!"
The sound reverberated through stone and bone alike. Astra's heart pounded as the sudden openness of the arena washed over him—the vastness, the screaming sea of faces, hundreds of thousands chanting his name. The energy was dizzying, intoxicating.
"Hah… holy shit," he muttered under his breath. "This is insane."
Adrenaline surged. He snapped his focus back into place, sharp and deliberate. The shadows stirred at his presence, rippling faintly around his armor as his mana responded. His grip tightened around his sword, the dark blade settling into his hand as though it had always belonged there.
Across the arena stood his opponent.
The dwarf was enormous—young, broad, and built like living stone. His body bore scars upon scars, each one earned. Dark red-and-black eyes burned beneath his brow, alight with battle-hunger. Bronze armor encased his frame, trimmed with fur, heavy and ornate. And before him rested an immense black warhammer, its head planted against the arena floor like a monument.
Astra watched as the dwarf lifted his helmet, crowned with a crimson plume, and set it upon his head. The clang of metal rang out, sharp and final.
The air changed.
Mana crackled faintly, tension coiling tight enough to make the ground tremble beneath Astra's boots. The crowd's roar sharpened, anticipation tipping toward violence.
The announcer continued, listing titles and accolades, but Astra heard none of it. Names didn't matter.
Only the fight.
Any trace of lingering nerves dissolved, replaced by something cold and precise. Astra drove his sword down, the black blade striking stone as the arena lights dimmed, shadows deepening around him. With a thought, his helmet formed—dark metal sealing into place. Violet light glimmered faintly through the visor as he raised his blade once more.
Across from him, the dwarf lifted his warhammer with effortless ease.
The crowd fell silent.
A lone figure stepped onto the arena floor between them—a Rank Three Knight, clad in ceremonial steel. The mediator raised a hand, and his voice thundered across the colosseum.
"Fight until you cannot. Intent to kill is permitted. You will not die—trust in me, and in the healers of this tournament."
A pause.
"Bring honor to this festival."
The words echoed in the silence that followed. Astra's eyes met the dwarf's, and the tension between them grew unbearable. This was it. The beginning of his competition
The battle was about to begin.
Across from Astra, the dwarf's aura surged as he drew deeply upon his mana—an powerful, relentless force that felt as though it rose straight from the grounds molten heart. The air around him thickened with heat, not a sudden flare but the steady pressure of a geothermal spring straining against the earth's crust. Warmth radiated outward in slow, oppressive waves, and the stone beneath his boots trembled, vibrating with barely restrained power. Fire and earth answered him instinctively, drawn from magma and bedrock alike, their energies folding together into something heavier, denser—lava, alive with destructive promise.
This was no ordinary Rank One. This was the very summit of the rank: A-rank fire, A-rank earth, fused into advanced lava magic of the same tier. A pinnacle-tier combatant. Exactly what Astra had expected from the top sixty-four. Anything less would have been disappointing.
As the dwarf's aura bled into the arena, Astra answered in kind.
The shadows stirred.
There was no eruption, no violent release of power. His presence rose quietly, insidiously, like darkness creeping across a landscape at dusk. The shadows at his feet stretched, elongated, and bent toward him, responding not to force but to command—an unspoken authority they did not dare resist. Astra extended his senses fully, letting his affinity breathe, letting the arena feel him. The shadows leaned inward. The crowd felt it, too—a subtle pressure, a tightening awareness. This was not coincidence. This was control.
S-rank affinity to shadows!
Where the dwarf's power roared like a boiling geyser, Astra's was a current—deep, cold, and inexorable. It swept through the magical landscape with quiet dominance, unseen yet impossible to deny. The temperature dipped around him, then spread outward in a slow, measurable wave, the arena itself seeming to exhale as darkness settled more heavily into every corner.
The dwarf commanded fire and stone with brute certainty, but Astra wielded shadow with lethal refinement. His aura did not boil or rage; it advanced. Like a river cutting through mountains, it did not need violence to be unstoppable. It flowed where it wished, seeped into cracks, claimed space without asking permission. Where the dwarf's magic announced itself, Astra's simply arrived—and remained.
The crowd felt it then, fully. S rank affinity was no joke. The air grew slightly heavier. The lights overhead dimmed slightly, shadows deepening and clinging to Astra's form as if drawn to him by reverence rather than force.
Astra was not merely a Rank One. He was proof of what the rank could become at its extreme. His bond with shadow went beyond talent—it was communion. The darkness did not simply answer him; it aligned with him. It moved with him, shielded him, waited eagerly to strike at his command. The dwarf felt it keenly, the pressure of Astra's presence bearing down upon him, a constant reminder that shadows were not absence—but dominion. And beneath that awareness came another, more unsettling thought: this monster before him also wielded water, and wielded it well.
Astra raised his sword, the black blade catching the dim light as he lifted it into a high stance. Violet light gleamed faintly through the visor of his helm. Shadows rippled with every shift of his posture, stretching across the arena floor in slow, elegant patterns, as though the battlefield itself had begun to lean in his favor.
The dwarf lowered his stance, warhammer tightening in his grip, muscles coiling like loaded stone. Fire hissed faintly along the weapon's edge. The air between them grew dense, saturated with mana, thick enough to choke on.
Astra stood unmoving—silent, absolute—his power vast and restrained, like a storm held beneath the surface of a moonless sea.
Uuooooo!
A massive horn blared across the colosseum, its cry reverberating through stone and soul alike. The crowd erupted, sound crashing down in a tidal wave of anticipation.
Astra's aura surged—not violently, but irresistibly—flowing forward like an unstoppable river of night.
The battle had begun.