The wind howled through the desolate battlefield, carrying the scent of ice and blood.
The air was thick with the tension of the impending clash. Silence tightened—then the world twisted. Glass collapsed into weight.
The Mirror Dimension fractured, birthing the Gravity Dimension.
They arrived together.
Rin stood tall, unshaken, posture regal despite the invisible pull grinding the field flatter with every breath.
Opposite him, Arlen Vael, the kid who just broke through his limit, stood with a smile.
Not arrogance, but determination. Blue eyes steady, glinting with excitement, his fingers twitching in anticipation. No fear left to burn.
This time, Arlen was different.
His face bore no emotion, but the depths of his resolve burned with an intensity that transcended words. He had touched death and stepped back. What once trembled in him had frozen into conviction.
The air grew heavy as Rin's voice cut through the tension, low and exact. "It seems like the gravity here would increase over time so are you ready to dance?." His fingers twitched, his blade was out and the air around them seemed to warp, as if responding to his power.
His blade angled, cold mist drawing a line through the pressure-thick air.
Arlen met his gaze.
> "My mana may fall short," he said evenly, "but i would compensate with the powe of my will"
The dimension echoed, the ground beneath their feet trembled. Arlen spread his hands and then, in an instant, his ice petals began to form around him.
Then Rin said it's seems you are ready. Then once again, LET'S DANCE."
The ground cracked. Frostlight flared.
With a snap of his fingers, the field around them seemed to surround with ice petals- not soft, not frail, but razors born of will. The very air seemed to shrink, to curl in on itself, as if the universe itself feared the power Arlen wielded.
Thousands—no, millions—formed and began to orbit in quiet precision, moonlit and translucent, their paths mapping a rhythm only Arlen could hear.
Arlen kept on creating petals. His mind flashed back to the countless battles he had fought, to the teachings of his family, and to the unwavering pride that had shaped him into the man he was today. Fear was an illusion, a fleeting sensation. He had learned long ago how to master it, how to push past the inner tremors that came with every fight.
He breathed once, steady; his voice was a thread through winter.
> "Hyōka."
The sky fractured into frost.
A tidal bloom rose, scattering like stars—petals opening, folding, layering into veils and spirals that turned the battlefield into a living constellation of blades that scattered in the wind like a tidal wave of deadly beauty. The petals glowed with a cold, moon light, and in that instant, Arlen was no longer just a kid. He was a storm—a force of nature, his ice unfurled with a grace that only he could command.
Rin's eyes widened not in shock,but there was no time for words.
His petals moved with an uncanny precision, swirling around Rin like a million razors. Each petal gleamed with lethal intent, cutting through the very air, aimed directly at his foe.
The chosen one's powers began to channel to his blade, and from a swing, an avalanche stormed towards Arlen. The frozen edge that Rin conjured was defended and dispelled by the overwhelming force of Arlen's resolve.
The petals tore through the avalanche. Ice tore against ice. The tide unstitched into glittering dust; petals re-angled in the same breath, flowing and cutting down everything in its path, each fragment of the frost petals like a harbinger of death.
Arlen recoiled, his face contorted in frustration, but his petals couldn't hold rin at bay.
Rin moved with fluid grace, his strikes fast and precise, each one landing with the precision of a master.
The battle seemed to stretch on forever, with Rin.
But no matter how much power Rin displayed, Arlen was unshaken, his mind clear, his soul unclouded by the terror that his opponent accidentally imposed.
Arlen slid back, boots carving furrows. Even this density…
Before the thought finished, Rin was already at his flank—palm to ribs, knee to diaphragm, a twist that sent him pinwheeling through the haze. Every strike clean. Every choice final.
Still, Arlen rose. Blood traced his lip, resolve burned higher.
He lifted his sword and the petals answered—tightening into a sphere around Rin, then collapsing inward in a single synchronized breath.
Impact swallowed the silhouette. Ice split. Stone screamed. Mist rolled.
Arlen's chest heaved.
> "Did I—"
A voice behind him, calm and close:
> "Too slow."
He turned.
Rin stood there amidst the falling petals, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths, untouched with his blade drawn; the figure that had shattered was nothing but an afterimage burning off the air.
> "You've grown," Rin said, cool amusement threading the words. "Don't die too soon."
The gravity deepened; frost spiraled.
Far off, Other participants were nearby, wounded by the gravity, camping or in combat, but still fighting while watching Rin and Arlen inorder to ambush the last one standing among them. other participants just hunched behind broken ridges—watching, waiting, too spent to intervene and too afraid to blink.
Rin advanced, aura a steady, sovereign chill.
Arlen stepped to meet him; the petals fanned wide, then narrowed—shields one instant, stepping stones the next, then ribbons of edge that curved on thought alone.
Rin cut across their paths; ice spines heaved out of the ground to close his angles, corridors narrowing to a single lethal line.
Arlen's petals flowed—sliding into the gaps, layering into moving walls that turned and re-turned, edges kissing edges until whole barrages unraveled. A veil became a spear, a spear dissolved into a net, the net collapsed into a spiraling crown that rode the wind like a silent storm.
For every stroke Rin set, Arlen found a countershape.
For every thousand petals Arlen commanded, Rin erased ten thousand with economy and poise—one step here, a small pivot there, a single parry that sent a sheet of blades ricocheting back through their own wake.
No names. No declarations.
Only craft.
Two prodigies that have worked hard to attain power.
Two unbending wills.
A field groaning under gods while gravity pressed lower, lower.
Arlen's breath frosted in short clouds. The petals thinned, then multiplied again—finer, faster, a snow of knives that obeyed his eyes. They curved around his wrist, rippled off his shoulder, reassembled mid-flight into lattices that bit through rising spikes and folded into a revolving bloom that traveled ahead of him like a mobile bastion.
Rin slipped through the seams as if they had been left for him, answering precision with inevitability—shoulder brush, hip turn, blade half-drawn and sheathed again in the same heartbeat, the wake alone enough to shear a curtain of petals into silver rain.
Rin advanced, imposing. His power radiating dominance—cold, royalty and elegance.
Rin unleashed an enormous frozen fang dragon. Arlen's eyes narrow. He calls forth Hyōka—his ice—its petals scattering like white crystal cherry blossoms in a winter wind. The blades dance around him in shimmering arcs. He moves with precise steps, each motion measured, as petals fly forward to shield himself from Rin's destructive attack.
Rin swinged his blade and walls of ice thorns moved in the likely angles that Arlen would jump to evade the disaster
The attack approached at insane speeds making Arlen surprised when he tried to jump away from the incoming destruction
The blades carve through the air, slicing Ice Thorns with pinpoint accuracy. Arlen's blade became petal after petal, wall after wall of petals, forcing Rin to block and adapt while attacking. Each petal is a promise: a reminder that Arlen's strength lies not only in his ice, but in his mastery of control and will power.
Neither yielded.
The petals kept learning.
Rin kept ending every lesson.
Codex Record: The Gravity Dimension
> "A cradle of weight and silence, forged by the roots of the World Tree — where every step measures resolve, and every breath carries the burden of kings."
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Origin
Born from the World Tree of Sylvanyr-one among the countless realms forged through her ancient will The Gravity Dimension was not crafted for mortals — but for judgment.
It is one of the 12 Dimension currently used as Trial Realms , a plane woven to test the will of those who dare ascend.
Unlike the radiant expanse of the Sky Realm or the shimmering serenity of the Mirror Dimension, this one bears the mark of solemn restraint.
Its gravity increases with the ticking of time — a trial not of endurance alone, but of growth beneath pressure. Every heartbeat deepens the pull, every moment demands more strength, until only those with unwavering will remain standing.
---
Landscape
The terrain is barren yet monumental, a field of fractured stone and half-buried ruins — remnants of civilizations crushed by their own ambition.
Broken monoliths, tilted archways, and collapsed sanctuaries lie scattered across plains where the horizon bows under unseen weight.
Each slab bears Sylvanyr sigils — frozen in pale silver, glimmering faintly as though whispering echoes of past trials.
The ground itself groans, spiderwebbed with cracks from ancient collapses. Pools of condensed starlight float just above the earth, warping slightly under invisible force, marking the flow of gravity streams that pulse like veins through the realm.
Where the gravity is strongest, time distorts, light bends, and dust hangs motionless — suspended mid-air like frozen rain.
The sky? A dim canopy of shifting gray and violet, never still, its clouds dragged in slow circles by the realm's pull. No sun, no moon — only the constant hum of pressure, and the faint shimmer of celestial dust caught in orbit.
---
⚙️ Nature of the Trial
This dimension does not forgive the weak.
It compounds resistance with weight, turning air into lead and earth into chains.
Movements slow. Breathing labors. Mana itself feels heavy, thickened by invisible mass.
To cast within this plane is to fight the world itself.
Each spell strains under drag; each sword swing must defy a crushing sky.
But with hardship comes clarity — for the Gravity Dimension rewards control.
Those who learn to balance body and spirit beneath its pressure can channel denser mana, craft compressed techniques, and move with precision few can rival.
Thus, many Sylvanyr warriors view this realm not as punishment — but as pilgrimage. To rise here is to prove that one's will outweighs the world.
---
🌿 Connection to the World Tree
At the realm's deepest heart lies a root of the World Tree, wrapped in glowing chains of light — a relic from creation.
It is said that each of the Twelve Dimensions draws from a branch or root, representing one aspect of existence.
The Gravity Dimension reflects Burden and Ascension — the weight of responsibility, and the strength to rise beneath it.
When the trials are passed, the root blooms momentarily — shedding grains of stellar sap, rare crystallized mana that amplifies one's gravitational control and resilience.
---
🕯️ Codex Annotation
> "Many enter seeking glory. Most are pressed into dust.
But those who walk out beneath doubled gravity wear the calm of true kings."