Sirris Academy was noisier than usual that day. The air itself felt charged, as if the walls had overheard the rumors and couldn't help but hum with the tension. Whispers darted between students in the hallways, half-muttered conversations carried like wildfire:
"Did you hear? Zeke's down."
"Impossible… Zeke? The Zeke?"
"Some guy named Daniel. Rank eighteen now."
To the unranked, it was gossip. To the ranked, it was a problem.
Far above the commotion, in a glass-and-steel tower that scraped the clouds, a private elevator carried those who needed no introduction. This building didn't belong to Sirris, nor to any organization. It belonged to one man — Rank 1 himself.
They called them the Rankers of Valhalla. The top ten combatants Sirris had produced or recognized. Some were students still enrolled, most were not. They didn't need the academy anymore. Their names alone carried weight. They had businesses, underground influence, and in some cases, small armies. Their ranks were not decided by tournaments or school votes — only by real victories, blood, and broken bones.
The first to arrive was Ares Kyros, Rank 10.
The elevator doors slid open, and the tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped in, his gait heavy with controlled power. Ares was a brawler — no fancy techniques, no gimmicks. His fists were like steel and his temperament was short. His presence filled the room like the smell of gunpowder.
Not long after, the sound of clicking heels echoed through the hall. Seraphine Veyra, Rank 9, entered with two silent shadows flanking her. They were not ranked themselves, but their strength was undeniable — and their loyalty belonged entirely to her. Her silver hair shimmered under the ceiling lights, and her crimson eyes flicked toward Ares with an expression that was equal parts amusement and provocation.
"Long time no see, Ares," she said, voice smooth but carrying the faint edge of a blade.
He grunted, folding his arms. "Not long enough."
Rankers didn't meet often, and when they did, it wasn't for small talk.
As the minutes passed, more arrived — each carrying their own reputation. Then, without fanfare, a presence settled into the far corner of the room. Sitting cross-legged in a chair, one hand resting on the hilt of a sheathed katana, was Rank 3: Valen Drex. His face was obscured by a faint shadow, almost unnatural in the well-lit room, as if the light itself refused to touch him. He didn't greet anyone. He didn't need to.
Finally, the room's atmosphere shifted completely.
The elevator doors opened once more, and Kael Windrake — Rank 1 — stepped inside. Golden hair, bright blue eyes, and a posture that carried both effortless confidence and the quiet threat of someone who had never lost.
Everyone took their seats around a long, polished table that looked like it belonged in a boardroom for corporate titans rather than warriors. But that was the point — power came in many forms, and in this room, it was currency.
At first, they discussed the usual — territory disputes, notable kills, business dealings that skirted the edges of legality. But eventually, as expected, the conversation turned.
"So," Kael began, leaning back in his chair, "Zeke has been beaten."
A ripple of interest moved across the table.
"And?" Ares asked.
Kael's eyes glinted. "The one who did it is a new Ranker. Rank eighteen now."
"That's a jump," Valen said without lifting his gaze from the table. His voice was low, deliberate.
Seraphine's lips curled into a slow smile. "Daniel, was it? I heard some whispers before I came here. He's… interesting."
"Interesting enough to knock Zeke out cold," Kael said. "Which means he's interesting enough to be a threat."
"Or an opportunity," Seraphine countered. Her crimson eyes narrowed in thought. "A man with strength but no place in the hierarchy yet… he can be molded. Broken if necessary. I'll make him my subordinate. And when I'm done…" She smiled wider. "…he'll kneel like a dog."
No one argued. The Rankers were not allies. They were competitors bound only by mutual respect and the rare occasions they needed to address a threat to their collective dominance. If Seraphine wanted to handle Daniel, they'd let her try.
Kael shrugged. "Then he's yours. Contain him before he climbs any higher."
The meeting dissolved shortly after, each Ranker leaving the way they came — vanishing into the city like ghosts with crowns no one could see.
Elsewhere
Daniel wasn't aware of the meeting, nor did he care.
His world right now was the abandoned factory he had chosen for training — quiet, spacious, and sturdy enough to handle what he was putting it through. Concrete dust clung to the air. Sweat rolled down his back as he moved through his drills, each strike faster and sharper than the last.
His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, his focus absolute.
Then the familiar chime echoed in his mind.
[System Notice]
The path to Legend Breaker requires the wielder to face danger in all its forms and find the weapon that suits them best.
Daniel paused mid-motion, wiping sweat from his brow. "The weapon that suits me best, huh?" he muttered.
It wasn't the kind of prompt he was used to seeing. Usually, the system was cold and to the point — numbers, upgrades, missions. This one felt almost… personal.
He rolled his shoulders, chuckling under his breath. "Guess beating people up barehanded isn't gonna cut it forever."
His mind flickered to the fights he'd had so far, the way his body adapted, the way he could feel opponents before they moved. What weapon could make that even deadlier?
Still, the phrasing — all kinds of danger — lingered in his head. It didn't sound like the system meant just combat. And that, oddly enough, made him grin.
"Well," Daniel said to the empty air, "guess I'll have to see what kind of trouble I can find."
He went back to training, each blow ringing off the factory walls like a war drum. Somewhere far away, a silver-haired Ranker with crimson eyes was already making plans for him.
And Daniel, though he didn't know it yet, was about to step into the kind of danger the system had been waiting for.