A month slid by in Sylvanyr, though to the wider cosmos it was little more than a fraction of a week. Time beneath the World Tree was a different tide, and those who lived within its branches were shaped by its rhythm. For Rin, that month was carved into silence, sweat, and a thousand repetitions until his control of ice had hardened to something more than brute force. He had not mastered it, not yet, but he had learned to bend it, coax it, make it answer instead of rebel. He was sharper than he had ever been—and hungrier.
The grand arena loomed like a cathedral rooted into eternity. Its walls were veins of crystal and bark, grown rather than built, glowing with the slow pulse of mana that ran through the entire kingdom. Above, lanterns of liquid starlight floated like moons, drifting across the vaulted canopy. Rows upon rows of seats overflowed with every stratum of Sylvanyr—royal heirs wrapped in silks, hardened veterans in steel, commoners craning their necks for a glimpse of the prodigies who would carry their banner into the Conflux. Even envoys from other planets watched from shadowed balconies, their eyes sharp with calculation.
At the arena's heart stood the hopefuls: two thousand students, each line led by a core candidate. Rose stood first, hair a crimson blaze against the blue-white light, the number 001 glowing faint on her wrist. Rin, silent and unreadable, stood behind her in the second line, marked as 002. Further down strutted Caelion, his pale hair arranged just so, his ice-plate armor gleaming like he thought himself a statue in the Hall of Heroes. His number gleamed lower, but his arrogance lifted his chin above the rest.
When Seraphina Sylvanyr rose, the world stilled.
The queen was a vision of winter incarnate—hair shimmering like frozen constellations, crown wrought of crystalline lilies, eyes that could silence storms or warm a kingdom. Her presence pressed against every chest, not suffocating but undeniable, like the first breath drawn on a mountain's peak.
"Children of Sylvanyr," she said, her voice soft as falling snow yet sharp enough to cut, "today begins the Conflux of Crowns. The branches of the World Tree stretch beyond stars, and so do our rivals. From this kingdom, twenty will go forth. No more. No less."
Silence rippled outward like frost across a windowpane.
"Each group will be cast into a battlefield spun by the Tree itself. Lava seas, ruined cities, silent voids. Survive. Endure. Triumph. When the dust settles, one from each shall stand."
Her gaze swept across the ranks, pausing for a fraction of a heartbeat when it brushed Rin, before moving on.
"The realms will shift every nine hours. No coward will camp. No parasite will snipe their way into honor. For three days, you will fight. Fail, and you will be forgotten."
Her hand rose, pale and steady. "Let the Conflux begin."
Silver runes blazed beneath their feet. One by one, the groups vanished in pillars of light, scattered across dimensions carved from the Tree's will. Rose's line dissolved into a ruined cityscape. Rin's thousand-strong group was dragged into a molten rift. Caelion opened his eyes to snow.
He smiled.
The Ice Dimension. His element. His comfort. His stage. Fate itself bent to him.
The tundra stretched endless, wind carving lines through snowdrifts, frost clinging to jagged ridges of black stone. Snow whipped sideways, a storm that stung the skin, but to him it was home. His boots sank into familiar crunch. The air itself obeyed.
Five figures approached through the gale, their presence pressing like weighted chains. Older students, each seasoned, each carrying an aura that marked them as S-rank prodigies in their own right. Their eyes burned with disdain.
"You think hiding behind Lady Rose makes you untouchable?" one spat, his blade already alive with lightning that cracked the storm.
"Your arrogance ends here," another sneered, gravity bending the snow at his feet until the earth groaned.
Caelion tilted his head. Their hatred was fuel. Their voices were cues. He smiled, slow, deliberate. Perfect.
They struck in unison.
The speedster blurred, vanishing into afterimages that laced the storm. The gravity user crushed the ground into sinkholes, air bending heavy. A conjurer loosed spectral wolves that bounded forward with fangs of pure frost. A sonic caster shrieked, vibration splitting icicles into deadly shards. The bruiser thundered across the snow, fists glowing like twin cannons.
Above, the World Tree wove their battle into living illusions that shimmered across the viewing screens in the grand arena. The crowd gasped as the clash unfolded.
Caelion moved like ink spilled across snow. His hand lifted and crystal condensed, drawing itself into a bow strung with threads of his breath. Frost bent to him eagerly, condensing into six arrows in an instant. He released.
The arrows sang. Two curved impossibly to catch the speedster's flank. One detonated midair, tearing the conjurer's wolves apart. Another shattered against the bruiser's knee, folding him with a roar. The fourth split into shards that silenced the sonic scream. The last tore through the gravity user's focus, scattering his concentration into harmless ripples.
Applause roared through the arena. Precision. Efficiency. Cold, merciless calculation.
Inside, Caelion's thoughts purred. Yes. Watch me. Believe me. All according to plan.
The speedster tried again, weaving faster. Caelion nocked a single arrow, drew, and released. The arrow froze the air in a corridor. The runner faltered mid-stride, calf locking into ice, and tumbled.
The gravity user slammed his palms down again, tripling the pull until even sound seemed to sink. Caelion bent as though unaffected, released two arrows that drilled his wrists to the ground, pinning him helpless.
The bruiser roared, charging again, fist crackling. Caelion let him come close, then whispered the arrow into being at point-blank. Frost burst inside the bruiser's throat, armor fracturing into shards as his body vanished.
The sonic caster screamed again—an arrow lodged in her throat silenced her mid-note. The conjurer tried one last desperate wave of wolves, but Caelion turned a circle, his arrows carving them into shards before they reached him.
One by one, the five disappeared, health bars drained, names flickering out from the dimension.
The grand arena erupted. Nobles surged to their feet, envoys leaned forward, voices rose in awe. Untouched. Undefeated. Brilliant.
But in the snow, the five reappeared nearby, armor whole. They didn't charge again. They bowed, slightly, then walked away. Not defeated. Dismissed.
Caelion smirked, bow lowering at his side. He spoke softly, words for himself alone.
"Good. The sheep believe the act. To fight without risk is genius. Why bleed when pawns can bleed for me? Why struggle when guile secures triumph?" He touched the bowstring idly, gaze distant, savoring. "Rose will burn herself proving strength. Rin will grind against numbers like a dull blade. And me? I will arrive untouched. Unbroken. All according to plan."
Snow swirled around him, an empty stage filled with silence.
In the grand arena, the crowd roared louder, fooled by spectacle. High above, the queen's gaze lingered—cool, unreadable. Rose's lips curved faintly, but she said nothing. The World Tree's spirit reclined lazily in her seat and laughed, soft enough only the queen heard.
They weren't fooled. But they let the boy have his performance.
Caelion's name blazed on the leaderboard. Full health. No wounds. His number gleamed bright. The audience roared. He bowed with the confidence of a man who thought the story belonged to him.
He whispered again, savoring the taste of victory only he believed genuine. "All according to plan."
And the Conflux rolled on.
Codex Record — The Ice Dimension
The Ice Dimension was born from the breath of the World Tree herself. In her vision, it was to be a sanctuary—a realm sculpted in eternal frost, a paradise where every child of Sylvanyr could walk untroubled, nurtured by the very element in their veins.
And for the royals, for those true heirs to the bloodline of winter, it is exactly that. To them, the cold is not an enemy but a familiar hymn. They stride across frozen plains without burden, their steps light even as gales howl sharp enough to strip flesh from lesser beings. Absolute zero—the limit of Earth's science—means nothing to a Sylvanyr royal. Their bodies carry an immunity so complete that this realm feels no different than a summer courtyard.
But the truth of Sylvanyr is more fractured than the World Tree foresaw. Not all carry the ice in their marrow. Main-landers—those born of mixed lines or weaker branches—suffer here. For them, each step in this dimension is a contest against the air itself. The cold gnaws constantly, demanding tribute in mana just to keep blood from freezing. A battle within every breath, a tax on every heartbeat.
The landscape amplifies this cruelty. Great glaciers rise like walls of shattered glass, rivers of ice stretch in endless mirrors, and snowstorms roll without warning, blotting vision to nothing. For the resistant, it is serene, almost beautiful: a place of clarity where the world's noise falls silent. For the unblessed, it is a labyrinth designed to exhaust, to starve, to remind them of what they lack.
Yet the World Tree does not erase her works. The Ice Dimension remains as she intended it: a paradise made permanent, though warped by truth into a test. In the Conflux, it serves both as haven and executioner. A battlefield where some fight only their enemies, and others must battle the air itself with every step.
Here, the frost does not kill indiscriminately. It chooses.