The moment the horn sounded, Astra moved.
He became a blur of shadow, surging forward like a midnight gale loosed from its chains. His sword whispered as it cut through the air, its arc traced by living darkness, each motion precise, deliberate—lethal. The dwarf barely had time to register the attack before Astra was already inside his guard, blade snapping out with surgical intent.
Clang.
Steel met steel in a thunderous clash. The dwarf caught the strike just in time, his warhammer shuddering violently under the force. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the arena floor, scattering black-and-gold sand in whipping arcs. Astra did not pause. He flowed—seamlessly—into his next strike. Water shimmered along the blade's edge, a fleeting feint drawing the eye, before shadow twisted, coiling like a living thing and dragging the true cut along a different, deadlier line.
The dwarf grunted as he was forced back a step, boots grinding into scorched stone. His eyes narrowed. This was unfamiliar territory.
He was not used to being outpaced.
Behind his visor, Astra grinned. Violet light glinted in his eyes as he murmured, almost kindly, "Too slow."
He pressed forward.
Sword of Shadow.
A style as dangerous as it was rare, hoarded by only a handful of great houses and abandoned by many for its merciless demands. The first steps were built on physical mastery—speed, flexibility, relentless misdirection, traps layered atop traps. But beyond them lay something far more demanding: command of shadow itself. True masters of the style were few. Grandmasters, fewer still. Step Seven had been reached only by angels in House history.
Astra stood at Step Two.
At Rank One.
It was a testament to his talent—and against Pawns, it was devastating.
The crowd roared, swept up by the brutal elegance of his swordplay. Every step was measured. Every strike served a purpose. There was nothing wasted in his movements, nothing ornamental—only ruthless efficiency shaped into art.
Still, the dwarf did not falter.
He was no ordinary Rank One, but an emerging star from Apu's merciless mountains, his warhammer mastery tempered through generations who lived and died by fire and stone. He planted his feet, and the earth answered. The ground pulsed beneath him as heat surged outward, his hammer flaring a molten red, veins of liquid fire crawling across its surface.
Astra's eyes flickered with genuine interest.
"Alright," he said softly. "Now we're talking."
The hammer fell.
BOOM.
Stone cracked and melted in the same instant, the arena floor rupturing as jagged streams of molten rock lashed outward. Heat slammed into Astra like a living force, thick and suffocating. The crowd gasped as he twisted through the inferno, narrowly slipping past a burst of lava. The edges of his coat sizzled, scorched black—but his rhythm never broke.
He pivoted, water surging beneath his boots, flash-cooling the ground into slick stone. Steam exploded upward, shadows folding and dancing within it, fracturing his silhouette into shifting phantoms. Astra struck again—a feint, a step, a flick of blinding light—then the real cut, driven hard toward the dwarf's ribs.
The dwarf roared, barely managing to block. The collision sent a violent pulse through the arena, dust and embers spiraling skyward.
And then Astra felt it.
The thrill.
His grip tightened around his sword.
Something inside him stirred—curiosity sharpening into hunger. A shudder ran through his body as his soul pulsed, flooding his mind with unnatural clarity. The world seemed to slow. Threads revealed themselves—the flow of battle, the rhythm of breath and movement. The dwarf's defenses no longer felt solid.
They felt readable.
This was it.
The moment when combat ceased to be mere exchange and became revelation.
The shadows around Astra grew sharper, more feral, responding eagerly as his magic surged—not wild, not uncontrolled, but refined, compressed, honed to a lethal edge. Night leaned closer, attentive.
His hunger deepened. His curiosity burned.
They circled one another, fire and shadow coiling in the air between them, the arena fading into something distant and ethereal.
Astra exhaled, his breath threading with mana as it left him, carrying his words across the arena like a blade drawn slow and deliberate.
"Show me more," he said calmly, almost lazily. "Oh servant of War."
The dwarf's aura flared in raw anger, a violent surge that rattled the ground beneath his boots. For a heartbeat it threatened to spill out of control—then he mastered it. His stance settled, iron discipline reasserting itself. The red plume of his helm danced in the heated air as his warhammer burned brighter, fire and stone braided together until the weapon glowed like a newborn star torn from the earth's mantle. The arena trembled beneath his presence.
"Oh, Champion of Shadow," the dwarf rumbled, his voice infused with mana, carrying far beyond the bounds of the duel. "You ask… and so I shall deliver."
Dark red eyes burned behind his visor, and for the first time Astra felt a chill slide down his spine.
The crowd erupted. In battles of this caliber, mana-laced speech was reserved for contestants and overseers alone—yet the words rang through the colosseum as though spoken directly into every ear. The audience heard it all, felt it all, and their frenzy fed the storm gathering on the arena floor.
The dwarf lunged.
Despite his size, the warhammer became a blur, each swing loaded with crushing force. Astra met him head-on, sword flashing as it intercepted blow after blow. Steel screamed with every collision. The dwarf's power was monstrous, but it was not wild—there was no wasted motion, no reckless overreach. This dwarf was a child of the Warfather, he had grown up in war. His instincts were sharp, his style ruthless. Time and time again he has gone for blow that could kill. Every strike was deliberate, honed by a lifetime of war.
The battlefield rebelled beneath them.
Stone fractured and surged upward, jagged pillars erupting like the teeth of some buried leviathan. Molten shards screamed through the air, followed by arrows of flame and spheres of incandescent fury. The arena itself seemed to conspire against Astra, turning into a furnace of stone and fire.
And yet—
He moved through it like a ghost.
Astra wove between eruptions and infernos, his steps impossibly precise. Shadow and water danced along his blade, each flick a whisper, each cut a quiet rebuke to the chaos around him. He parted flame, deflected molten stone, slipped through devastation with eerie grace. The crowd gasped as he advanced through the storm, a living silhouette carved from night, pressing forward without hesitation.
"Maybe I should've kept my mouth shut," Astra murmured, a smirk curling unseen beneath his helmet.
As the dwarf bore down on him, Astra let go.
The shadows answered instantly.
They slithered and coiled around him like sentient wraiths, bending to his will with reverent precision. His curse stirred, a low, intoxicating whisper threading through his veins, sharpening his perception until the world felt painfully clear.
And then—
He saw it.
Patterns.
The subtle shift of grip before a wide swing. The tremor in the earth that preceded molten eruptions. The flicker in the flames just before they lashed outward. The movement of hips, shoulders, eyes—every tell laid bare before him.
Astra already knew how this ended.
"Oh, warrior," he said softly, stepping forward. "Show me more."
His blade flickered.
A clean cut across the shoulder.
The dwarf's eyes widened.
"You promised, didn't you?"
A sidestep. Shadows spiraled.
A slash along the thigh.
"I asked," Astra continued, voice calm, almost gentle, "and you said you'd deliver."
A backstep—light flared.
A thrust that stopped a breath from the heart, forcing the dwarf to stumble.
Astra's curse rippled again, hunger blooming hot and deep in his chest. The clash of steel, the unraveling of technique, the slow collapse of resistance—it sent a thrill through him that bordered on rapture.
He loved this.
The dwarf swung wildly now, desperation bleeding into his form. His hammer was a blazing inferno, heat warping the air around it—but Astra no longer reacted.
He dictated.
He was faster.Sharper.More refined.
"Your technique is admirable," Astra said, almost kindly. "But it won't be enough."
Reeling, the dwarf slammed his hammer into the ground, stone surging upward into a massive wall as he sought a moment's reprieve. Astra didn't hesitate. He reached for the shadow cast by the dwarf's own body, seized it, and infused it with his will.
A variation of Shadow Pin.
For a single, fatal heartbeat, the dwarf froze.
Astra struck.
The shadows within the dwarf's wounds deepened, lancing inward with silent violence. The dwarf shuddered as the darkness bit not into flesh—but into something far deeper.
Soul damage.
Astra had learned how to make his rare affinity truly sing.
And the song was merciless.
Astra exhaled, and the breath carried mana with it—dense, resonant, alive. It rolled across the arena like a low thunderclap, and every soul present felt it settle into their bones.
He moved.
Shadows twisted beneath his feet as he surged forward, shaping themselves instinctively into a solid plane mid-stride. Mana flared, and Astra launched upward, his body flowing into a seamless somersault over the wall of stone. For an instant, he was suspended above the battlefield, dark armor catching the arena lights as though polished by night itself, liquid shadow clinging to him like a living mantle.
His voice followed him into the air, threaded so deeply with mana that it shook the very fabric of the arena. No barrier muted it. No distance dulled it.
"Show—"
At the apex of his leap, Astra extended his will. Shadows answered instantly, collapsing inward, compressing into a lance of condensed darkness. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it screaming downward, its path guided by unerring precision.
"—me—"
The dwarf reacted at once. His hammer came up, runes blazing as stone pillars erupted behind him in violent succession. Fireballs bloomed into existence, molten arrows tearing through the air in a devastating counter-volley, a storm of ruin rising to meet Astra's descent.
But Astra only smiled.
His blessing flared, cold and intoxicating, and the world slowed—not in truth, but in perception. Threads of possibility unfolded before him, paths through chaos revealed in exquisite clarity. His violet eyes burned as he twisted his body midair, slipping between flame and stone, feeling heat skim past his skin without ever touching it.
"More!"
Water mana surged beneath his soles, coiling and releasing in a controlled burst. Astra hurled himself forward in a spiraling arc, momentum bending to his will. With one hand, he cast another spear of coalesced shadow downward. It struck with devastating force, shattering a rising stone pillar into flying debris. At the same instant, Astra descended, sword spinning as he fell—a blur of darkness edged with pale light.
Steel met fire.
The collision was deafening. Sparks and embers exploded outward as Astra's blade crashed against the dwarf's ascending hammer, the shockwave rippling through the arena floor. For a heartbeat, it seemed as though the dwarf had caught him—had stopped the descent through sheer power alone.
Then Astra shifted.
His sword slipped through the narrowest opening, a whisper of motion, and bit deep into the dwarf's shoulder. Before the pain could fully register, Astra twisted his body, driving an elbow into the dwarf's chest with brutal precision. A sharp kick followed, striking the knee at just the right angle.
The dwarf dropped.
Astra landed with him, ripping his blade free in one smooth motion and pressing its edge against a fracture in the armor at the dwarf's neck. The steel hovered there, steady, unyielding.
One slice.
That was all it would take.
Time seemed to hold its breath.
The great dwarf warrior knelt before him, massive frame bowed, chest heaving beneath ruined armor. Even on his knees, his gaze met Astra's directly—defiant, unbroken—until his strength finally betrayed him. Blood spilled from the deep wound carved across his chest, his hammer slipping from fingers that had once held it with unshakable resolve. His body swayed… and then collapsed backward, striking the battlefield with a heavy, final thud.
Silence claimed the arena.
For a single breath, nothing moved. Nothing spoke.
Then—
The world erupted.
Sound crashed down like an avalanche as the crowd roared, thousands of voices merging into a single, overwhelming wave. The ground trembled beneath Astra's feet, the arena itself vibrating with awe, triumph, and disbelief. Chanting surged upward, carried toward the heavens as if proclaiming the birth of something inevitable.
The announcer's voice thundered across the battlefield, barely containing the fervor that seized the stands. The name echoed again and again, growing louder with each repetition, until it no longer sounded like a declaration—but a truth being forged in sound and breath.
"Victory! Astra of Shadow."
Astra stood amid the wreckage of the battlefield, unmoving, a solitary figure carved from shadow and steel. His blade caught the arena lights, slick with the memory of violence. Slowly—deliberately—he reached for his helmet.
That single motion sent another tremor through the stands.
Anticipation swelled, coiled tight, and when he lifted the helm free, the arena ignited all over again. Sound crashed down in a roaring wall, raw and unrestrained. Astra exhaled, his heartbeat calm, controlled, though the hunger beneath his composure still smoldered, only barely sated.
The cheers became deafening.
"Damned perverts," he muttered under his breath, genuinely flustered by the fervor directed so nakedly at him.
Sweat clung to his skin, darkening the curls that framed his face. Violet eyes gleamed beneath the harsh arena lights, sharp and alive. His lips curved—half amusement, half something more dangerous. The afterglow of battle still coursed through him, a lingering high that made his blood hum. Shadows swayed subtly at his back, restless, as if they too reveled in what he had done.
He turned then, gaze settling on his fallen opponent.
Healers had already flooded the field, their mana-infused hands glowing as they worked swiftly over the dwarf's wounds. The massive warrior groaned, chest rising and falling until his eyes flickered open. With a low grunt, he pushed himself upright, wincing—but steady. He looked from Astra to the deep cut across his chest, then let out a rough, genuine laugh.
Astra stepped forward and extended a hand."I must apologize, Servant of War. I never learned your name."
The dwarf clasped it firmly, his grip iron-strong despite the loss. His red eyes burned with undimmed fire as he smiled, dangerous and proud."I am Theorn, son of Thorne the Red. Servant to His Holiness, the Warfather. We shall meet again, Lord Astra of Shadow."
"Throne the red!" Astra was inwardly shocked, This was a famous mercenary, a bloody Saint of the Guild of the War known for his ruthlessness and brutal tactics.
Their hands parted. Theorn turned and walked away with slow, deliberate steps, his presence still heavy, still formidable—even in defeat.
Astra turned as well, heading toward the tunnel as the echoes of his name followed him, a symphony of reverence and exhilaration. Shadows wove around his steps, slipping between light and stone as if sharing in his triumph. He entered the tunnel victorious, the roar of the crowd pounding against his back like a second heartbeat.
And yet—
Something gnawed at him.
His expression darkened, just slightly. The way he had fought. The way he had felt in those final moments. That hadn't been simple excitement, nor merely the joy of victory. He knew himself too well to pretend otherwise.
It was the blessing.
That insidious thing curled deep within his soul, whispering, feeding on curiosity, on hunger, on the desire to push further—to take more. He had let it guide him, even if only briefly. And he knew the truth of it.
If he ever stopped resisting, it would consume him.
"How insidious," he murmured.
The crowd's roar still chased him as he entered the preparation chambers, where warriors waited for their next matches. He ignored the stares—some awed, some wary—and let out a slow breath, forcing his pulse to settle.
A mana screen flared to life along the wall. The announcers were already at work, dissecting the battles with gleeful precision. Astra's name shone bright among the first round's standings, bold and unmistakable. A montage played—his strikes, his movements—
And, strangely, his face.
A lot.
"I had my helmet on the entire time....." He mutter in disbelief. "Wait.." His jaw slackened.
"Twelve… billion live viewers?"
"—And there you have it!" one announcer proclaimed, barely containing his excitement. "Lord Astra of House Shadow—an adopted noble, yet already named champion—with a performance beyond expectations! His movements were fluid, unreadable, precise. His affinities seamless. Did you see how the shadows responded, how mana bent to his will? That wasn't just talent—that was control. An innate synchronization with his element. S-rank Shadow affinity, A-rank Water! A true diamond in the rough! An absolute steal for House Shadow to find such a talent right under Dusks nose!"
Another voice joined in, cooler, more analytical. "And let's not forget House Shadow's legacy. Last year's tournament saw Crown Prince Vesperion Shadow of Sahara face Crown Prince Cassius of House Aurilean in what many still call the true final—a match decided by a single move. Vesperion claimed third, Cassius first, but many believe that semifinal eclipsed the championship bout itself. Let's not forget Velora Nezerac of Shadow who also made it to the semi finals in a rare double appearance for a singular house. And in the four tournaments prior, House Shadow placed a warrior in the semifinals across multiple divisions. This year Lord Astra is all that remains in the pawn division of House Shadow and he appears poised to uphold that tradition."
"Indeed," the first replied, "but the road ahead is brutal. This year's field is exceptional. He'll face warriors of equal caliber before this is over."
Astra watched silently as they analyzed him, praised him, reduced him to technique and talent and spectacle. They saw a prodigy. A rising star. A warrior worth betting on.
They did not see the whisper in his soul.
They did not see the lineage stirring in his blood.
"Just wait," he muttered.
Leaning back, he let the voices fade into background noise. He had won this battle.
......
Astra's battle had passed beyond mere recognition—it had become a phenomenon, something rare enough that even the oldest commentators struggled to name it. Never before had a Rank One stirred the world so completely, nor performed with such overwhelming command that a single duel could seize the attention of the realms and refuse to release it. His name burned through the mana network like living flame, spoken in awe, repeated in disbelief, argued over in serious debates.
House Shadow had found itself a new star—one fated to rise, to bend expectations, and to leave its mark upon the house's already formidable legacy.
Astra leaned back, eyes fixed on the flickering mana screens. He did not know why he kept watching—only that he could not look away. The broadcast pulsed with excitement as announcers dissected his every motion: the discipline of his footwork, the predatory elegance of his shadow-wielding, the suffocating pressure he brought to the field. Replays slowed his strikes to frames of frozen perfection, and yet even then, something about him slipped through their grasp. His bracket hovered before him, suddenly transformed. The path ahead no longer felt distant or theoretical—it loomed, sharp and immediate.
Two matches remained.
Two victories stood between him and the Crown Prince of House Dawn in the quarterfinals—a confrontation Astra found himself genuinely longing for. Lucien Solaris was rumored to be monstrously powerful, a peerless heir shaped by divine sunlight and royal expectation. He was dangerously handsome, impossibly radiant, and so renowned his fame was almost divine. A golden prodigy of the Sun. A golden Crown Prince set to inherit Dawn itself.
Yet Dawn was not the only shadow cast across the bracket.
From the brutal realm of Apu rose contenders no less fearsome. Apu was a land of violent extremes, sculpted by fire, ice, and unyielding stone. Its mountains tore at the sky, their jagged peaks crowned in eternal snow, while below, deep fjords split the land into vast, winding scars. Rivers of magma bled through frozen plains, and blizzards howled over volcanic ash. Those who survived there were not merely born of the land—they were forged by it.
Two nobles of Apu stood among the highest seeds.
Jarl Bjored of House Rune, stewards of the fortress-city of Pyke—a legendary bastion said to rival the heavens themselves. A massive half-orc, half-dwarf, Bjored wielded the lethal union of ice and lightning. His strikes fell like the wrath of a winter storm, sudden and merciless, his body a living bulwark honed by generations of mountain war. He held the fourth seed, and few doubted he would earn it again and again.
Beside him stood Baldr Logred of House Eldfjall—Baldr, a title reserved for princes in high Apu society the same way some may refer to, Vesperion and Lucien as amirs in high saharan. Royal steward of Askaland, capital of the Ashen Lands, his domain rested upon the legendary volcano Hellhiem, spoken of in the Tales of Atlas with equal parts awe and dread. A dark-haired human whose magma magic bordered on the apocalyptic, Baldr fought like a landslide—relentless, crushing, inevitable. Wherever he stood, the air grew heavy with heat, as though the world itself braced for eruption. He was the fifth seed, and perhaps the most openly destructive of them all.
The eighth seed was an obscure princess from Dunya—one Astra spared no thought.
These forces were destined to collide with the prodigies of House Dawn and House Dusk further down the bracket, a convergence of bloodlines and power that promised battles spoken of for generations. The world watched with bated breath, hungry for spectacle.
But Astra did not concern himself with the world's anticipation.
He had his own path to carve.
Two matches—to earn the right to face the prince of Dawn. Then the prince of Dusk. Then, at last, the princess of Hunt.
"Damn princes and princesses…" Astra muttered, before pausing. "Wait. I'm a prince."
He shook his head, lips twitching despite himself.
The fights ahead blurred in his mind—not as doubts, but as inevitabilities. One after another, they waited for him, a relentless ascent toward the summit. And Astra intended to climb it, no matter how many divine heirs stood in his way.
......
And now, here he stood.
Steel rang against steel as Astra twisted aside, the bladed wind screaming past where his throat had been a heartbeat earlier. His opponent was fast—unnervingly so. A female elf, a scion of House Sylva, born of Alfheim's endless forests and whispering boughs, moved like a breath given form. Pale skin, white hair, eyes the deep green of ancient leaves—she seemed less a warrior than a living current of air.
Her weapon was a wind-forged sword, its edges unseen, its presence announced only by the shriek of the air it severed. Astra ducked as a crescent of pressure carved through the space above his neck, the cut so clean it left the air trembling in its wake.
"Tch," he exhaled, slipping backward as shadows surged to meet him.
The crowd roared.
The fight had dragged on far longer than Astra liked. Exchange after exchange ended the same way—each time he gained the upper hand, the princess retreated, breaking contact to harry him from range. Again and again he closed the distance, only for her to scatter like wind through the trees. More than once she had nearly undone him; her hit-and-run tactics were honed to a razor's edge, patient and merciless.
She lunged again. Blades of wind curved and split in midair, trajectories bending without warning, relentless in their pursuit. Astra's footwork sharpened, his shadows coiling tighter around his frame, responding to every shift of intent.
Then he saw it.
A subtle hitch in her stance. A fraction of imbalance. Her first—and last—overextension.
"How annoying," he murmured.
The world folded.
In a blink, he was behind her.
A dagger shaped from shadow flashed into being and sliced through the space between heartbeats. The elf barely had time to widen her eyes before the strike passed, clean and final.
The arena erupted.
.......
Astra exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he steadied his breath. The battles were growing harder now. Not merely stronger opponents—but sharper ones. He felt it in every clash, every exchange where hesitation was punished and precision decided survival.
It became undeniable in his next fight.
By the time it ended, his body ached. His armor was battered and cut,. Thin cuts traced his skin like warpaint behind scarred steel, stinging reminders of how close the margin had been. The Princess of House Flame had pushed him harder than expected. A red-haired human from Dunya—realm of endless plains and towering cities—she fought with twin daggers and a volatile blend of fire and wind that made her movements fluid, erratic, and terrifyingly fast. Her flames burned with an intensity that shocked him; never before had he seen fire so aggressive, so consuming, that it pierced his water defenses as though they were little more than mist.
Astra sidestepped another blur of slashes, a crooked smile touching his lips.
"Tired yet, princess?"
She snarled back, fiery hair snapping like a banner behind her. "Not even close."
She was good. No—exceptional. He had underestimated her speed early on, and his body bore the price of that arrogance. Had he not been long accustomed to this style of relentless pressure—tempered through countless clashes with Prince Vesperion himself—he might have truly lost.
But speed, for all its terror, often concealed a fatal flaw.
Overcommitment.
And this princess was no Vesperion.
She lunged, twin daggers screaming through the air. Astra let her come. He sank fully into the Sword of Shadow, committing his mind, his body, his intent. At the last instant he twisted, flowing with her momentum, becoming a ripple of darkness that slipped past her guard. Before she could recover, a dagger of pure shadow formed in his hand, its cold edge resting just beneath her throat.
Her breath caught.
The arena fell silent.
Then she dismissed her helmet. Astra dismissed his, the match was over after all.
"Wha—the actual hell?!"
Color flooded her face as she realized just how close he was, his expression infuriatingly calm, violet eyes steady and unreadable. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Close match, princess."
She shoved him back hard, crossing her arms. "You're insufferable."
But she was still blushing.
Astra laughed softly, shaking his head as he stepped away. The blessing stirred within him—not violently this time, but insistently. A whisper rather than a shove. A hunger that wasn't for blood, but for challenge. For something greater.
It wanted Lucien Solaris.
It wanted Aster Hunt.
As Astra turned his gaze toward the remaining names in his bracket, the truth settled heavy and undeniable in his chest.
What came next were not mere matches.
They were beyond the pinnacle of Rank One—those standing at the threshold of ascension, warriors destined to carve their names into history.
.......
House Shadow's coliseum box was nothing short of regal. Towering above the arena like an obsidian throne, its design was a masterful blend of elegance and dominance. Black marble walls shimmered under the dim mana lanterns, their surfaces veined with threads of silver that pulsed faintly like living shadows. Plush velvet seats, embroidered with the sigil of House Shadow—a serpent coiled around a crescent moon—lined the interior, each one reserved for the most elite of the House's warriors and nobles.
Astra strode along the viewing balcony, his boots silent against the polished stone floor, his dark robes flowing behind him like liquid night. The murmurs of conversation hushed as he passed, and even among the rank threes and fours, warriors far above his standing, there was respect in their gazes. Some nodded in acknowledgment. Others clapped him on the back, murmuring words of approval.
"Shadow's new star."
"A monster in the making."
"House Shadow has been waiting for one like him."
It was surreal. To be venerated by those leagues above him, warriors who had long since cemented their legacies. But he had no time to bask in it. He approached the familiar figures waiting for him near the center of the coliseum box—Vesper and Velora.
Vesper leaned lazily against the railing, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Enjoying the view, little prince?" he teased, eyes flickering to the stadium below.
Velora stood beside him, her sharp golden gaze sweeping over Astra appraisingly. "You've made quite the impression," she said, tilting her head. "Even the elders are talking."
Astra exhaled, rubbing his neck. "Didn't expect to be House Shadow's next big spectacle."
Vesper chuckled. "Oh, you better believe it. But—" His expression shifted, a rare seriousness settling over his normally playful demeanor. "You should be careful. Your next opponent is no joke."
Astra arched a brow. "The prince of Dawn?"
Velora nodded, her tone measured. "Lucien Solaris. The second seed in this entire tournament. The one who inherited House Dawn's unique Sun Magic."
Astra's fingers unconsciously curled into a fist. Sun Magic—one of the rarest and most overwhelming affinities in the world. A force of light, heat, and divine authority.
Vesper's eyes darkened. "He's strong, Astra. Maybe even stronger than Velora and I."
Astra frowned. That was a weighty statement. Vesper and Velora were both monsters in their own right. If Lucien truly surpassed them…
Before Astra could respond, the shadows around them stirred. A creeping, unnatural darkness seeped into the space, heavier than any magic Astra had ever felt.
Footsteps.
And then—
A man stepped forward.
Velrius Umbra.
A Rank Five Saint.
His presence alone sent a whisper of unease through the room. Draped in a long, flowing coat of shadowed silk, his face was sharp yet unreadable, his smile quiet, enigmatic. His mere existence warped the space around him, shadows clinging to his every movement as if drawn to him by an unseen force.
He looked at Astra, his gaze unreadable, his smile unfaltering.
"You have done really well Astra, everyone will be watching," Velrius murmured as he smiled. His voice was neither a warning nor encouragement, merely a statement of fact. Yet it carried weight, a cryptic omen laced within his words.
Astra held his gaze, feeling the pressure settle onto his shoulders. He gave a slow nod. "I figured as much."
Velrius chuckled softly, then turned away, melting into the shadows as swiftly as he had appeared.
Astra exhaled.
He turned his attention back to the arena, eyes scanning the battlefield below. His gaze landed on a lone figure standing amidst the wreckage of a finished match, as the crowd roared in the most infamous chant of Alfhiem, a chant reserved for their greatest warriors, or their greatest battles.
"Roots run deep, unshaken, unbent!Blades like leaves, swift and spent!By sun, by stars, by elder might,Alfheim stands, ready to fight!
Strike! Like thunder through the trees! Rise! Like winds upon the seas! Break! Like rivers carving stone!*Alfheim claims the victor's throne!
"Blood and bark, steel and light! Sing the song of Alfheim's might!"
This chant would echo through a coliseum, a rallying cry for warriors of Alfheim, calling upon their natural strength, agility, and deep connection to the land as they fight for glory.
Aster Hunt stood uninterested...bored even.
A shudder ran down his spine.
She was beautiful. In a way that was almost unnatural.
Two different-colored eyes—one a sapphire blue laced with flecks of gold, the other a midnight purple speckled with red. Her hair was a deceptively plain blonde, yet somehow, she looked… paradoxical. Magical. Terrifying. There was something in her aura that felt off—deep, dark, dangerous.
Astra knew it immediately.
She was unique. Almost as unique as him.
His inner star hummed. His curse whispered. His instincts sharpened.
What a monster.
She had just demolished her opponent without even using her main mana type. That alone was enough to send a chill through him.
And these were his enemies.
Not even the best of them.
He exhaled, forcing his pulse to steady. He was still only Rank One. One step at a time.
The shadows around him deepened as he turned away, making his way toward his private waiting room. As he stepped through the halls, House Shadow's warriors erupted into cheers, their voices ringing through the corridors.
And then—
He glanced up at the arena's massive screens.
A name flashed across the display.
A matchup that sent a roar through the coliseum arena.
"Final Quarter Finals Match up"
"Astra of Shadow VS. Lucein Solaris of Dawn."