Duskfall felt different the moment Astra stepped into the streets. The tournament was in full swing now and multiple matches had already happened.
The city had always belonged to the night, but now it seemed to breathe—charged with an energy that had been building for months, thick enough that he could almost taste it. Anticipation clung to the air like something alive. The Springtime Advent Tournament had finally arrived. Glory waited for some. Ruin waited for many more. And somewhere between the two lay obscurity, quiet and unforgiving.
Warriors crowded the streets from every corner of the realms. Astra saw it in their eyes as he passed them—ambition sharpened by desperation, pride barely masking fear, the faint, dangerous belief that this might be the moment the world learned their name. He had once worn that same look.
High above the plazas and market districts, massive arcane screens shimmered into existence, suspended by unseen anchors of mana. Astra slowed, tilting his head as their crystalline surfaces flickered to life. Battles from years past unfolded in impossible clarity—legendary duels, mana colliding like storms, techniques so refined they bordered on sacrilege.
Missionaries crowded the streets, voices rising above the din as they proselytized the names of their gods. They had come from every corner of the realms, draped in sacred colors and sigils, preaching faith amid the press of steel and ambition.
The Church of Knowledge moved quietly among the crowds, offering free food and carefully bound books. They dispensed history as readily as bread—records of the realm, chronicles of past tournaments, annotated treatises meant to educate rather than convert.
By contrast, the Church of War was anything but restrained. Emboldened by the Guild of War's patronage, its zealots roared sermons of blood and glory, calling warriors to earn the War Father's favor through victory and carnage. Drums thundered as prayers were shouted skyward, and many listened—some in reverence, others in hunger most in disdain.
The Church of Illumination promised something gentler. Its clergy spoke of revelation and renewal, of a brighter dawn beyond suffering. They offered visions, whispered blessings, and assurances that endurance would be rewarded with light.
And they were far from alone.
Countless other faiths pressed into Duskfall—Faith's of the New Gods. Every belief sought a foothold, every god a voice.
Beyond the churches, organizations of every stripe moved through the city with equal intent. Some served the most holy seraphs, others the most vile of sins. All of them watched. Recorded. Evaluated.
And when they found someone promising—
They recruited.
Crowds huddled beneath the projections, voices rising as the displays shifted to prize announcements. Astra caught flashes of it as he passed—mountains of coin, sovereign-grade weapons, unique armors etched with living runes, rare artifacts whispered to carry wills of their own. He could feel the tension tighten around those watching. Riches and glory had a way of sharpening hunger into something ugly.
Commentators' voices rolled through the mana network overhead, dissecting victories and failures with reverent precision. Astra listened just long enough to recognize the tone—half worship, half warning. Champions were spoken of like scripture. Failures like cautionary tales.
As he moved deeper into the city, statues began to dominate the streets.
Champions stood frozen at nearly every turn, immortalized in stone and spell—an old tradition of the tournament. Astra paused before one without meaning to. It didn't matter who a victor had been, or what became of them afterward. To win at any rank was to be remembered forever. Those who had reached the summit of divinity were honored most of all, their statues said to carry lingering blessings woven into mana itself. The closer the statue stood to the central arena, the greater the legend it represented.
Astra knew the law well enough. Desecrate one, destroy one, even defile it by accident—and death would be the least of the punishment. Mana itself did not forgive such insults. Although these statues were well made, of a common rank three material the milk drop marble found in the depths of Duskfall, it would take considerable effort to destroy one.
The arcane displays shifted again overhead, flashing names and faces. Princes. Prodigies. Experts whose reputations preceded them like storms. Some Astra recognized instantly, spoken of with awe—or dread. Others he knew only through rumor and prestige, their legends half-forged by speculation alone. Each appearance sent ripples through the crowds: excitement, envy, unease, all tangled together.
The nobility arrived in force.
Astra watched as exotic mana vehicles thundered through streets and skies alike, their presence forcing crowds aside. The most ostentatious houses paraded ancient carriages drawn by rare and mythical beasts, wealth displayed without shame. Saharan delegates rode sun-scaled drakes, hides gleaming like forged gold. Envoys of Wai glided past in vessels sailing on rippling waves of liquid mana. The nobles of Snaer moved through the crowds in frost-forged armor etched with ancient runes, their breath misting despite the warmth of spring.
Duskfall felt like a tapestry stretched too tight—wealth, ambition, and danger woven so closely Astra doubted one could be pulled free without tearing the rest apart.
Then the arenas came into view.
They rose at the heart of the festival like monuments to excess and mastery. Vast coliseums of legend—some forged from seamless obsidian that drank in light, others woven from shifting constructs of mana that subtly rearranged themselves as Astra watched. A few hovered above the ground entirely, massive platforms suspended by roaring mana currents. Thick enchantments shimmered along their boundaries, layered densely enough to survive Rank Three combat.
The stands already overflowed with spectators, their collective voices merging into an electric hum that set the city's pulse.
Elsewhere, Astra glimpsed colossal training halls through open gates and fractured sightlines.
Pawns clashed in relentless drills, many still discovering the limits of their mana, sweat and steel colliding as they fought for control as much as victory. Squire-rank warriors moved with colder precision, bodies reinforced by hardened cores, techniques honed into tools meant to kill efficiently rather than impress.
Guild masters, noble instructors, and mercenary captains watched them all with discerning eyes. Astra recognized that look too—guidance offered sparingly, judgment given freely.
Beyond the arenas, the festival spilled into the streets themselves. Smaller duels erupted without warning. Friendly wagers sharpened into violence. Pride demanded satisfaction. Young warriors tested themselves beneath lantern-lit skies, mana flaring briefly before guards intervened or crowds roared approval.
Astra exhaled slowly.
Duskfall had become a crucible.
A battleground of ambition.
And as he walked among them—hidden in shadow, watching faces twisted by hope and hunger—Astra knew the truth they all shared, whether they admitted it or not:
This could be the moment that changes everything.
He chose to walk the city during the festivities. It might be his last week here. For all the bitterness of his upbringing, Duskfall held an inexplicable pull on him. The city was beautiful—majestic, even in its rot. Even in the ghettos, he had once found himself captivated by its rhythm, by the life clawing stubbornly forward.
He could have taken private transport with the other contestants, shuttled safely between House Shadow and the arenas. Instead, he walked—to watch, to learn, to breathe before the storm. A bodyguard followed at a distance: a Rank Three knight of House Shadow.
To some, it would have seemed beneath a Rank Three to guard a Rank One. That would have been true, had Astra been a commoner. He was not. He was House Shadow's champion, his fame already eclipsing even their Rank Three contenders. To the knight, a man of humble birth, the duty was an honor bordering on reverence.
They had met only briefly. The knight was to remain unseen unless needed—protection against assassination, abduction, or worse.
Rolling his shoulders, Astra wove Nightshroud around himself, letting shadow swallow his presence whole. His mastery had grown startlingly refined. Training under a talent like Vesperion—and instruction from a demigod such as Alistair—had reshaped him entirely. His masking now bordered Rank Two. Without dedicated investigative measures, Astra would pass unseen and unfelt.
I used to hide in these streets, he thought, avoiding duskguards and nobles, thieving like a rat.
Now he hid because he was the champion of a great house.
The irony almost made him smile.
Almost
He shifted his attention to the Coin's interface, letting the world around him fade as two unread messages surfaced before his eyes. One bore the sigil of the tournament officials. The other carried the shadowed seal of House Shadow.
Whatever amusement lingered in him vanished the moment he read them. In its place, something sharper took root.
The Pawn Division alone numbered over seventy-seven thousand Rank Ones.
An ocean of fighters, each of them hardened enough to have survived the regional trials and winter qualifiers simply to stand within Duskfall's walls. Most of them would never reach the main tournament. They would be fed instead into the early rounds—a merciless meat grinder of massive battle royales meant not to test skill, but to erode it. Combatants were forced to fight again and again, sometimes multiple times a day, until exhaustion claimed those who strength could not. Only the most brutal, the most unyielding, remained standing.
Normally, Astra would have been thrown into that grinder with the rest.
Normally.
But his life had long since parted ways with anything resembling normalcy.
House Shadow stood behind him.
And with that backing, he would not be made to claw through fodder simply to prove what others already knew.
The great guilds of the realms took turns hosting the tournament, each shaping it according to their own creed. This year, the honor belonged to the Guild of War servants of the Warfather. As expected, the coming battles promised to be harsher, bloodier, and unrelenting—combat stripped down to its rawest truth.
Even so, the ruling had been clear.
The guild of war overseeing the event, supported by the Houses that funded it, had deemed him too strong for the early rounds. He, along with eight others, had been seeded directly into the final sixty-four.
Astra's eyes lingered on the ranking.
Seventh.
That placement alone ensured his path would be anything but gentle. To reach the finals, he would have to cross blades with the second and third seeds.
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him.
So that was their intent—to force him into a collision with Dusk and Dawn.
His gaze slid down the list.
First seed: Aster Hunt.
Of course. The rumors surrounding her were enough to unsettle even veteran contenders—power vast, precise, and utterly unforgiving.
Second seed: Lucien Solaris, the Golden Prince himself.
Third: One of House Dusks princes, Arrats Xolotl a figure shrouded in secrecy. An illusionist, perhaps. A shadowmancer. Maybe something darker still. Little was known of him, save that he had been kept carefully hidden, a possible contender for the position of crown prince.
Astra felt his amusement darken.
Hunt.Dawn.Dusk.
The same houses. The same banners.
The very bloodlines that had conspired to wipe House Night from existence, leaving its heir to rot in obscurity, were now the ones standing between him and the summit.
"How ironic," he murmured, the words heavy with understanding.
He already knew what had to be done.
Win or lose, there would be no hiding anymore. His star magic. His lineage. His true position. If the realms insisted on setting him against the ashes of a past he did not even know, then the realms would be made to remember just exactly what it had tried to erase.
He felt it then—a slow, insidious curiosity threading through his veins.
What were they like, truly?How did they fight? How did they think?Did any of them already suspect who he was?
The thought of defeating them—of watching realization dawn too late—sent a pleasant chill through him.
The blessing of curiosity stirred, pulling him deeper into a part of himself he had never fully acknowledged.
Astra had never enjoyed bloodshed for its own sake. He believed in cause and effect, in purpose and consequence. But he loved the act of training, of fighting, of refining himself against worthy opposition. He loved competition. He loved chasing heights he could barely imagine reaching.
Now that love had sharpened into something closer to hunger.
To learn. To adapt. To overcome. To conquer.
Those impulses had always been there. The blessing merely stripped away his restraint. He was becoming something dangerous—almost a true battle addict, not unlike Vesper.
Astra exhaled slowly, eyes gleaming as he dismissed the Coin's interface.
Beyond him, Duskfall roared with celebration, unaware of what the coming battles would awaken.
And Astra smiled into the noise as he made his way toward one of the many arenas.
Calling them arenas hardly did them justice. Duskfall itself had been reshaped into a colossal stage for blood and glory, its streets and plazas surrendered to spectacle and violence.
Some battlegrounds had been raised within existing squares, their stones reinforced with layered arcane barriers meant to contain the carnage within. Others had been carved deep into the earth—vast pits lined with enchanted stone and ancient runic lattices designed to drink in excess mana before it could tear the city apart. High above, floating platforms drifted like suspended islands, hovering arenas where only the strongest dared to fight, their clashes visible from miles away.
And then there was the Midnight Colosseum.
Ancient. Monolithic. A relic of another age. It loomed like a scar upon the city's heart, reserved for the final rounds alone. Legends were forged there—and just as often, broken.
And the people—gods, the people.
They flooded the city in numbers too great to measure. Hundreds of thousands at first, then millions. Warriors, merchants, nobles, pilgrims, gamblers. The streets choked beneath the weight of bodies, voices, ambition. Duskfall, already a city of shadows and secrets, had been forced beyond its limits, stretched thin to accommodate the press of the realms.
Every realm was here.
Watching. Waiting. Betting.
With so many powerful figures gathered in one place, House Dusk had been forced to increase security tenfold. Even then, it was not truly enough—but no mortal, no rogue demigod, dared to lash out openly. Not here. Not in a city riddled with angels sworn to royal houses and devils bound to supreme demonic guilds and organizations.
If violence erupted, it was mortal violence—petty theft, bloodless brawls, quiet murders lost in the noise. And such things were… tolerated. What could be done, when hundreds of millions already lived within Duskfall's bounds, and now millions more had poured in?
Most of the crowd were Rank Ones and Twos. Some Rank Threes. House Dusk's mortal armies were vast beyond comprehension. They were a royal house of the realm—the High Kings of the Heart Dunes of Sahara, overlords of Duskfall itself. Their standing forces alone numbered near fifty million, largely Rank Two warriors. Their Rank Threes likely hovered between ten and fifteen million.
And that was merely their peace-time strength.
If need be, they could conscript more. Recruit more. Expand endlessly. But such efforts were costly, and unnecessary for a tournament—even one of this scale. So instead, they looked outward.
Guilds had been contracted. Mercenaries patrolled the streets with watchful eyes and hands never straying far from their hilts. Other noble houses had sent their own enforcers—Dune, Dawn, Shadow, Kadir, Luna, Solace, Steel. Great and Royal houses of the realm with simmilar armies, all reluctant to allow the festival to spiral into bloodshed before the tournament even began.
Yet none of them—none of them—could stop what stirred beneath the surface.
Because Astra was not the only one hiding.
There were divine beings here. He could see them. Barely. Enough to make his stomach twist.
The realization alone unsettled him. A mere Rank One—even a Rank Four demigod—should not have been able to perceive beings of Rank Five or Six, especially when they were actively masking their presence or using magics to hide. And yet Astra could. Not clearly. Not directly. But enough.
It had to be his connection to the divine.
The Cloak of Secrecy—Umbra's godhood.The Crown of the Stars—Noctis's godhood
Neither was truly his. Not yet. He held only a claim, a promise etched into fate. And yet their influence had already begun to bleed into him the day he obtained the right to them, strengthening him in subtle ways. He possessed rudimentary authority over the Sacred Realm the Kingdom of Stars—a scattered remnant of Noctis's fallen divine throne.
Even so, it should not have been enough. And it hadn't been.
And yet—
Silver, ethereal threads flickered at the edge of his vision. Threads laced with faint hints of gold.
Fate. Authority. Power.
They moved through the crowd disguised as ordinary people, but reality bent around them. The air shimmered where they passed. Their forms blurred, their movements slipping just beyond mortal perception. Astra had learned—brutally—not to stare. Not to follow the threads when they burned across his sight.
He had once glimpsed a single golden thread for less than a heartbeat.
It had cost him a full day of unconsciousness.
Astra had long realized that he had not see the Harbinger of Twisted Truths—but that devil had seen him. Worse, it had noticed the distortion around Astra's fate and acted upon it. Whether it had pierced the Cloak of Secrecy or merely sensed its absence, Astra did not know. Only that the Harbinger's affinity for fate made it… dangerous.
That was what frightened him most.
He knew Dawn.
He knew Dusk.
He knew Hunt.
He knew Shadow.
He even knew the Eternal Keeper of Knowledge.
But the Harbinger?
Ally or enemy—he had no idea.
Astra kept his gaze lowered, forcing himself not to look up, not to search rooftops or empty air for watchers unseen. The last time he had caught the attention of a divine being, the encounter had been… unpleasant.
And the last thing he needed now was another angel or devil who could see straight through him.
He exhaled sharply, steadying himself, and stepped into the shadowed mouth of a massive coliseum.
The roar of the city followed him inside.
The Midnight Colosseum was drowning in noise.
Astra stepped into the vast arena stands, the sheer scale of it momentarily taking his breath away. The structure loomed massive, carved from dark stone and inlaid with mana-reactive glyphs that flickered in the dim light. Tiered seating stretched high, crammed with spectators—nobles, warriors, commoners, and mystics alike. Even the lowest seats, far from the battle stage, were packed, a sea of faces illuminated by enchanted lanterns hovering above.
The match currently unfolding in the arena? Utterly forgettable.
Two Rank Ones, both clearly skilled—but not skilled enough.
Astra watched with mild disinterest as one of them, a young man in silver-trimmed robes, clumsily overextended on a thrust. His opponent, a woman with a heavy gauntlet on one arm, sidestepped in time to deliver a sluggish counterpunch that sent him sprawling. Predictable. Slow. Boring.
He exhaled through his nose, shifting his attention to the mana network.
A simple flick of his will, and the Regal Coin's interface bloomed across his vision, a translucent golden display outlining the tournament's schedule.
Final Rounds Begin: 15 Hours.
Rank Two Fights: 34 hours.
Rank Three Fights:58 hours.
Rank Four Fights: 82 hours.
With each passing day, the contestants would dwindle. The weak culled. The strong ascending.
By the time the Rank Four fights began, only a handful of warriors would remain—those at the pinnacle of mortal combat. The ones whose battles drew millions of spectators, whose clashes cracked the sky and shook the ground.
And above them?
The mid tiers of divinity. The Rank Fives and beyond—those who had already begun stepping well beyond the limits of mortality.
Astra wasn't sure if he would ever reach that level. He didn't care.
Not yet.
For now, he let the information settle, rolling it over in his mind like a coin between his fingers. Then, with a resigned sigh, he tilted back the flask in his hand and took a slow sip.
The burn of spiced liquor slid down his throat. He wasn't supposed to be drinking—not before a match, not with the many keeping an eye on him—but he needed something to smooth the edges of his nerves.
His mind was too sharp. Too alert. Too aware. Of the divine things lurking in the city.Of the enemies seeded above him.Of the fact that, in 15 hours, his true battle would begin.
And so, he did what any self-respecting soon-to-be champion would do.
He messaged Vesper.
—Need your advice on the full integration of the free flow technique. I can feel it clicking, but something's off.
The reply was almost instant.
—Awww, my little princess needs my guidance?
Astra closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out.
—Vesper. I swear to the gods—
—Swear to me instead, I'm way more reliable.
Astra fought the overwhelming urge to throw his flask across the arena.
Instead, he took another slow sip and settled into his seat. This was going to be a long night
....
As the hours trickled by Astra made his way to another arena, the main arena where the finals are held his excitement continued growing and growing
The Arena of Dusk was a colossus of shadow and stone, towering over the city like a monument to war.
Astra stood in the underbelly of the beast, heart pounding as the deafening roar of the crowd echoed through the walls. The sheer scale of it all was suffocating—hundreds of thousands of spectators packed into the stands, their chants rising and crashing like tidal waves. Each realm had its own battle cry, and they were screaming at each other, the sheer force of their voices making the arena tremble. and not to mention the hundreds of millions watching through the network.
At some point, the ground literally shook and dust fell from the ceiling. not from mere rank ones clashing no, but from the crowd going crazy
Astra exhaled slowly, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. He had spent the last few hours refining everything—armor checked, weapons balanced, mind sharpened. But now, with minutes left before his bout, the weight of the moment was starting to sink in.
He was in a large hall filled with contestants resting and waiting as a man lead him to a private waiting room, he felt stares and gazes but didn't bother even looking
He had too much energy. Too much anticipation curling in his gut, twisting into something that felt like hunger.
So, like any rational person, he started pacing In his private room.
"Relax, relax. Don't get too worked up yet. Stay loose. You're of the stars, bright and distant. You're of the shadows, formless and hidden."
The shadows around him were fluctuating as he paced, being both nervous and excited
The words came like a mantra as he moved back and forth across the small, dimly lit room beneath the colosseum. He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, exhaled. It wasn't working.
And then, a notification blinked into existence before his eyes.
— Good luck, princess. I'm watching. Go show these bastards what an annoying pretty asshole like you can really do.
Astra dragged a hand down his face.
"Vesper, I swear to the gods—"
Another message.
— Good luck. Don't overextend. — Velora.
Simple. Practical. Unlike Vesper.
Astra was about to flick away the rest when his heart stopped.
A name he hadn't expected.
Seraphine.
— Good luck, my dear Astra. I can't wait to see the real you.
His stomach plummeted. as the shadows halted for a second then continued to shift, like as if there was a fire illuminating them
"What the hell does that mean?!, and why now! shes literally been ignorning me?"
Cryptic. Flirtatious. Unsettling. and without a doubt done on purpose to play with him
The stadium above shook again as the crowd roared, likely from another match reaching its climax. Astra barely registered it, staring at the message like it had personally insulted him.
The real him?
Yea.No. Nope. He was not dealing with this right now.
He mere minutes before his match.
Time to breathe. Time to focus. Time to—
The arena above erupted into a storm of cheers.
The roar of the crowd above reached a fever pitch, and Astra felt a dangerous smile stretch across his face. It was showtime.
The shadows around him suddenly stopped as Astras mind honed in.
This was it. This was his time.
"Alright. Show time."
As the final round began, he reminded himself of who he was about to face—a rank one from a war guild in Apu, a massive dwarf who wielded fire and earth. Powerful, from what he'd heard. Dangerous.
"Alright," Astra murmured to himself. "Let's make this interesting."
He wasn't just going to win. He was going to make them remember his name.
The air hummed with an almost palpable tension, crackling with mana as the final moments before Astra's entrance loomed. The countdown was at its final seconds. A man dressed in a sleek black outfit, his movements sharp and precise, approached Astras room. His voice was a calm contrast to the storm of energy swirling around them. "It's go time, Lord Astra," he said, giving a firm, assuring thumbs-up.
Astra exhaled slowly, his fingers grazing the cold, polished surface of his Nightshroud armor. The dark plates glimmered faintly under the dim lights, each one fitting him like a second skin. His armor felt like a cloak of shadows, designed for battle and for battle alone. It reflected the dim light of the tunnel, almost as if it were absorbing the very darkness that surrounded them. His black longsword, forged by the Angel of Steel himself, was slung casually over his shoulder, the hilt wrapped in shadowy leather. It felt natural, as if the blade were a part of him. The weight, the familiarity—it all spoke of his short journey, of the war he was about to start.
He stood like a harbinger of the abyss, a shadow-clad knight poised for battle.
The tunnel ahead seemed endless, but with every heartbeat, his steps grew more sure, more inevitable.
As he and his crew moved forward, the low hum of the arena echoed in the distance. Warriors who had already entered the fray glanced up as Astra passed, some offering cheers. "Hell yeah!" one shouted. "It's go time!" another yelled, their voices filled with anticipation. The noise faded as they entered a narrow passageway, leading them closer to the main arena. The roar of the crowd was a distant rumble beneath Astra's boots, the vibrations sending a thrill through his body. As dust fell from above.
Around him, the production crew hustled to get the perfect shot. Cameras adjusted, mics buzzed, and in an instant, the live broadcast was on. "Three... two... one... and we're live!" the voice of the director boomed through the communication system. The camera zoomed in on Astra's face, capturing the calm intensity in his violet eyes as his curls draped down. The entire world would be watching. His heart raced in his chest, a slow, rhythmic beat that matched the rising roar of the crowd outside.
The man who had given him the thumbs-up now waved him forward, signaling the moment of truth. "Now, Astra!" His voice rang clear, cutting through the air.
The crowd outside had already begun their chant, a wave of sound building up like a storm. Astra's chest tightened with each step as he began to walk toward the exit of the tunnel. With a deep breath, he set his resolve, his first step resonating through the cold stone beneath his boots. The ground felt solid, almost like it was waiting for him. As he walked, the darkness of the tunnel began to fade away, revealing the blinding light of the main arena. The crowd's roar swelled, a force so overwhelming it seemed to push against him, but Astra's focus remained unshaken. He locked his gaze ahead, taking in each second, getting ready to feel the eyes of hundreds of thousands pressing against him.
The chants came crashing through the arena, the voices of the gathered masses mixing and weaving together in a frenzy. distant but drawing nearer and nearer as he walked.
"From the mountains to the inferno! APU! APU!" The fierce, fiery voice of Apu's warriors rang out from the far side of the arena, their chanting fierce like the crackling heat of a volcano.
"From the ice to the rock! APU! APU!" The response from the crowd was just as passionate, the voices clashing like the bitter winds of a blizzard against the heat of a summer's day.
The announcer's voice, rich and commanding, boomed through the chaos. "From the vast deserts of Sahara, from the night-drenched lands of Duskfall—he's the seven-seed! Lord Astra of the Shadows! Champion of House Shadow!"
The roar of the crowd intensified, swelling like a tidal wave of sound. As Astra stepped fully into the light, the world seemed to pause. The moment stretched, the anticipation thick in the air. From the Saharan side of the arena, a new chant erupted, loud and unyielding:
"From the heat of the sun to the cold of the moons! S-A-H!"
"HA!"
"RAAAAAA!"
The sound reverberated through the very bones of the arena. Astra's heart raced, the immense wave of sound almost disorienting but as disorienting as the shift from a small dark tunnel to a large arena, as he looked out across the sea of faces. Hundreds of thousands of spectators, screaming his name, chanting for his victory. The energy was so overwhelming it almost swept him away. as he also fought back the intense curiosity to follow those damnned golden threads, which would undoubtedly lead him to some divine figures hidden in the crowd watching.
"Damned blessing, but....Holy shit, this is sick…"
His breath quickened. The adrenaline surged as he snapped his focus back. The shadows seemed to respond to his command, rippling around him as he felt the power of his House flowing through him. His grip on the sword tightened, the dark blade feeling like an extension of his own being. He scanned the arena, his eyes locking onto his opponent.
There, across from him, stood a massive young dwarf, his body a tapestry of scars. His dark red and black eyes burned with the fire of battle. His broad shoulders were encased in gleaming bronze armor, with furred accents. The sight of him was imposing, but it was his weapon that spoke the loudest—an enormous black Warhammer, resting on the stone floor before him. Astra watched as the dwarf slowly raised his helmet, adorned with a red plume, and settled it firmly over his head. The clang of metal reverberated through the arena.
The atmosphere shifted, electricity crackling in the air as the anticipation of the crowd turned into an electric tension that made the very ground beneath Astra's boots tremble. The battle was coming.
The announcer continued, but Astra could barely hear the words over the frenzy of the crowd. They knew this warrior, this beast of a dwarf, but Astra did not care for names. His mind was locked in on one thing: the fight.
The last remnants of any lingering nerves melted away, replaced by a singular, razor-sharp focus. With a firm grip, Astra brought down his sword, the black blade gleaming in the harsh light as the arena's lights dimmed down and struck it into the ground. It was time to face his opponent, the beast before him. he summoned his helmet and as he helmed himself in the dark armor, his violet eyes shining through the visors. He gripped his sword and brought it up.
the dwarf picked up his large Warhammer easily as well,
The air crackled with tension. The crowd held its collective breath.
And then, everything went silent.
A figure emerged, stepping onto the arena floor. A mediator, rank three Knight, stood before them. He raised a hand, and the arena speakers amplified his voice.
"Fight till you can't. Intent to kill is allowed, don't worry, you won't die. I am here, trust in me and the healers of this tournament" the mediator's voice boomed across the arena, carrying authority and weight.
"Bring honor to this festival."
The words echoed in the silence that followed. Astra's eyes met the dwarf's, and the tension between them grew unbearable. This was it. The beginning of his competition
The battle was about to begin.
across of astra the dwarf's aura surged, a powerful and relentless force that seemed to emerge from the very core of the earth. It was like the pressure of a hot spring, bubbling with the fiery energy of the earth's deep heart. The warmth spread through the air around him, radiating a steady, smoldering heat that caused the ground beneath him to vibrate with barely-contained power. His mastery over fire and earth was undeniable, and his aura was a geyser—constant, unyielding, and wild in its own way. It rippled outward, pulling from the heat of the earth, the fire of the volcanic core, and the raw energy of nature itself. This was a warrior reaching the top of Rank One, a force to be reckoned with.
But as the dwarf's aura bled into the air, Astra's presence began to rise, subtle but undeniable. Unlike the fiery, volatile eruption of the dwarf's aura, Astra's power was an insidious, suffocating force, like an ocean of darkness quietly swallowing the world around him. The shadows around him began to stretch and ripple, obeying his unspoken command as if they were extensions of his own will, not daring to break his commands. There was no fiery explosion in Astra's magic, no geyser-like surge—his power was far more refined, far more potent. It was as if he was thrown into a river, a deep and mighty current that surged through the landscape of magic with a strength that was impossible to ignore. It was quiet, but it was relentless, carving its own path through the terrain of his opponents.
The dwarf might have commanded the earth and fire with unshakable force, but Astra wielded shadows with a lethal, quiet grace. His aura wasn't a hot spring that could only boil over so much; it was an unstoppable river, cutting its way through everything in its path with an undeniable might. It was a surge of pure potency—unpredictable, but immensely powerful. Where the dwarf's magic boiled and roared like a hot geyser, Astra's felt like a dark, living force that seeped into the cracks of the world, flowing where it chose with an unpredictable surge of darkness and shadow.
The crowd could feel it. The very air around Astra became heavier, thick with the presence of something ancient and powerful. As his aura flared, the lighting above seemed to dim further, deepening the shadows that clung to his form. The very darkness around him seemed to respond to his will, swirling and moving with unnatural grace. His magic wasn't flashy—it wasn't filled with fire or heat—but there was no mistaking its strength. The shadows obeyed him with a reverence, twisting and spiraling around him like a living thing. Every step he took, the ground seemed to grow colder, the air heavier with the weight of his magic.
Astra wasn't simply a Rank One; he was a force of nature in his own right, nearing the very pinnacle of his rank a testament to his insane talent. His connection to the shadows was unlike anything the dwarf had felt before. It was as though the darkness itself had decided to bend to Astra's will, to move with him, to protect him, and to strike with him. The power was invisible but felt all the more intensely by the dwarf—he could feel the weight of Astra's magic pressing against him, a constant reminder that the shadows were not something to be trifled with. the dwarf had to also remind himself that this man.....monster in front of him wielded light and water as well, and quite proficiently.
Astra raised his sword, the dark blade gleaming as he brought it to a high stance, his violet eyes gleaming through the visor of his helmet. The shadows rippled with his every movement, drawing closer, stretching across the arena floor in an elegant dance of power. The dwarf might have been a force of nature in his own right, but Astra was something more, a river of shadows flowing with quiet intensity and lethal precision.
As the battle approached, the dwarf lowered his stance, gripping his Warhammer with firm hands. The tension in the air was thick, the very atmosphere charged with the weight of their powers. Astra stood tall, his presence all-encompassing, his magic as silent as the depths of night but as dangerous as a storm in the dark.
a mighty horn blared across the arena, and the crowd erupted with energy, the sound swelling in anticipation. Astra's aura surged, flowing like an unstoppable river as the battle began.