The capital city of the Dream Kingdom glows beneath a vast velvet sky, its countless lights flickering like fallen stars trapped in stone and glass.
Crystal spires rise high above the cityscape, their tips crowned with dream-lanterns that swirl with slow, ever-changing colours, painting the streets below in shades of silver, violet, and pale gold.
Bridges of white stone arch gracefully over canals that gleam with liquid starlight, their waters rippling with reflections of both the moon and the drifting, luminous orbs released by dream-artisans.
The air is rich with scents—jasmine gardens hidden on rooftops, incense curling from market stalls, and the faint metallic tang of dream-forged weapons displayed in midnight bazaars.
From the central plaza, the Dream Palace dominates the skyline, its walls formed of translucent crystal that breathes with a gentle inner glow, as if it dreams along with the city.
Guard patrols march silently across the wide streets, their armour woven from moon-silver threads, each bearing the mark of their personal dream totem on their cloaks.
In the quieter districts, narrow alleys twist like forgotten thoughts, and from behind shuttered windows, the soft hum of dream-magic seeps into the cobblestone paths.
Above it all, Tillie, the great shaman of the Dream Kingdom, stands on the highest tower of the palace—a deer-orc whose antlers shimmer faintly in the moonlight, her carved eyes closed as if in meditation, yet seeming to watch every dreamer in the city.
And tonight, under her watch, a storm quietly gathers.
Behind her, a swirling, colourful mist forms, and from it steps Silu—the Dream Deer-orc who saved Luca's life.
He bows low.
"Master, I sent the Tiger-orc to the dungeon."
Tillie's voice is calm but sharp.
"Silu, what use is there in keeping him?"
Silu hesitates, his tone almost reluctant.
"Master, there is a supreme totem behind them."
Tillie's gaze remains steady.
"And we don't?"
Silu's eyes widen in shock.
"What do you mean, Master? Are you saying…?"
Tillie nods once.
After advancing her shaman cultivation to a level equal to a Divine King warrior, she can now sense the shift—her great totem has also advanced to the level of a Supreme Totem.
She feels its presence like an endless ocean, waves of power radiating from it without restraint.
Silu begins to shake in excitement, then laughs.
"Great!"
A mist of swirling colours gathers around him as he prepares to activate the dream travel ability.
But Tillie's voice cuts through the air.
"Wait—don't do it now."
Silu pauses, puzzled.
"A week from now is the annual celebration of our Totem's birth," Tillie says, her lips curling into a slow smile.
"They will serve as entertainment."
"How?" Silu asks.
"Let them have a life-and-death fight with magic beasts in the arena," Tillie answers, "and let the crowd be entertained."
Silu's grin mirrors her own.
"Good idea."
The colour mist thickens, swirling until his figure is gone, carried away as though the dream itself swallows him.
When the wind clears the mist, only Tillie remains, gazing at the city below.
Her reverence for the totem swells.
Before the totem's guidance, orcs were merely civilised savages, still living by hunting and slaughtering one another.
Now, every orc race lives in relative harmony, each working their own trades to earn money.
Trains carry travellers across the region in mere days, homes are built to withstand even the fiercest winds, and peace—fragile but real—holds the Dream Kingdom together.
She wants every orc race in the world to live under such a banner.
And she is prepared.
When the totem fully awakens, she will ask its permission to conquer the surrounding lands, to crush every rival tribe and totem.
In this world, one totem will be enough—and it will be theirs.
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A week later, the Dream Kingdom's capital transforms beneath a sky of drifting silver clouds.
From the city gates to the palace steps, banners of every shade ripple in the warm breeze, each dyed with swirling patterns that mimic the colors of dream mist.
Street vendors line the avenues, their stalls bursting with roasted meats, shimmering fruit-glass candies, and bowls of steaming dream-lotus broth. The air is thick with scents—spiced grain, charred meat, and the faint floral perfume released by the dream-lamps hung from every post.
The cobblestone streets are freshly washed, glistening in the sunlight, and wide ribbons of colored cloth crisscross above, turning the thoroughfares into tunnels of shifting light.
Children of every orc race wear masks shaped like the great totem—a majestic deer's face with eyes half-closed—chasing one another through the crowds.
In the great square before the palace, workers erect an enormous wooden platform, its sides painted with scenes from the totem's legends. Musicians tune their instruments, the sharp call of bone flutes mixing with the deep rhythm of hide drums.
Along the outer walls of the arena, colored dream mist drifts from vents built into the stone, casting a faint, otherworldly haze over the city's heart. The mist changes color every few moments—crimson, azure, gold—drawing murmurs of awe from the gathering spectators.
Train after train pulls into the station, carrying visitors from every corner of the kingdom. Merchants unload crates of dream wine, nobles in lacquered carriages are escorted by guards, and warriors in polished armor walk in ranks, their weapons sheathed but their presence heavy.
Every building, from the smallest shop to the highest tower, bears the carved mark of the totem in fresh white paint. Even the palace gates are draped in silken banners so long they sway like waterfalls in the wind.
The air hums with excitement.
In seven days, the city has shifted from the calm heart of the kingdom into a living, breathing festival ground.
And at the center of it all, the arena waits, its gates closed for now—until the moment the crowd roars and the life-and-death battles begin.
The dream mist inside the arena thickens, swirling in vivid reds and golds as the announcer's voice booms across the stands, amplified by runes carved into the stone walls.
"Honored citizens of the Dream Kingdom—today's entertainment will be one of legend! A grand life-and-death battle!"
The crowd roars, the sound echoing like a storm trapped in stone.
"And the participants… one hundred tiger-orc traitors—against an adult Skull Crusher!"
The name alone sends a ripple through the audience. Cheers erupt, some voices howling with bloodlust, others laughing in anticipation.
The announcer continues, voice deep with relish. "For those who do not know—an adult Skull Crusher is a magic monster, standing eight feet tall, with a single eye blazing like fire, four clawed arms that can rend steel, and horse hooves for legs. Its hide is crimson as fresh blood, and its strength equals that of a Divine King warrior!"
Heavy gates grind open at opposite ends of the arena.
From one side, the Skull Crusher emerges, its massive frame swaying with controlled menace, silver chains coiling around its limbs and torso. The links glow faintly, engraved with the Great Shaman's binding runes. Its single, lidless eye glares with burning hatred, the chains rattling with each step.
From the other gate, a hundred tiger-orcs are driven forward, their wrists bound in dream-iron cuffs. Some snarl, others glare defiantly, but all bear the mark of traitors burned into their chests.
The moment the two sides face each other, the arena erupts in shouts, laughter, and stomping feet.
The Skull Crusher flexes its four clawed hands, the tips scraping sparks from the stone.
The announcer's voice thunders again, "Let the judgment begin!"
In a blink, the silver chains vanish into mist.
The Skull Crusher bellows—a sound like cracking stone—and charges forward. Its hooves strike the ground with enough force to shake dust from the upper tiers. Claws flash, a tiger-orc's head flies from his shoulders, blood spraying into the air like a fountain.
The crowd roars even louder, drunk on the carnage.
The tiger-orcs scatter, some drawing hidden blades, others trying to flee, but the monster is too fast. It smashes one into the wall with a hoof, skewers another on its claws, and crushes a third beneath its weight, the sound of bones breaking sharp in the air.
Every kill fuels the crowd's frenzy, each brutal death met with stomps, whistles, and savage cheers.
The battle is not a fight—it is slaughter.
The crowd cheers louder with every tiger-orc that falls. These traitors, after all, had wished for the old days to return—days that would bring no harm to them, for the tiger-orc race is among the strongest of all orcs, and now they even possess a supreme totem. But for the weaker orc clans, such a return meant living in constant fear, never certain they would see the next sunrise.
So no one spares them sympathy. Even a few tiger-orcs in the stands howl in delight at their deaths, treating the spectacle as justice.
Yet, unnoticed by all, the blood of the slain begins to creep across the arena floor. Thin streams merge into thicker rivulets, all flowing toward a single point near the center.
The slaughter continues until only one tiger-orc remains, battered and surrounded by corpses.
The Skull Crusher stomps forward, its claws dripping gore, its single eye fixed on the final prey.
The crowd roars for the kill.
The monster bellows and leaps, its shadow engulfing the tiger-orc. The air trembles with the anticipation of impact.
But in the blink of an eye, the tiger-orc moves. Its body coils, then springs upward with explosive force. One claw arcs through the air, striking the monster's neck.
The Skull Crusher's head sails away in a crimson spray. Its body collapses with a deafening crash, chains clattering uselessly against the stone.
The arena falls silent.
Tillie's smile fades. Her expression hardens as she rises to her feet, eyes narrowing at the lone tiger-orc.
A sudden wave of killing intent bursts from him—dense, crushing, and absolute. It smothers the air, stealing the breath of every spectator.
Then, just as swiftly, the aura vanishes.
So does the tiger-orc.
The stands remain frozen in stunned silence, the scent of fear replacing the earlier bloodlust.