The next morning arrived not with blaring horns or grand announcements — but a quiet, rolling pressure that spread through the entire sky-arena.
Mist drifted across the circular platforms, refracting morning light into veins of gold and white. The air trembled faintly — like the world itself was holding its breath.
Every heir, from the proud Solvik scions to the radiant Vaelith heirs, gathered once more at the heart of the arena. Their expressions were sharper now, confidence tempered by caution. Yesterday's laughter was gone. Today's silence was the calm before blades would cross.
Then, from above, a single bell rang.
"Heirs of the Great Families!"
The voice boomed through the mist, ancient and authoritative.
It was the voice of Elder Maerin, head of the presiding council.
"The next trial shall test not merely strength or bloodline… but control, adaptation, and resolve. The Duel of Heirs begins at dawn's end."
A faint stir moved through the crowd.
Even the wind seemed to hush.
Eryndor tilted his head slightly, hands still in his pockets, eyes scanning the field of young heirs.
Kaelus stood nearby, rolling his shoulders, grinning.
"So, no monsters this time," he said.
"No," Eryndor replied calmly. "This time, the monsters are standing beside us."
Kaelus laughed under his breath.
"Try not to break them too quickly, Nasarik."
"I'll try," Eryndor said — though his smirk suggested otherwise.
Elder Maerin raised his hand and a transparent dome of light spread outward, encasing the arena. The ancient runes engraved into its edges flared with the colors of every known element.
"Each heir," Maerin announced, "will be paired randomly for combat. The rule is simple: whoever forces their opponent to yield, collapse, or lose consciousness first — wins.
Use of killing techniques is forbidden unless the opponent's life force can sustain it. Fatal blows will result in immediate disqualification.
Show us your mastery — not your madness."
The heirs murmured among themselves.
Rhaev Solvik cracked his neck audibly, his eyes gleaming with eager malice.
Serin Vaelith exhaled, her calm expression hiding the faintest trace of anticipation.
And Eryndor… simply looked up at the rising sun, eyes reflecting its light like silver glass.
Far above, in a suspended marble pavilion veiled in mana curtains, the elders and patriarchs of the Nasarik lineage gathered around a long obsidian table.
The atmosphere was solemn, heavy, and tinged with the kind of silence that came before revelation.
Zephyr Nasarik, patriarch of the main branch, sat at the table's head.
To his left — Aldric Vaelith, patriarch of the second branch.
To his right — Lazarus Solvik, the head of the third, his presence shadowed, unreadable.
And surrounding them, the council of twelve elders — witnesses of generations, keepers of bloodline secrets.
The air shimmered faintly with spiritual pressure.
The conversation began quietly, with Zephyr's voice breaking the silence.
"You've all seen it," Zephyr said softly. "The boy didn't just awaken the Nasarik bloodline. His aura harmonized with it — perfectly."
A murmur rippled around the table.
"Harmonized?" Elder Vehris frowned. "You mean the fusion ratio reached—"
"One hundred percent," Zephyr interrupted. His tone was steady, but his eyes held something else. "And it didn't stop there. His energy signatures fluctuate between wind and lightning — both perfectly stable."
Lazarus leaned forward slightly, shadows flickering beneath his hood.
"That's impossible," he said. "Even among the first generation of Nasariks, no one maintained dual affinity balance without burning through their vessel."
Aldric folded his arms, his sharp features creasing with thought.
"Eryndor isn't a pure Nasarik," he reminded them quietly. "His reincarnated form came from another world, his soul tempered in battlefields and voids we cannot comprehend. That may have… altered the vessel."
Zephyr turned his gaze to Aldric.
"Perhaps. But the synchronization rate—"
"—is more than bloodline resonance," Aldric interrupted gently. "It's will. The Nasarik blood doesn't serve a host. It chooses one."
The room fell silent.
Then Lazarus chuckled lowly.
"So the boy wasn't chosen by the bloodline…" he murmured, his tone unreadable. "He commanded it."
One of the younger elders frowned.
"That's arrogance."
"No," Zephyr said softly. "That's… legacy."
He stood then, walking toward the open balcony that overlooked the arena far below. The mist parted beneath his gaze. Down below, the heirs were gathering for their duels — laughter, tension, pride, and nerves mixing into something electric.
"Our founder once said," Zephyr continued, voice low but carrying, "'The Nasarik do not bow to gods because they were never born beneath them.' We forgot what that meant after centuries of peace. But perhaps that memory… found its way into one boy."
He looked back over his shoulder, faint light flickering across his sharp features.
"Eryndor's awakening is not a revival," Zephyr said. "It's a warning."
Lazarus tilted his head.
"A warning to whom?"
Zephyr's eyes darkened, his aura swirling faintly like thunderclouds.
"To the rest of us — that the bloodline is remembering what it was made for."
For a moment, even Lazarus — the man whose presence usually bled through shadows — went still.
Aldric exhaled slowly.
"You mean the old tale… the one about the Nasarik's original creation?"
"Yes," Zephyr said. "The union of martial flow and divine law. The power that once allowed our ancestors to bend reality through will alone."
"The Astral Integration," whispered Elder Vehris. "Lost to time."
Zephyr nodded faintly.
"And yet," he murmured, "that same integration hums beneath his strikes. The flow of storm and void—intertwined."
Lazarus leaned back, his expression unreadable.
"If that's true," he said, "then Eryndor Nasarik is not merely the heir of your line… he's the return of its origin."
Back on the field, the tension built as names began to echo across the arena.
"First match: Rhaev Solvik versus Irus Velkar!"
"Second: Serin Vaelith versus Veyra Deynár!"
"Third: Kaelus Magna versus Eryndor Nasarik!"
A pause.
The crowd stirred.
Kaelus looked at Eryndor with wide eyes, then broke into a slow grin.
"Guess it's fate," he said.
Eryndor's smirk returned, sharper this time.
"Or bad luck — for you."
Kaelus laughed under his breath, rolling his shoulders as wind gathered faintly around his feet.
"We'll see."
High above, Zephyr watched from the balcony — silent, eyes reflecting the storm brewing below.
The heirs stepped into the ring.
The dome pulsed with pale blue light.
Every breath in the audience seemed to vanish.
Then Elder Maerin's voice cut through the air:
"Begin!"
The ground cracked beneath their feet as two storms collided — one born of discipline, the other of defiance.
The Nasarik heir and the Magna prodigy.
A friendship forged in battle, now tested in its purest form.
But even as their fists met — the elders' words lingered above the sky like prophecy.
The bloodline is remembering what it was made for.