The morning light of the Mid City was different. It wasn't sunlight — not really — but it shimmered like one. Golden panels suspended high above the glass roofs reflected the false dawn, bathing everything in a warm, impossible glow. For Luke and Elias, it felt like standing inside a dream they were never meant to see.
The crowd moved in waves. Voices overlapped — chatter, laughter, arguments. Armor clinked, banners fluttered, and the scent of oil, metal, and roasted fruit filled the air. Every few seconds, a burst of fanfare echoed from the Coliseum at the city's heart.
Luke adjusted the straps of his mismatched cuirass, keeping his head down as they shuffled forward in line. The queue wound around the marble plaza — dozens of would-be champions waiting to register for the Tournament of Ascension.
Elias, beside him, was all nerves and awe. "You ever think we'd actually make it here?" he murmured.
Luke smirked. "You're asking that now? After nearly getting vaporized in a steam vent just to sneak up here?"
"Worth it," Elias said, grinning wide despite himself. "Smell that air? No rust, no rot. Just... clean."
Luke didn't answer. He was too busy looking up — at the towers of crystal and glass that stretched like spears into the glow above, and the people walking beneath them. Mid City citizens moved with a kind of practiced ease, all polished boots and bright fabrics. None of them spared a second glance at the line of armored hopefuls.
For a moment, Luke's chest tightened. They don't even see us.
"Next!" barked a registrar. The line lurched forward.
The registrar's desk was a slab of metal inset with glowing glyphs that pulsed as each competitor pressed their hand to the surface. Names and divisions flickered across a floating screen.
Luke leaned close to Elias. "Remember what we said. Don't talk too much. Don't mention—"
"I know," Elias cut in quickly. "Keep it simple. We're travelers from Sector Eight. Looking for glory."
"Right."
When their turn came, the registrar barely glanced up. He was a thin man with slick hair, wearing a silver coat that marked him as administrative caste. "Name?"
"Luke," he said smoothly. "And this is Elias. Team registration."
"Affiliation?"
Luke hesitated for half a heartbeat. "Independent."
The glyph pad flickered as the registrar typed. "First-time entrants, then. Good. Fewer records to verify." He waved a hand. "Weapons inspection?"
Luke held out his sword — a simple blade, dull in color but well-balanced. He'd spent nights cleaning it after pulling it from the scrap pit. Elias offered his short sword, the hilt wrapped in cloth to hide a crack in the pommel.
The registrar's scanner flashed red, then green. "Functional enough. Keep them sheathed until the heralds call your number."
He stamped their registration card, handed it over, and said flatly, "Welcome to the Tournament of Ascension, Team… Undercrown."
Elias blinked. "Wait—"
Luke elbowed him. "That's perfect," he said quickly. "Thank you."
As they stepped aside, Elias hissed, "Undercrown? You made that up?"
"Better than 'Scrap Rats,'" Luke whispered.
They shared a brief grin before the next roar of the crowd drew their attention.
---
The plaza erupted as the massive projection above the Coliseum came to life. Every street, every wall shimmered with light as the broadcast spread through the city.
A ripple of silence fell.
The emblem of the Nova's Crown — a blazing sun enclosed in twelve radiant arcs — appeared, and then dissolved into the image of a man standing upon a balcony high above the arena.
The Nova himself.
He was dressed in robes of white and gold, his face ageless, his hair silver, eyes glowing faintly like molten glass. Behind him, a halo of light shimmered — not ornament, but energy.
When he spoke, the voice carried like thunder through every corner of the Mid City, and even the Undercity below.
"Sons and daughters of the Nova Dominion," he began, his tone both kind and commanding, "today we gather in witness of courage, of purpose, of the eternal flame that drives mankind toward ascension."
The crowd bowed their heads instinctively. Even Luke felt the urge to lower his eyes, though he didn't know why.
"Each year, the Tournament renews our covenant with the Light. From the humble and the noble alike, champions rise — to prove their worth, to test their spirit, to earn the gaze of Heaven itself."
Elias whispered under his breath, "He talks like a god."
Luke didn't answer. He was watching the halo behind the Nova's head — how it pulsed in perfect rhythm with the golden glow of the city itself.
"To the victors," the Nova continued, "goes not only honor and glory, but a place among the Radiant Order — those who stand as Heaven's blades. Serve well, fight with faith, and remember: beneath Heaven, all must kneel to Light."
The projection dimmed. Trumpets blared again, and the silence broke into deafening cheers.
Elias let out a low whistle. "Kneel to Light, huh? Sounds like a cult slogan."
Luke chuckled softly. "Maybe. But it works."
---
As the first competitors entered the arena, Luke and Elias were herded into a side corridor that led beneath the stands. The air grew cooler, filled with the metallic tang of anticipation.
They passed groups of other contestants — some laughing confidently, others sharpening blades, murmuring prayers, or flexing armored gauntlets.
"See that?" Elias whispered, nodding to a pair of knights in matching silver plate. "Twin swords, matching crests, perfect armor. They've trained for this their whole lives."
Luke looked down at his patched gear, the scratches and rust marks visible even after he'd tried to polish them. "Guess we'll just have to make it interesting."
They found an empty bench near the rear and sat down, watching as attendants handed out small cards with fight orders.
A woman in bronze armor approached, clipboard in hand. "Team Undercrown?"
Luke raised a hand. "That's us."
"Round two, bracket C. You'll enter through Gate 6 when your number's called."
"Got it," Luke said, trying to sound casual.
As she left, Elias exhaled. "We're really doing this."
Luke nodded slowly. "We are."
For a few minutes, neither spoke. The muffled roar of the crowd vibrated through the stone beneath their feet. The opening fights were beginning — flashes of light visible through the grated ceiling above, cheers erupting each time someone fell.
Elias leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You think we can win?"
Luke smiled faintly. "We don't need to win. We just need to last long enough to be remembered."
Elias laughed under his breath. "Yeah. 'The fools in junk armor who didn't die right away.'"
Luke grinned. "Exactly."
---
They weren't supposed to see it, but through a side corridor, Luke caught a glimpse of the arena floor.
It was massive — a circular expanse of polished white stone, divided into glowing sectors. Spectators filled every level of the stands, banners waving, lights flashing. Holo-cameras floated overhead, capturing every movement.
And in the center, two knights clashed — one striking with a halberd that burned with golden energy, the other deflecting with a shield that shimmered like glass. When the final blow landed, the crowd's roar was enough to shake the air.
Elias gripped the bars of the gate, wide-eyed. "You see that? That's… insane."
Luke nodded slowly, eyes hard. "That's what we're walking into."
A chime sounded. Their number lit up on the display board.
"Gate 6," Elias murmured.
They stood. Adjusted their armor. Checked their blades one last time.
Luke placed a hand on Elias's shoulder. "No second-guessing. We've made it this far. Whatever happens out there — we stand together."
Elias met his gaze, a grin tugging at his lips. "Always."
The gate hissed open.
Light spilled through the gap — brighter than anything they'd ever seen. The noise hit them like a storm.
"Next contenders — Team Undercrown!"
The announcer's voice thundered through the arena.
Luke and Elias stepped forward, blinking against the brilliance. The crowd's reaction was mixed — confusion, laughter, curiosity. Their armor looked ancient beside the gleaming suits around them, their swords dull, their faces far too young.
Elias muttered, "We really stand out."
Luke smirked. "Good."
They reached the center ring, standing shoulder to shoulder as their opponents appeared from the opposite gate — two seasoned warriors in crimson plate, crests glinting, weapons drawn.
The announcer raised his hand. "May the Light guide your blades!"
Trumpets flared.
The match began.
Luke raised his sword. Elias exhaled beside him. The air shimmered, the crowd leaned forward — and for the first time in their lives, the two boys from the depths stood in the full gaze of heaven.