The final week before P.R.I.M.E. had begun.
Lumisgrave, once steeped in uncertainty, now stirred with focused determination. Training Centers buzzed day and night. People sparred, meditated, channeled, and collapsed into the earth from exhaustion — but no one stopped.
From cliffside platforms to forest-clearings, from water domes to flame valleys — the Awakened were preparing.
And within the highest tower of the palace, King Farhan stood at the head of the obsidian roundtable, his hands clasped, his gaze cast into the golden light of morning.
Surrounding him sat the most trusted minds of Lumisgrave:
Julious, his black robe and quiet thoughtfulness as sharp as ever.
Camero, youthful and determined, sitting with his fists closed.
Parche, observant and silent, always listening before he spoke.
Rivers, the eldest, his white hair like frost laced in experience.
The chamber was quiet — but the tension, like a drawn bow, could be felt in every breath.
Farhan finally spoke.
> "We are six days from P.R.I.M.E."
No one replied. They didn't need to. The pressure of that truth was already tightening around every pillar of leadership.
The King stepped from his seat and walked slowly around the table.
> "We have done what no kingdom has done before — accepted awakening. Encouraged growth. Given the people space to find their gift."
> "But now comes the true test… not of them… but of us."
He paused beside Julious.
> "We ask them to show us what they've become. But how do we decide what that means?"
Julious, who had been quietly sketching runes on parchment, looked up. His voice was calm.
> "You're asking… how do we measure them?"
> "Yes," Farhan said. "Control. Strength. Discipline. Resistance. Will. These cannot be guessed. They must be proven."
Camero leaned forward. "We can design tests, your Majesty. Combat, endurance, accuracy—"
> "That's not enough," Farhan interrupted softly. "P.R.I.M.E. is not a tournament. It's the foundation of our future."
> "If we judge incorrectly… we could exalt the unstable. If we judge too harshly, we may crush those meant to lead."
He walked back to the center.
> "We need a place of power. A space not just built for trials — but one that responds to them. A living structure, one that absorbs energy, shifts, adapts."
Parche finally spoke.
> "You mean… a testing ground that reacts to powers?"
Farhan nodded.
> "Yes. Something that does not just test — but challenges."
Julious narrowed his eyes. "A sentient arena, in essence. Something enchanted... but more than stone and spell."
He hesitated, then added something he'd been told weeks ago:
> "I was told by a researcher… they've been studying Awakened DNA. From the earliest awakenings. They believe… that our gifts are carried in blood, in cells. In memory itself."
The others turned to him.
> "What are you suggesting, Julious?" asked Farhan.
Before he could answer, a figure appeared at the door. It was a thin man in slate-gray robes, with a crystal vial in one hand and a scroll in the other. His eyes flickered with excitement.
> "Your Majesty," he bowed. "Forgive my intrusion. But I bring proof."
> "We have been collecting DNA samples from the Awakened during training. Small, harmless extractions — blood, hair, breath.
> "From these, we've learned to extract the core resonance of their powers."
He held up the scroll. It unfolded in a shimmer of arcane diagrams and biological etchings.
> "If you allow us, we can construct the Arena using these very frequencies. The stone will be etched with runes, yes — but powered by the very essence of the people.
> "A true mirror. A living trial ground made of power. Made of them."
Julious turned to Farhan. "Let the people help forge the very ground they will walk."
Farhan exhaled slowly. Then nodded.
> "Do it. Let the Arena of P.R.I.M.E. be born of the people—not just for them."
Over the next days, crystals hummed across the mesa as spells were cast not to build upward, but inward — into the bones of the earth itself.
DNA resonances were woven into the glyphs. Each sigil encoded with real traits: patience, intensity, elemental charge, emotional flux.
The Arena became not just a place of test — but a repository of awakened legacy.
Each of the five sectors breathed with stored frequencies:
The Ring of Control hummed with the resonance of fire-tempests and restrained storms.
The Hall of Resistance pulsed with breath-patterns of those who endured loss.
The Trial of Precision tuned itself to heartbeat rhythms of elemental archers.
The Path of Reflection glowed with echo-memories from those who faced shame and guilt.
The Pulse Arena trembled softly, built from bloodlines of those who fought and fell… and rose again.
By the eve before the trial, the Arena of P.R.I.M.E. was alive.
And the people came.
Among Them, Arslan
From the Lower District, quiet but focused, walked Arslan.
No carriage. No crowd. Just a long shadow, and a resolve carved deep.
He carried no banner, wore no sigils. Just his training wraps and the memory of what he once feared in himself.
His path had been different.
Alone, by torchlight, he had shaped his dark energy not into destruction — but into form.
A month ago, he could barely control the shadow within. Now, it bent for him.
Behind him, a trail of faint dark wisps curled into the breeze.
> "I must become more than a commoner," he whispered.
He recalled the first time his power nearly consumed a training partner. The guilt. The shame. The silence.
> "But now I know its weight. Its limit. Its strength."
He held out his hand. The shadow curled into a Dark Shield — a crescent of void-glass, steady and sleek.
He swiped his arm sideways. A Shadow Blade bloomed from his forearm, humming softly.
He closed his eyes. Then stretched his fingers outward.
A Shadow Bow formed.
No string. No arrow. But it felt right.
> "I'm not here to show them power."
He looked up toward the glowing Arena.
> "I'm here to prove that I am more than what they feared I was."
He stepped through the gates, among thousands, but felt alone. Not in loneliness — but in focus.
Tomorrow, he would enter the Ring.
Not to win. Not to rise in rank.
But to stand. To show what he had built.
To prove, to himself most of all:
> That the shadow no longer controlled him.
He did.
And the Arena of P.R.I.M.E. waited.