The sun rose over the capital like a golden crown, casting long shadows across the colossal arena. Its stone arches shimmered with banners of scarlet and gold, each bearing the crest of the Imperial Dynasty. The seats tens of thousands strong roared like an ocean. Nobles in jeweled robes sipped from silver goblets, while commoners packed the stands, waving flags and chanting names.
At the center of it all, a single man's voice cut through the chaos.
"Citizens of Varyndor! Nobles, knights, lords, and children of the Empire—welcome… to the Imperial Tournament!"
The arena shook. The crowd thundered.
He was Callidus Varrow, the Imperial Announcer. His voice had carried every great duel for twenty years, and today, it rang like a war horn. His robes of white and red swirled in the wind as he raised a golden staff.
"Thirty warriors have answered the Emperor's summons! Thirty souls willing to test their strength beneath the eyes of the gods themselves!"
The gates rumbled. From beneath the arena, iron doors began to open.
"And among them " Callidus paused, his voice dropping into a deep growl, " stand five whose names need no introduction."
The air thickened. The crowd leaned forward.
The first gate boomed. Out stepped a giant of a man, his hammer sparking with stormlight.
"Doran Veyth the Iron Tempest!"
Lightning cracked as he raised the hammer high. The people screamed his name until the stone itself trembled.
Another gate opened. Moonlight seemed to follow her, though the sun still burned overhead. Twin sabers gleamed like silver rivers in her hands.
"Selvara Moongrace the Blade Dancer!"
Her blades spun in a blur so fast the eye barely caught the movement. A dozen roses fell from the stands, shredded to petals before they hit the ground.
The third gate hissed open. A figure in crimson robes walked barefoot onto the sand, flames licking across his knuckles.
"Vaelor Kynar the Crimson Monk!"
With a single strike, his fist split the earth. Fire bled from the cracks like veins of molten steel.
The fourth gate whispered instead of boomed. Out stepped a woman clad in shadow, her bow strung with a thread of pure moonlight.
"Ilyra Fencrest the Silent Huntress!"
She vanished. Gasps echoed. Then an arrow pinned a falling leaf in mid-air, dead center, as she appeared again, her eyes cold as frost.
The fifth gate stopped the world.
Every noble rose. Even the children fell silent.
The armored titan who walked forth needed no theatrics. His presence alone bent the air like steel. His steps were heavy, deliberate, every sound a declaration.
"Kaelen Vorath Nemoran the Imperial Protector!"
The man who had never been defeated. The shield of the Emperor. The wall that no storm had ever broken.
The crowd roared until the sky itself seemed to quake.
From the highest balcony, nobles whispered among themselves.
"Who will win?""Not a question it's Kaelen. It's always Kaelen.""And yet… there is that stranger. That Draeven survivor…"
Eyes turned toward a shadowed gate. Rigorus had not yet stepped into the light.
Callidus raised his staff."The rules are simple! One arena. One victor. Knockout or surrender the choice is yours. Kill, however… is forbidden. This is the Emperor's will!"
The words Emperor's will echoed across the coliseum.
The air grew fever-hot. The sands waited for blood.
And somewhere in the stands, a little girl tugged at her father's cloak the Imperial Protector's daughter, eyes wide.
"Papa… will you win again?"
Kaelen's hand brushed her hair beneath the steel of his gauntlet. His voice, deep but warm, rumbled."Of course. I fight because the Emperor asked me to. I need nothing else."
His wife smiled faintly from his side, though her eyes betrayed worry. "Then promise me, Kaelen. Promise me you'll come back the same man you are now."
He did not answer. His gaze was already on the arena sands.
The drums began to pound.
The gates shook again.
The drums grew louder doom… doom… doom rattling through the bones of every soul in the coliseum.
Callidus Varrow raised his staff again. His voice was a blade slicing through the noise.
"And last… the name whispered across these lands. The exile. The survivor. The man who faced VAELUS Nemoran and lived."
A ripple of shock coursed through the nobles' balconies. Commoners rose to their feet. Even the warriors on the sand turned toward the final gate.
"Rigorus Draeven!"
The gate groaned open. For a moment, only darkness. Then he stepped out.
Barefoot. His torso bare but lined with faint scars, each one a silent scripture of battle. His hair, once white, now gleamed faintly silver under the sun. On his back, the faint shimmer of a halo flickered blood-red and divine as though heaven itself strained to contain it.
The crowd hushed. Not a roar. Not a cheer. A silence heavier than steel.
Whispers broke it.
"That's him?""He looks… nothing like a warrior.""His eyes… gods, his eyes…"
Those eyes calm, unreadable, almost preacher-like scanned the stands. He wasn't here for glory. He wasn't here for riches. Every step he took was measured, patient, deliberate.
From the balcony, Princess Aelistra leaned forward, unable to look away. Her heart hammered, not with fear but with something else.
Kaelen Vorath, already standing on the sand, finally turned. For the first time in years, the Protector narrowed his eyes, acknowledging someone as more than a challenger.
Rigorus met that gaze. The air cracked.
Not a word was spoken, but the entire coliseum felt it: the clash of two storms yet to come.
Callidus's voice returned, breaking the tension.
"Warriors! Thirty enter… only one will leave victorious! Let the Imperial Tournament—begin!"
The gong thundered.
And the arena erupted into chaos.
The gong still reverberated when chaos exploded across the sand. Thirty warriors surged forward steel clashing, dust rising, cries of rage and pain tearing through the coliseum air.
Callidus's voice roared above the carnage, each word painting fire in the hearts of the crowd.
"The Imperial Trial begins! Strength, cunning, survival show the dynasty what you are worth!"
A man in crimson armor swung a glaive, cleaving through two lesser fighters in a single stroke. Blood sprayed high, a scarlet fountain against the golden morning sun. The crowd gasped then erupted into wild cheers.
"The Bloody Fang wastes no time!" Callidus thundered. "Two down in a heartbeat!"
Across the arena, a lithe woman in violet silks spun through blades, her daggers flashing like lightning. She severed tendons, dropped her foes screaming, then danced away before their bodies hit the ground.
"Velira the Shadowdancer!" the announcer cried. "Watch her hands, or you will not live to see them again!"
The first round was no contest for the weak. The sand turned dark with blood. The roar of the crowd swelled, drowning out the wails of the dying.
And then silence fell again, sudden and sharp.
Because one of the Top Five had moved.
Doran Veyth, the Iron Tempest, towered above his foes like a mountain of rage. His hammer, taller than most men, was wreathed in crackling arcs of stormlight.
A challenger screamed and lunged at him.
Doran didn't swing. He breathed. The air itself howled.
And when he finally moved, the hammer fell like judgment.
The ground cratered. Flesh and steel alike were pulverized into pulp. The crowd leapt to their feet, voices breaking into manic roars.
"The Iron Tempest shakes the very earth! None may stand against his storm!" Callidus bellowed, his throat raw.
Not to be outdone, Selvara Moongrace, the Blade Dancer, descended upon three opponents at once. Her twin sabers shimmered under the sun, arcs of silver slicing in impossible patterns.
One heartbeat they were alive.
The next their throats bloomed red, their corpses collapsing in silence.
Selvara twirled, her sabers crossing before her chest in a flawless salute. The nobles rose, showering her in cries of admiration.
"She doesn't fight," one whispered, breathless. "She performs."
An arrow whistled through the dust. Then another. Then another.
Each one found a throat.
Ilyra Fencrest, the Silent Huntress, stood at the edge of the chaos, her bowstring a blur. None saw her move, none heard her footsteps. But the bodies piled like offerings before her.
And then Vaelor Kynar, the Crimson Monk, finally stepped into the fray. Barefoot, robes trailing, fists blazing with scarlet flame.
A soldier roared and charged him with a spear.
Vaelor caught it with two fingers. The spear ignited, burning to ash in an instant.
His other hand lashed forward. The man's chest caved in, his body flung back like a broken doll.
The crowd shrieked in awe.
"The Top Five have claimed the field!" Callidus thundered, his voice cracking under the madness of the spectacle. "Behold the pillars of our Empire! Who among these challengers dares stand against them?"
And through it all Rigorus stood at the edge of the sand. Calm. Silent. Watching.
Not moving. Not yet.
But the way his silver hair caught the sun, the faint whisper of a halo flickering behind him already, people were whispering.
Already, the name Draeven was stirring in their throats.