In the vast Empyrean Colosseum that resembled paradise, shrouded in endless white fog, the seven realms of the Divine Empyrean Palace sat in silence within their respective towers, their gazes fixed upon the arena below.
The colosseum itself was perfectly circular, ringed at equal intervals by seven majestic towers, each one representing a realm.
High atop each tower rose a grand throne platform where the realm's sovereign sat, their banner rippling in the wind behind them. Far below, tiered seats filled with the realm's citizens, all watching intently, ready to cheer their champions.
Within the Divine Empyrean Palace, these seven realms formed a strict hierarchy of power: the stronger you were, the higher you stood.
At the summit reigned the Golden Peak Realm, unchallenged pinnacle of might, its tower soaring proudly above all others.
At the very bottom languished the Skylit Realm, its tower starkly distinct, smaller, humbler, and visibly out of place among the lofty structures that overshadowed it.
This rigid order was reset each year through the annual Empyrean Dominion Trial, a brutal tournament that crowned the strongest and reshuffled the realms' standings.
For years, Golden Peak had held the top spot without fail.
Now, Alistair Rehn, the newly ascended leader of the Skylit Realm, sat motionless on his throne, his sharp green eyes locked on the arena.
An elder with flowing white hair and a matching beard drifted into the center of the sky, hovering before the gathered crowd.
His voice carried clearly across the colosseum:
"We are all astonished to see the Skylit Realm, the perennial weakest, a realm that has never once claimed victory in the Dominion Trial, somehow reach the finals…"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd and countless gaze shifted toward Alistair. He remained utterly still, his expression unreadable, giving nothing away.
The elder continued with a faint note of intrigue in his tone. "This must surely stem from the recent change in leadership. And so, in the final match of the day, one that will decide whether a realm rises, falls, or stays exactly where it is, the formidable warriors of the Star Haven Realm, fourth among the upper realms for four straight years, shall face the Skylit Realm."
He paused, letting the words hang.
"Who will claim victory?!"
The crowd erupted.
"Star Haven!"
"Star Haven!"
"Star Haven!"
"Star Haven!"
Alistair remained composed, his fingers idly turning the silver ring on his hand, expression calm and distant as though the roaring crowd barely existed.
The elder raised one hand toward the massive arena gates.
"It appears the entire colosseum is convinced that Star Haven's victory is all but assured against the Skylit Realm. Very well, let us welcome the champion who will seal Star Haven's triumph: Jeffer Marstin!"
The gates groaned open.
A tall, proud young man shot into the sky on currents of spiritual energy, then descended to the center of the arena in a single graceful arc. He touched down lightly, lips curling into a confident, almost mocking smirk.
The Star Haven stands exploded.
"Jeffer!"
"Jeffer!"
"Jeffer!"
The chants thundered, rhythmic and certain.
Behind Alistair's throne, a blonde, young lady approached quietly, balancing a delicate silver plate of warm cookies. She offered a small, knowing smile.
"They certainly have their chant down to an art, don't they, Lord Alistair…?"
He glanced at her, reached out to select a cookie, and bit into it with the same unruffled calm he'd been wearing.
The elder's voice rang out again.
"And now, another new warrior of the Skylit Realm… Regan Howser!"
Jeffer let out a low, derisive scoff as Regan stepped through the gates, not flying, not soaring, but walking. Plainly, steadily, like any ordinary man entering an ordinary field.
'He doesn't even know how to fly?' Jeffer thought, amusement twisting into disdain.
Murmurs rippled through the stands.
"See? Skylit Realm really is bottom-tier in cultivation."
"They must have all failed miserably during the Martial & Spiritual Trial."
"Pathetic. A realm full of weaklings. I still can't fathom how they even reached the finals."
The gossip spread, while Regan continued forward without so much as a glance at the jeering crowd.
He ascended the wide stone steps to the arena floor with calm, then stopped, standing directly opposite Jeffer, hands loose at his sides, gaze steady.
The elder's voice boomed once more, cutting through the noise.
"Star Haven versus Skylit Realm! Let the match… begin!"
The instant the elder withdrew from the center, Jeffer's lips twisted into a victorious sneer.
With a flick of his wrist, six jet-black nails, each coated in pulsing spiritual aura, shot forward like deadly arrows, aimed straight at Regan.
However, they never reached him.
The nails halted abruptly, quivering in midair mere inches from Regan's torso, suspended as though caught in something invisible.
Regan tilted his head slightly and let out a soft, almost pitying scoff. His eyes met Jeffer's.
"Was that supposed to defeat me? Such childish tricks."
Jeffer's smug expression shattered. His jaw tightened, veins standing out along his neck.
"Don't get arrogant!" he snarled.
He thrust both hands forward, channeling a violent surge of energy into the air. The spiritual aura around the nails flared brighter, writhing as he poured every ounce of will into forcing them onward.
They didn't budge.
A stunned hush fell over the colosseum, broken only by scattered whispers that quickly grew into a wave.
"That's… Jeffer's Soul-Pinning Art. Once those spikes connect, they seal your spiritual energy completely, lock it down so you can't even circulate qi."
"Only cultivators above his C-rank ever break free from it."
"Wait… if Regan Howser stopped them cold like that… doesn't that mean he's above C-rank?"
All the spectators in Star Haven looked at each other, immediately uncomfortable.
Confidence that had been absolute moments ago now frayed at the edges.
High on the throne platform, Silas Valehart, ruler of Star Haven, leaned forward, knuckles white against the armrests.
For the first time that day, genuine worry carved deep lines into his otherwise composed features.
In the arena below, Jeffer's breathing grew ragged, sweat beading on his brow as he strained against the impossible stillness of his own technique.
'What's going on?' Jeffer's mind reeled. 'Why won't they move?'