The majority of the population, from toddlers to grandmothers, swarmed the arena like a pack of wolves. Cries of excitement, joy, and disappointment sounded all over the place when the fighters engaged in arduous battle.
The fighters poured their heart and soul into each fight to impress the king who graced them with his presence. If I do well, I might be promoted. Maybe I will meet the king. Such thoughts ran through their minds every time they were in the spotlight.
The hopes of one such warrior were extinguished after being severely wounded by his opponent. Ink-red blood poured from his mouth as he suffered a chest injury. He sprawled on the floor, his pupils dilating in disbelief. The level difference was immense and he would've never imagined such a scenario.
"BOOOOooo! BOOOOOoo!" The agitated crowd expressed their feelings toward the fallen warrior. He was a disappointment, providing no entertainment. Thus he was dragged away from the ring.
"Warrior So's powers are immense! He easily crushed his opponent!" A short, skinny man with grey hair announced at the top of his lungs—the arena's master of ceremonies. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, is time for the final confrontation. Introduced to you are two great soldiers with strength surpassing that of ordinary men. Under the spotlight, I call Warrior Boh and Warrior Jon!"
His voice trembled with anticipation as he galloped off the stage.
Hypnotic drumming sounded. Two tall, buff, scarring-looking, dark men walked from the lower stands, each followed by a crew of three. They danced and sang to the hypnotic sound, held traditional amulets high in the sky, and muttered incantations. Warrior Boh showed his amulet to the people while being doused with green liquid by one of his crew. Meanwhile, Warrior Jon stretched, preparing for the fight. To prepare, he vibrated in trance to the ear-deafening beat.
"Brother, Brother!" Seated in the royal lodge of the arena, Sol excitedly called out to Rachid. "What is he doing? Why is he wet? What are those amulets and bracelets he is wearing? Why—"
She vomited questions, one after another, giving Rachid no time to answer.
"Those bracelets and amulets are known as Gris-gris." Rachid smiled dotingly at her, patient with her curiosity in a way he was with no one else. "They help warriors connect with the spirits of nature, thus achieving highest concentration. Amulets, bracelets, and water are the mediums being used to achieve such a connection. At first, it seems pointless. However, as the fight drags on, the most connected one wins."
Sol trembled, her eyes wide and vague. She had heard about spirits of nature but never had she thought they were so important.
"But brother," she pressed, her voice high-pitched with excitement and confusion, "what exactly are these spirits? And why do some warriors seem so much stronger than others? Is it just the Gris-gris?"
Rachid paused, considering how to explain something so fundamental to someone so young. He glanced around to ensure no one was listening too closely—such knowledge was not always meant for public discussion—then leaned closer to his sister.
"Sister, you know how in your sword lessons, your instructor talks about levels of mastery?"
Sol nodded eagerly.
"The spiritual path is similar, but far more complex." Rachid's voice took on the tone of a teacher, something he rarely had opportunity to be. "In all of Nubia, there exists what the ancient texts call the Mystic Hierarchy. Different kingdoms follow different routes, but the foundation is universal."
"What do you mean?"
"Think of it like a great tower reaching toward the heavens," Rachid explained. "At the bottom—Tier Zero—are the Disconnected. Ordinary people like farmers, servants. They have no spiritual connection, no mystic power. They live and die within the physical world alone, never knowing that everything they experience was decided in realms they cannot see."
He gestured toward the warriors below.
"But some people—through training, initiation, and spiritual discipline—begin to climb that tower. They become Tier One: the Initiated. In Mura, we focus primarily on the Warrior Route, though other kingdoms emphasize different paths."
"Like what?" Sol asked, fascinated.
"Gold Land emphasizes the Merchant Route—influence through wealth, networks, subtle manipulation. Ankh follows the Priest Route—communion with ancestors, spiritual wisdom, divine connection. Ace Kingdom walks the Scholar Route—knowledge, alchemy, understanding the laws that govern reality. Each route leads upward through the same tiers, but through different means."
Rachid pointed to the warriors preparing below.
"These men you see—Warrior Boh and Warrior Jon—they are both Tier One: Initiated. Within Tier One, there are three grades. First Grade Novices can barely sense spirits. Second Grade can communicate through mediums. Third Grade—where these warriors likely are—can have brief glimpses into the Dream Cycle, the lowest layer of the Astral Planes."
"Tier One?" Sol repeated. "Then there are higher tiers?"
"Eight tiers in total," Rachid confirmed, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Tier Zero: Disconnected. Tier One: Initiated. Tier Two: Apprentice. Tier Three: Adept. Tier Four: Elite. Tier Five: Master. Tier Six: Enlightened. Tier Seven: Grand. And Tier Eight: Eternal—though that last one is purely mythical. Maybe three people in all of Nubia's history."
He leaned back, his eyes tracking the warriors below.
"Each tier represents a fundamental transformation, not just an increase in power. And within each tier, there are three grades—first, second, and third. Someone at Third Grade of Tier One is far more powerful than someone at First Grade of the same tier."
Sol absorbed this, her young mind struggling with the scale. "But these warriors... they seem so powerful already."
"They are," Rachid acknowledged. "A Third Grade Tier One warrior can defeat 5 to 6 ordinary men. Their senses are sharper, their bodies more resilient, they can channel spiritual energy through their Gris-gris. But they still need constant guidance from their masters, still require external tools to fully access their power. They're like... like children who've just learned to walk. Capable, but unstable. Powerful, but limited."
"And Father?" Sol asked quietly. "What tier is Father?"
Rachid's expression became unreadable. "Father is... at least Tier Four: Elite, possibly Tier Five: Master. Some whisper he might even be approaching Tier Six. At that level, warriors don't just face armies—they can alter the very cycles that determine which armies will win. They influence reality itself."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"That's why he is king. Not just because of blood, but because his spiritual power is absolute within Mura. At Tier Four or Five, he exists partially in the Astral Planes even while walking in the physical world. He can see threats before they manifest, negotiate with powerful entities, bend fate to his will."
Sol absorbed this information, her young mind trying to comprehend the implications.
"And General Tora?"
"Also very high," Rachid admitted. "Likely Second or Third Grade of Tier Four. That's why Father acknowledges him—Tora is one of the few who could actually fight Father and survive more than seconds, even if he couldn't win. The gap between grades is vast, but the gap between tiers..." He shook his head. "Insurmountable without years of advancement."
"What about you, brother?" Sol asked innocently.
The question hit Rachid like a physical blow. His expression closed off immediately.
"I am... Tier Zero. Disconnected." The admission came quietly, painfully. "I've never undergone proper initiation on any route. Father believes I lack the warrior spirit necessary for Mura's path, and he forbids me from pursuing other routes. So I remain blind to the Astral Planes, unable to perceive what shapes our world."
Sol grabbed his hand, her small fingers squeezing his. "You're smart though. Smarter than everyone. That should count for something."
Rachid smiled sadly. "Intelligence without spiritual sight is like... like having maps to a country you can never visit. I can theorize, analyze, deduce—but I cannot see. Cannot touch the forces that truly determine fate."
Their conversation was interrupted by General Tora's voice.
"You seem to know a lot about the warrior path, young man." Tora praised, having overheard their discussion. "Who do you think will win, Rachid?"
Calm and collected, Rachid thoroughly observed both fighters while muttering to himself. "To reach the final confrontation, their grade within Tier One should be similar—likely both Third Grade. So this comes down not to raw power, but to mastery of that power. Spiritual connection. Resolve."
He studied them with analytical eyes—looking not just at their physical forms but at the subtle signs of their spiritual state: the depth of their trance, the flow of their movements, how naturally their Gris-gris responded to them.
"Warrior Jon will be the victor," Rachid announced with assurance. "His Gris-gris connection doesn't need to be showcased because he's already fully immersed in the Dream Cycle's edge. Warrior Boh is performing—trying to impress, trying to project power outward. But Jon... Jon has already gone inward. That's the difference between someone still learning Third Grade and someone who's mastered it."
"Interesting," Tora said, genuinely impressed. "You may be Tier Zero, but you understand Tier One warriors better than some Tier Two practitioners. Let us watch."
The crowd quieted. The warriors faced each other. The air was tense and the sun shone brightly on Boh and Jon. They were the focus of all attention.
"AAAAGHH!" Boh sprang like a panther toward Jon, knives in his hands. Fearless, Jon marched forward, slashing his sword. Screech! The weapons violently clashed, sparks flying in the air. The clash resulted in a draw, both warriors retreating.
Jon didn't stall, whistling his sword forward with great strength. Boh didn't wait for it to land but spun to the right. The crowd cheered, impressed by his speed. Having ducked to the side of the blade, Boh stabbed forward at the throat. To escape the thrust, Jon had to roll on his back.
Jon flared with anger. It was supposed to be a spar, but Boh had aimed to kill him. His eyes turned red—a sign his spiritual energy was surging beyond normal Third Grade limits. He charged at Boh, swinging forth and back. Boh dodged at first, but the backswing caught him. He met it with daggers but was sent staggering by his opponent's suddenly amplified strength. The blow had torn his fabric apart and come within inches of flesh. Blood lust erupted as Jon grasped his sword with both hands, fully channeling his Gris-gris connection.
Uncertainty and fear flickered in Boh's pupils at the sight of Jon's transformed state. He shook his head, regained focus, then sprang toward his opponent. Cling! Cling! Cling! The weapons clashed time and time again until both warriors panted from fatigue.
Boh aimed to finish with the next cut. He threw an overhand slash aiming for Jon's head. However, he lost momentum—not from physical exhaustion, but from something more subtle. It was as if invisible threads had wrapped around his limbs, his spiritual energy suddenly disrupted. His body wouldn't move the way he commanded it to move.
Surprised by Boh's sudden paralysis, Jon easily parried. He proceeded to press his sword against Boh's neck. "Your win," Boh gasped, accepting defeat.
The crowd cheered, howled, and sang when Jon lifted his hand in a sign of victory. The fight hadn't been easy, but he'd won through superior spiritual mastery.
"Ladies and gentlemen, more noise for our victor, Jon!" the skinny announcer encouraged the crowd to howl even louder. The frantic atmosphere carried on for several minutes.
"Your observation was right!" Tora praised Rachid, who'd predicted the victor.
"You are too kind, sir. I was just applying what I've read," Rachid demurred.
"Luck and books don't explain what you saw." Tora chuckled. "Normal people didn't notice it because it happened in the Astral Planes as much as the physical. The loss in momentum wasn't fatigue—it was Jon's Gris-gris disrupting Boh's spiritual energy flow at the crucial moment. That's a technique that only works when you've truly mastered Third Grade of Tier One—when your connection to the Dream Cycle is so stable that spirits respond to your will almost unconsciously."
Tora turned to King Bakar, knowing the true purpose of this visit.
"Your Grace, are you satisfied?"
"Eleven duels took place," Bakar said, his voice betraying interest. "What tier and grade were they?"
"All Tier One, Third Grade, Your Grace," Tora said confidently. "The foundation of any spiritual army—fully initiated warriors who've mastered the basics of astral connection."
It was only after Bakar smirked that Tora knew he was safe.
"They fight well for Third Grade Tier One," Bakar observed. "Some showed signs of approaching Tier Two—moments where they navigated the Dream Cycle for longer than Third Grade should allow. With proper masters guiding them through the Apprentice trials, they could advance." He smiled at Tora—a rare expression of genuine approval. "I am satisfied. I expect your higher-tier warriors to be even more formidable."
"They are, Your Grace," Tora confirmed, relief washing over him. "I have fifty warriors at Tier Two, various grades. Ten at Tier Three. And three at First Grade of Tier Four—Elite. For the campaign you're planning, they will more than suffice."
"Good." Bakar stood, the discussion clearly concluded in his mind. "Because where we're going, we'll need every advantage. "
Tora understood immediately.
"The warriors will be ready, Your Grace," Tora promised.
"They'd better be," Bakar replied. "Because this war will be won not just by the strongest army, but by whoever can influence the Astral Planes most effectively. Battles are decided in the Unseen before they're fought in the Seen. Remember that."
He strode from the arena, leaving Tora to contemplate the true nature of the coming conflict.
This wouldn't be just a war of kingdoms.
It would be a war fought across realms—where Tier Four Elites would clash in the Ethereal Drift while their armies battled below, where the outcome would be determined as much by spiritual mastery as by steel and tactics.