Astra sat among a sea of black and gold uniforms in one of the grand lecture halls of Shadowkeep's Military Academy. The chamber itself was a vast cathedral of knowledge and power — its vaulted ceiling disappeared into a high, dusky void, where shadow seemed to cling like cobwebs. Sinister arches twisted upward, each ribbed with threads of obsidian veining and inlaid with flickering runes that pulsed faintly with mana. Gargoyle ancient rank four mana beasts stone skeletons were in spires jutted from the corners, watching all with hollow, judging eyes. Along the walls, glassed mana-lanterns floated in fixed orbits, their pale glow echoing starlight, casting soft halos across the carved stone — scenes of past wars, triumphs, and sacred defeats. The stone underfoot was dark slate, etched with the ancient crest of House Shadow: A golden Ouroboros
Hundreds of officers sat around him — most already nearing the end of their crash courses. Unlike them, Astra was just beginning.
The academy had become a boiling crucible in the past few week apparently. With war looming, every corridor was packed, every hall echoing with lectures and training drills. Mass mobilizations were underway across the Dominion. Thousands of civilians — former merchants, clerks, farmers — now wore armor, some even wielding basic mana techniques. Everyone was being shaped into something useful, expendable, or powerful.
Astra didn't really know which category he belonged to.
Considering him being of peasant upbringing — a street-born outlier raised in the shadows of Duskfall — Astra stood as a new Rank Two with a mythical core and history as ancient as the gods, surrounded by highborn Rank Twos and Threes. All but three in this very hall were rank two the so-called "geniuses" from affiliated houses. The rest eyed him with polite distance, veiled contempt, or cautious curiosity.
Still, he remained — not by invitation, but by merit and curse also a little bit of pride. After all he was a Prince...or so he told himself.
Anyhow course load was... ambitious. Maybe even suicidal.
He had selected his core classes himself and was forced classes by Bishop Alistair.Mana Structures III, Shadowmancy III, Leadership II, and Swordsmanship IV — each taught by seasoned instructors, some of whom had fought in campaigns decades before Astra was even born.
But that wasn't enough. Not for Astra.
He also took all officer-track courses:Strategics on the Battlefield, Shadow Communications II, Officer Basics, Major Command Protocols, and Survival IV — the latter being infamous for having a fatality warning clause buried in the enrollment form.
The academy itself was a fortress-academy hybrid, seamlessly fused into the black-and-gold grandeur of the greater Shadowkeep. It occupied nearly a fourth of the keep's sprawl — its own miniature city. Sprawling archways, fortified bridges, towers, battlements. Astra often got lost simply moving between courses. There were whispers the place had its own weather system.
The halls bustled with millions. Rank Ones and Twos by the thousands, mercenaries and rogue adventurers, even wandering bishops and warlords now wore House Shadow's crest. Every corridor was jammed with motion, tension, and anticipation. It was exactly as Veylith, the angel, had foreseen: a war of transformation. A war for growth.
Astra passed by dozens of mages reinforcing the very bones of the academy and city. Complex runes flared against old stone. Massive glyphs of protection layered over each other like tangled spiderwebs. At one point, outside the east gate, Astra had spent hours obsessing over what he believed was some kind of divine-tier barrier spell being constructed by a bishop.
He studied for hours trying to figure it out.
Turned out, it was an enchanted mana-resistant emergency light system.
He still hadn't emotionally recovered.
He had genuinely expected a mechanism that summoned a colossus of shadow-fire or perhaps blasted invaders with spears of pure fear. Instead? Mana-proofed exit signs.
His curse flared that day. So did his embarrassment.
Today's lecture, however, was different.
It was being led by Bishop Velor Thorax of House Shadow — a demigod-rank Rank Four, scion of a minor noble branch, yet one of the many bishops openly serving in the war. His presence alone subdued the entire room. Not through magic — but weight. Velor didn't need to cast spells to command respect. He simply stood there, robed in special uniform flowing black threads stitched with red mana veins and gold motifs from his house, every officer in the hall sat straighter.
His voice was clear, low, and unhurried. Every word pressed itself into the air like law.
"In the doctrine of House Shadow, we do not engage unprepared — especially in the final hours of war."
He walked across the dais slowly, hands behind his back.
"We've covered deception — the art of lures, false retreats, baiting maneuvers. Each requires foresight. Each demands sacrifice. Let me remind you, officers: no unit, no squad, no shadow is the same. You must know your team's strengths and weaknesses. You must know your own."
He paused, his eyes sweeping over the hall.
"Shadows are formless. They adapt. That's our house's creed. But this applies beyond darkness. Fire, water, air — they too shift, grow, learn, the same can be applied to all types of mana, it all depends on your finesse, even unique mana can be wielded similar to normal types. You, officers, must be the same. Plans A, B, C, D... improvisation must be instinct. You rank threes — and the special few rank twos present — carry power that can shift entire battlefields."
The air changed.
A deep, sonorous BONG reverberated through the entire hall.
The Bell of Knowledge — forged in the early days of House Shadow, bound with the soul of an ancient philosopher-mage — had been struck.
Its sound didn't just echo.
It vibrated inside every bone and thought.
Astra blinked, and suddenly, he could remember every line Velor had just said. Even the ones he barely registered. He could feel the spellwork enhancing his neural synapses, clarity sharpening behind his eyes.
Few houses possessed such tools. Fewer still knew how to use them properly.
Bishop Velor gave a final nod.
"Remember this: the shadows never strike unprepared. Neither should you."
Silence.
Then chairs shuffled. Cloaks swished. People began to move again.
Astra stood up, stretching slightly, brushing off the crumbs of a sweet mana bun he'd been nibbling under his desk. A few officers glanced his way with a little look of aprhesnsion and curiosity, after all he wields a mythical core, and star magic as well as being a celebrity in all the realms. One particularly stiff-necked middle aged noble stared especially heavily as if he saw some legendary figure.
It freaked Astra out a little so he winked
The rank two hurriedly looked away.
Astra didn't mind. He was tired. The day wasn't over. Next class: Survival IV.
"Gods help me," he muttered, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. "That one's the one with the mana mimic caves and spontaneous wolf packs... yay."
No message from Seraphine or Velora....Strange for Velora, she came back the night of Vespers descent as a rank two and successful nonetheless but yet something was off he sensed...But he very much expected Sera to go ghost, she's the type.
He rolled his eyes as he stepped into the current of officers funneling toward their next trials.
Somewhere down there — Vesper was probably fighting some corrupted beings, trecking a nightmare jungle, or talking to sentient flame demons...or himself
And Astra?
Well… he had a pop quiz on tactical supply routes.
He sighed, then took a bite of another pastry.
"War," he muttered. "Truly the greatest of blessings."
Astra looked out the massive balconies into the city as people all lowered their heads as they walked by him, he sighed "I wonder what that asshole vesper is doing"
...
Umbral Abyss
Vesper was crouched behind a massive, gnarled tree — its bark blacker than void, its leaves dripping with golden ichor that shimmered like bleeding light. He was battered, bruised, and panting hard, fingers twitching with urgency as he forced mana into a writhing, unstable construct of shadow and flame.
He needed to sneeze bad
"Gods...come on... come on…" he muttered, sweat stinging his eyes.
A boom shook the cursed air — deep, distant, and hungry.
"Shit. Shit. They found little Vespy."
Yes. Vesper had, in fact, named his shadow mimic "Little Vespy."No, he was not ashamed.
Peering around the tree's edge, far far away he spotted the blast site: a roiling fireball of dark crimson flame and coiling shadow, where corrupted creatures now swarmed in droves, like hornets to blood. Panic and laughter warred inside him as he ducked back behind cover.
Vesper was still trying — and failing — to reach the second level of the Abyss: the Caves of Mysteries. He had intended to descend in a single smooth dive. But fate, being the little shit it is, threw a Rank Two variant Soul Stealer right in his flight or well fall path — a grotesque humanoid with void wings, death-stench breath, eyes that were as hollow as this cursed place grabbed onto him grappling with him mid air until it released a screech that shattered his trajectory.
He crash-landed in the very heart of the Abyssal Forest.
Right next to a pack of rogue, corrupted shadows. Void-corrupted. Death-tainted. Laced with mystery mana. The Perfect place for a picnic.
His lightweight and very expensive armor was now In terrible shape, his helmet broke before he even hit solid ground thanks to that soul stealer, his chest piece had many fractures and dents, his greaves were dirtied with blood and dirt, he was a mess.
Needless to say, he'd burned through half his trump cards already, his domain spells were essentially needed for any major conflict to elevate him to rank two level for a short period, but he would rather not linger in one spot, less he wants to fight the whole damned jungle forest stupid forest he's in. The only upside? His mana was still full. This cursed place, for reasons "unknown", loved feeding his unique brand of magic. It whispered sweet nothings to his soul and refilled him like a leaking chalice.
Currently? He was being hunted down and infact cornered by rank two gilded and obsidian golems. Skinny. Humanoid. Silent. With lifeless void eyes.And worst of all? A Golden Golem. Rank Three. Pack leader.
Those things weren't just built different. They controlled the environment. Trees twisted for them. Shadows recoiled. The very forest bent to their whims. He could feel their shadows at times, deep and insidious.
Not to mention half the forest, from stupid rank one void wolves to rank two corrupted goblins and a plethora of other creatures all wanted a piece of him, not that he could blame them, not to mention he also had to seriously be careful to not run or attract a rank four creature. Especially not the Monkey of the Mysteries, that creature was especially terrifying, with abilities that still make him shiver "Wait I'm not in its domain spell being played with right now am I?.....nah, ha..ha" he laughed his voice hoarse and maniacal, his mana usage was really starting to take a toll on him.
"Gods..."
For the past day, Vesper had been running in maddening loops, laying down Vespy-traps across the forest taking out and clashing with many annoying creatures, he'd gotten lucky and ran into many rank one packs before after his initial escape from the center of the forest but ever since he has been getting closer to the drop point, it has been nothing but rank twos which he had to clash with often as he narrowly avoided death many times slowly circling closer and closer toward the drop-point to the caves below.
And now? Now he was crafting his pièce de résistance:A shadow-flame bomb so obscenely massive it would not only draw every cursed thing within a mile radius but also sap him of all mana so he can hide for a few minutes and get a drink of god damned water bread and some wine.
His target? Half a day ago near the edge of the center of the forest he had almost ran into a pinnacle tier rank three Leopard of the Void. And a whole pack of them about nine strong. He had somehow remained undetected by sheer luck or a twist of fate and now, it's time to awake those slumbering beasts and give them a feeding party and start a little jungle war.
"Ah...just a little more..."
As he shaped his creation he wondered still, just how the fuck can he ascend?, his quest had yet to update and he doubted he'd get an opportunity like Astra. "Okay.Okay face my self " he spoke steadily as he took a deep breath of the corrupted humid air, he had completed his masterpiece.
Vesper looked at the shadows and spoke in a silly matter "Say little shits what shape should this beauty be?"
The shadows giggled — actual giggles, cruel and childlike. They danced around him, mocking, pointing.
"Yes, yes, I know," Vesper snarled. "I shouldn't be wasting time talking to figments of my own deteriorating sanity while a rank golden golem and its pack were closing in, but guess what? I'm a showman."
He glanced up. Mana signatures closing fast.
"Oh fuck it. Lance it is. Gods Im so basic"
He threw both hands forward, summoning a flood of shadows from his soul, wrapped in sinister fire. Shadow-stairs rose beneath his feet as he sprinted up through the canopy. Branches cracked, mana wailed, and the very trees seemed to twist away from him.
At the apex, he stopped, balanced like a devil on air, and gathered every ounce of mana into a single construct — a lance of burning sinister flame and shadow, it was sleek and long, its pointed edge a eerily red glow and the back made of the highest quality shadow he can get to heed his call, vesper also activated his boosting spells as he began to glow from azure, to violet, and finally a hellish scarlet as his presence spiked to the pinnacle of rank two for a second and a spiked halo appeared atop his crown." He felt the eyes of many creatures as well as their pressure descend upon him yet it was too late.
His lance howled as he launched it.
The spear tore through the forest like a star from hell, igniting the darkness in its path, its wake screaming through the void.
All attention on Vesper disappeared.
He fell — willingly — back down into the canopy. Shadows caught him like lovers. He collapsed into a cushion of smoke, heart pounding, lungs dragging air, completely empty of mana.
Which, thankfully, wouldn't last long.This was his home now. And it fed him like a mother to her cursed child.
The world around him pulsed. He lay still.
Until—
A blinding flash lit up the forest.Red. Sinister. Beautiful.
A twisting tornado of unholy flame erupted in the far distance.
And then — boom — the Rank Three mana signatures flared all at once.
The forest erupted in a cacophony of screams.
The onslaught had began.
Vesper grinned like a man unhinged.
"Gods, aren't I just a wicked little piece of shit," he whispered, still laughing.
Wine bread and water appeared out of his regal coin, into a make shift table made from a dark root. "Ahh perfect, it really is the little things in life that make me love it." he mocked sarcastically
As he stuffed his mouth he wondered, briefly, with a snort—
What the hell is that stupid, pretty bastard doing right now?
...
Shadowkeep
Astra was tired. Bone-deep tired. Not from a lack of sleep — though that was certainly true — but from constantly being on edge.
Everywhere he went in the academy, there were Rank Ones with ambition, Rank Twos with power, and Rank Threes with egos the size of entire cities. All of them were desperate — desperate to climb, to prove themselves before war came crashing down. Desperate enough to kill someone like him, if given half the chance.
And so, Astra stayed vigilant.
Even now, he stood in a crowded elevator, surrounded by a press of officers and cadets in black and gold. Mana signatures pulsed around him like storm currents — aggressive, hungry, sharp-edged.
The elevator hummed as it descended deeper into the academy's lower floors. He could feel the shift in atmosphere — the pressurized hum of training halls layered in enchantments, the distant clang of steel on steel.
As they sank, Astra's thoughts drifted to the sword on his back.
How good am I now? he wondered.
Not even a month ago, he was pitiful with the blade — barely competent, more a brawler than a duelist. But things had changed. Fast. His curse, his training, and the Sword of Shadows itself had carved a violent education into him. Now? He wasn't just capable — he was deadly.
Deadly enough to clash with Lucien Solaris.
The Prince of Dawn.
Even thinking about him made Astra grind his teeth.
Lucien was younger than him. Radiant. A prodigy in the sword arts. Elegant, precise, powerful — all wrapped in that golden glow and infuriating smile. Their duel had been brutal. Astra had only held his ground by weaving traps, leveraging his curse, and that beautiful breakthrough his domain spell Shadowfall, also by tapping into that raw, aching desire to humble the bastard.
He genuinely disliked the guy and he didn't even fully know him.
Whatever.
Astra had bigger things on his mind. A project. A vision.
The fusion of two sword styles:The Sword of Shadows.And the Sword of Stars.
To his knowledge — which, admittedly, wasn't vast — no one had ever combined the two. They weren't just different; they were opposites.
The Sword of Stars was an art of brilliance and brutality. Alone. Radiant. Uncompromising.It overwhelmed. It obliterated. It was speed, force, inevitability.Like a falling star with no mercy.
The Sword of Shadows, by contrast, was silence and subversion.It watched. It adapted. It mocked.It twisted your own strengths into weaknesses, forced you to bleed on your own sword.A language of mimicry, manipulation, and vicious precision.
Astra had learned Shadow well — it suited him. It listened. It taught him through battle, through pain. He barely needed a mentor; the shadow was his teacher, always watching, always challenging.
But the Sword of Stars? That was distant. Alien. He only knew the basic forms and its philosophy — but even that called to him.
Be alone. Be bright. Be inevitable.
To combine the two would be… absurd. Unnatural. Maybe even impossible.
And yet — Astra saw the path. A style that struck from the silence and the sky. That punished with brilliance and finished in shadow. A blade that came from nowhere, shined for a heartbeat, and vanished into death.
Terrifying.Beautiful.
Mine.
The elevator jolted to a stop. Mana-locks disengaged with a soft chime, and the doors opened to a long obsidian corridor. Enchanted torches burned pale blue along the walls, casting eerie reflections on the polished black floor.
Astra stepped out with the others. Quietly. Calmly.Every step forward, the thought looped in his mind:
Stars and shadows. Cold brilliance. Silent death. Make it real.
He was headed toward the lower east training hall for Swordsmanship IV.
The doors creaked open with a low, resonant groan, revealing one of Shadowkeep Academy's most restricted sanctums:
The Hall of Blades.
A vast, cathedral-like chamber unfolded before Astra — easily the size of a city square, yet enclosed in arched obsidian stone. The ceiling vanished into blackness above, lost in a mist of shadowed mana that flickered gold now and then like stars hidden behind a thunderstorm.
Dozens of towering lancet windows lined the walls, their panes filled not with stained glass, but with shifting murals of ancient battles etched in luminous gold mana. Rows upon rows of weapon racks stood beneath them, arranged like altars, each cradling training blades of every shape and style — sabers, rapiers, scimitars, longswords, claymores, katanas, even exotic blades from distant realms. Every weapon glowed faintly, enchanted for balance and safety, yet forged with precision.
Despite their inert state, the hall hummed. A quiet, sacred tension filled the air — like the silence before a duel, or the stillness in a chapel before war prayers. It was hallowed ground.This space was reserved solely for Rank Threes — elite officers, sword saints, prodigies.Or... anomalies like Astra.
He walked in, each footstep echoing off the polished black floor streaked with veins of molten gold. Around him, a dozen other figures moved with discipline and quiet confidence, each radiating a dangerous aura.
And then—He felt it.
A presence. Subtle, cold, and far too beautiful.
Astra's gaze was drawn to the center of the hall, where stood the leading instructor — a boyish figure, delicate and short with azure eyes and hair, draped in bishop's black trimmed with silver and azure thorns and roses. He looked like a teenager who belonged in a palace ballroom, not a battlefield. His face was pale, lips faintly red, eyes soft like dusk-violet silk. But Astra's instincts screamed.
This was no child.
There was something off about him — his stillness too perfect, his beauty too curated, his aura a whisper of death wrapped in perfume.
The man smiled faintly.
"Greetings, warriors," he said, voice smooth as oiled steel. "I am Indigo Monte."
Every head turned. Every movement stopped.
"In today's session," Indigo continued, folding his hands behind his back, "we will not play with mana. We will not lean on curses or enchantments. Today... we dance with the blade alone — stripped to its essence. I will watch. I will correct. I will nudge you toward mastery."
He gestured with elegant fingers toward the weapon racks.
"Take the sword you feel calls to you the most. Nothing fancy. No enchantments. Just wood and will. Warm up."
Astra blinked. House Monte...
Even as a minor house under the dominion of Shadow, Monte held a fearsome reputation. They were swordmasters without peer, revered in duels across realms. Montoya Monte — their founder — was still whispered about in reverent tones. A man who once cut a Rank Four's wings off mid-air with a wooden sword, or so the tale went.
It made sense this "boy" — this Bishop Indigo — was the one leading this class. His appearance was a lie. His soul was anything but.
Astra moved toward the racks.
He passed many blades, but his hand paused before the bastard swords. A versatile design. Long enough to reach, light enough to maneuver. He'd grown fond of the style recently, partly due to Lucien Solaris — that infuriating Prince of Dawn — who wielded it like poetry.
Irony, Astra thought as he picked one up. A simple one. Lightweight. Balanced. Smooth hilt.
It fit his grip like it belonged there.
He gave it a testing swing. Clean. Responsive. Flexible.
It fit him.
Versatile enough for the misdirection and cruelty of shadow. Strong enough for the sweeping, shining aggression of stars.
Yes, he thought, stepping back onto the polished floor, eyes drifting toward Indigo's faint smile.
The hall settled into a hush again — that reverent quiet that falls when something meaningful is about to begin.
Indigo Monte stepped to the center of the chamber, his slim frame seemingly too light for the heavy air. Yet every footfall he made, every shift of weight, was precise — effortless and elegant, like the beginning of a deadly dance. His azure hair shimmered under the dim golden lanterns, and his equally blue eyes — brighter than sapphires, and far less kind — scanned the gathered students with eerie calm.
He drew a simple wooden sword from his waist with a casual flick.
"Alright," he said, his tone surprisingly informal. "Let's not waste time."
He pointed the sword lazily toward the center of the room as he walked in a slow circle.
"The flow of battle," he began, "is not some philosophical nonsense reserved for poets or tacticians. It's very real. And it's what decides who walks away, and who bleeds out choking on their own teeth."
Some of the officers tensed. A few smirked. Indigo smiled faintly, amused.
"The flow is determined by three things," he said, raising his free hand and counting off with a gloved finger. "Range. Speed. Power."
He stopped walking, standing now beside the towering weapon racks.
"Yours. Theirs. Both matter," he added with a shrug. "Whoever controls those three wins more often than not. That's it. That's the game."
He tapped the wooden blade against his shoulder.
"Now, how you control them? That's where it gets messy."
He turned toward the students, gaze sharp now.
"In Shadow, we do it with traps, misdirection, perfect positioning, and preparation. Others do it through raw speed, or brutal power, or iron defense. Everyone's got their thing — their little niche where they shine brightest."
He pointed the wooden blade now at Astra, his expression neutral but voice tinged with recognition.
"Take Prince Astra, for example," Indigo said casually. "I saw his duels at Duskfall. The boy's most comfortable probing— dissecting his opponent with feints, misreads, and layered pressure. Doesn't throw everything in at once. Watches. Thinks. Bleeds for information. Then exploits."
There were murmurs among the warriors. Astra remained quiet a little flustered, arms crossed behind his back, focused, face unreadable.
Indigo continued, gesturing fluidly with his sword.
"Now, that isn't an easy way to fight. That's hard. That requires composure. You have to take hits, see the angle of your enemy's approach, decode the style mid-combat — and execute on the fly. It's chess while knives are flying."
He paused, then laughed dryly.
"Gods, I'm making it sound more complicated than it is. Maybe I'm just getting old..."
He rolled his shoulder and turned back to the group.
"My point is — find your flow. Your rhythm. The recipe that works best for you. What do you chain together cleanly? What openings do you like to create? What pressure scares you the least? Know those things. Practice them. Build around them. Then get good at dragging people into your fight."
He looked around now, more serious.
"Because if you let them pull you into their flow? Their range? Their tempo?"
He tapped his sword gently to the floor.
"You die."
Silence followed his words like a blade sheathed in shadow.
Indigo's eerie smile returned.
"No mana today. No tricks. No true weapons. Just simple dull blades and reflex. Today's about the sword and nothing else. I'll walk among you. I'll correct you if I see something. Otherwise — figure it out."
He turned, walking toward a golden bench at the edge of the hall.
"Pair up. Spar. Flow."