"Hey!
Why did you turn off the TV, Grandpa?" asked Roke, with his white hair and blue eyes, clutching the remote tightly on his black sofa.
"Because that's enough, Roke. This Record of the Gods is going to hold us up."
"Stop staring at that divine movie and let's get to the tournament before we're late," the old man grumbled, busy picking out an outfit from the wardrobe.
"But it was just getting good!" He said, a look on his face that shouted he wanted to watch that record until the end.
"You want to be a hero like Rick, right?" Grandpa asked smiling.
Roke looked away without saying a word.
But then, a moment later.
When he opened his CEF status bar.
He looked at his CEF: 50/50.
"But everyone my age, Grandpa, has a higher CEF than mine," Roke shot back, clenching his fist with great force.
His grandfather, noticing how down Roke was, said, "To each their own time, little man."
"But for now, learn from the best, my boy," the old man said, ruffling his hair.
"Whoops, then let's go, Gramps! We can't afford a penalty for showing up late to the Chosen Ones' Tournament!" Roke cried out, swinging his bag onto his back and dashing toward the door.
Roke turned the knob and headed out with his grandfather. The city was a mirror of its God: a town where everyone adored sleeping and staying home, but most of all, loathed hard work.
While Roke and his grandpa made their way, the crowd flocking to the tournament whispered among themselves.
"That brat surely isn't one of ours; he's far too bubbly, and he looks freaky with that white hair."
A kid nearby stared Roke down with a mocking look, as if saying, "You don't belong here."
Roke looked down and trudged along until they reached the VIP section. His grandfather was a regular guest there, allowed to watch the tournament from a high vantage point where no one could get in his way.
Before him lay a giant arena, tiled in ceramic, with enough seats to fit more than a thousand people.
Two competitors were close by, powering up their CEFs; they shimmered with a white flow just like Rick's. Roke stared, fascinated by it all.
They were sparring as a warmup, moving at a speed that was still difficult for Roke to track.
"Man, Grandpa, I still can't see them," Roke commented while trying to follow the fight.
"Then train your vision. Pay attention and feel their CEF if you want to level up," his grandfather said, his eyes locked on the match.
Then, the announcer arrived.
"Welcome, welcome… But, man, I'm so tired. I don't even know why Acedia called me here," the announcer said, yawning.
"Well, let's get down to business, to this Tournament of the Chosen… As we already know, the replacement for the last fallen hero will emerge from among these wonderful Rank A, S, or SS fighters…
Whatever, just don't die out there, guys. Don't make me come down there to clean up the arena." He introduced them, looking half-asleep.
"And don't forget," he continued.
"A new legend might be right here, just like these five heroes." The announcer said, pointing to the statues.
Then, another person in charge entered with slow, dragging steps, saying: "I'm not looking to waste my breath, so let's get to the draw. Eyes on the screen."
A giant screen slowly ascended, displaying every fighter signed up for the tournament.
Then Roke shouted: "What? Is that… Sevin?"
The old man turned to Roke and started laughing: "You two are best friends and you didn't even know he reached Rank A?"
"Oh, give me a break!" He said, his face turning red.
But, just as the announcer was about to call the first competitors.
Two orbs of black fire appeared, blowing the arena apart and sending everything flying. Everyone was frozen in horror.
Even the lazy mob began to scramble away without a backward glance, shoving one another in the rush to escape
But the old man remained still, his hands trembling as he whispered: "This… isn't CEF. Black CEF… it doesn't exist."
Roke, by his side, looked down at the ground.
The announcer, the very same one who had been yawning just seconds ago, lay in the arena, dead.
Then it hit Roke: who was still in the arena.
He prepared to break free from his grandfather's grip to find Sevin.
Right then, five men in blue masks appeared, each marked with a black number: 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.
One of them, the man marked with the number 3, stepped out from the group.
"Don't you dare try to leave... unless you want to find out what death tastes like," he said, drawing a knife and leveling it at the crowd.
Yet Roke pulled his hand free anyway. His grandfather tried to go after him, but he just couldn't.
Right then, it hit him, his legs were too old to follow.
Meanwhile, Roke rushed down the stairs, desperate to find Sevin.
Suddenly, one of the masked men flickered in front of Roke like a ghost, stopping him dead in his tracks and blocking his path.
Roke seized up with terror, his legs shaking uncontrollably.
The man behind the mask let out a boisterous laugh: "Oh, you little brat, were you trying to run away?"