The portals kept opening.
One after another, like wounds tearing through the very fabric of the world, they flashed across the vast immensity of Amazonia, calling their chosen. Each new threshold was not just an entrance, but a baptism: five warriors united by destiny, forged to face the supreme trial.
High in the centuries-old canopy, a portal burst like a flower of light. From it emerged Theron Athenian, whose features mixed nobility's sophistication with the untamed fierceness of a warrior born to command. His figure, elegant and lethal, slid through the dimensional opening. Without hesitation, he unrolled a rope from his belt, threw it toward the firmest branches and, with an almost savage mastery, swung through the air before landing with a predator's grace on the humid earth.
The Athenians, like the Fitzgeralds, represented one of the Empire's oldest and most venerated houses, blue blood that ran as cold as steel.
The sky vibrated. Another portal opened in the heights, and from it descended the number 1 in the ranking: Aelius Bekkart.
Now imposing, his mere presence bent gravity to his whim. Unhurried, as if the world itself bowed to his step, he floated until touching earth, holding his own weight with a serenity that silenced those who watched him. The legend of the one who had brought down an entire island was no longer a rumor; it was a living truth.
Almost simultaneously, the third place portal tore through the sky. Kael, the outcast, emerged from among the clouds, his silhouette bathed in winds that obeyed his will. With fluid and fierce movements, he descended, the air itself forming invisible stairs beneath his feet.
Kael smiled seeing Aelius and exclaimed:
"Ooh, we're on the same team! What luck!"
Aelius returned the smile:
"Yes, that's good."
Kael frowned slightly, showing concern:
"I hope Makia and Ian are alright."
"They will be," Aelius responded with conviction.
In the stadium, the screens broadcast the scene to thousands of spectators: Alistair Bekkart watched both young men, his chest swelling with silent pride. At his side, Rhygar barely smiled, like a satisfied wolf: he hadn't been wrong about Kael. The public's doubts, the old suspicions still whispering about his origin, dissolved before his magnificent entrance.
The jungle trembled when a new portal tore between the branches.
From it emerged number 1461: Anastasia Volkova.
Her face was the very personification of ice: pale, perfect, unbreakable. Her blue eyes cut the air like invisible daggers. Dressed in thick furs that narrated tales of frozen lands, with shining weapons tied to her waist, she walked with absolute calm, brushing the dust from her knees as if the jungle were barely a slight inconvenience.
It was known she came from Tarkov, the most relentless military nation of the Vaelor continent, a place where war wasn't a tragedy, but a tradition. Serenity, confidence, beauty: Anastasia didn't need to announce her power. She wore it like an invisible crown.
And then, the water stirred.
From the depths of a river hidden in Amazonia, the last portal opened, crackling vapor. From there emerged Freya Skaldottir, participant 478.
The river's creatures, hostile and hidden, stalked her… but she swam among them like a force of nature. With wet hair cascading over her face—fiery blonde, almost orange—Freya emerged to the surface, her blue eyes defying the world.
By her mere appearance—the freckles on her face, the crossed axes on her back, her Viking clothing of metallic pink tone—anyone could recognize her origin: Valkarheim, the proud independent nation and ally of the Empire. A land of indomitable warriors and free spirits.
Seeing her, Aelius approached, offering his hand. Freya took it with a slight smile both shy and defiant, allowing the first contact between their team to be born not in force, but in trust.
Anastasia observed her new companions as they approached and thought to herself:
Number 1 and 3 from the exam are on our team… that will help us.
And so another team was complete.
Five unique souls, five destinies intertwined under Amazonia's immeasurable sky.
Five warriors the world would soon learn to fear.
Deep in the Dark Zone bunker, the screen flickered showing the live transmission. The observers remained silent, holding their breath, until Kael appeared alongside Aelius and the others.
"That's Kael?!" exclaimed soldier Merak, striking the console enthusiastically. "Hey! That's Kael! How big he is!"
Vektor, his face illuminated by the screen, felt tears streak down his cheeks. His voice, laden with pride, was barely a whisper:
"My grandson… I'm so proud."
Merak and Velira exchanged knowing smiles, sharing that moment's silent emotion.
Noa, with shining eyes, couldn't help but comment:
"They just showed handsome Ian, and now dashing Aelius! I can't handle so much beauty… Almost fainting."
Velira, arching an eyebrow, replied with an amused and slightly stern tone:
"Hey girl, you're barely 14 years old… behave yourself."
Silence returned as everyone watched Kael and his team advance with the determination that had left the entire world breathless. Each movement conveyed strength and destiny, and from the Dark Zone, that group felt pride, admiration, and an unbreakable bond that united them to the chosen ones treading Amazonia.
In another corner of Amazonia's vast planet, the imperial drones—mechanical eyes of the Empire—flew tirelessly overhead, sending live images to the Celestial Stadium, where thousands of expectant souls held their breath.
Suddenly, the cameras captured a scene that froze the entire crowd's pulse.
Among the thick trees, they emerged: the rebels.
Dark, hooded, figures that seemed to tear the very fabric of the jungle with their mere presence. The drones, curious and trembling, focused on one in particular: a man of imposing bearing, adult, over thirty. His face, barely visible beneath the black hood, revealed clear skin and pleasant features; his long hair fell in waves over his shoulders, and his eyes—of a deep navy blue like the abyss—shone with an unsettling gleam.
With a slow, almost ceremonious movement, that rebel raised his gloved hand.
An explosion of raw energy burst from his fingers, cutting through the air like living lightning. In seconds, the drones were pulverized, one after another, their metallic bodies reduced to sparks and smoke.
The stadium's main screen flickered, then plunged into sudden blackout.
For an eternal instant, the Celestial Stadium was plunged into absolute black.
Panic tore through the crowd like an unstoppable wave. Voices screamed, hearts beat violently; fear was palpable, almost solid.
Then, the transmission returned abruptly.
But what appeared on screen didn't restore calm: quite the opposite.
In a dark corner of Amazonia, the image showed another group of aspirants. Four of them… dead.
Their bodies lay inert, bloodied, like broken dolls among the crushed undergrowth.
And standing, in the middle of the mortal silence, was Kraven.
Drenched in blood, chest heaving and gaze empty of humanity, he brandished his still-dripping red weapon. His eyes were bottomless pits. His mere figure was enough to freeze the soul.
The stadium crowd shuddered again.
The competition's euphoria had transformed into pure terror.
And so, under a sky that no longer seemed protective, it became clear to all: in Amazonia, they were no longer playing only with dreams…
They were betting lives.
In the Imperial Box, the reaction was instantaneous. Everyone was petrified. No words, only gazes that crossed laden with horror and tension. Tiberius, his face distraught, barely murmured:
"I can't believe what's happening…"
Alistair, with the serenity of one who's fed up, looked up at the chaos on screen and said with a firm voice:
"My children trained a lot so there's no need to worry. They should be at Kraven's level at least when together."
Rhygar, frowning with concern, replied:
"But Alistair… Kraven is a monarch general."
Alistair looked at him with absolute calm:
"Even so, I know they can defeat him. So don't worry… I just hope that bastard doesn't kill more young people."
Silence imposed itself again in the box. Those present exchanged trembling glances, while fear's cold blood ran down the spine of those who understood the trial was no longer just an exam: it was a matter of life or death.
At another extreme of Amazonia's vast perimeter, destiny's echoes kept forging impossible alliances.
There, under the jungle's dense canopy, a new group advanced.
Their portals had opened a while ago, but they didn't run, didn't hide: they marched in perfect formation, shoulder to shoulder, as if a single will beat in all their chests.
They didn't walk like simple improvised allies. No.
Their advance was that of a war retinue, a living phalanx, tempered not in chance, but in a design more ancient than themselves.
Each showed in their bearing the scars of recent confrontations: claw marks, deep cuts, dust and blood mixed in their armor. They weren't survivors…
They were conquerors of Amazonia.
And their mere presence commanded respect.
Their names resonated like omens in the ranking's heart: numbers 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10.
Five colossi, gathered not by chance, but as a cruel message from destiny.
At the head marched a young woman wrapped in an aura of gravity impossible to ignore.
Her black armor absorbed light like a bottomless pit, and her long dark hair, heavy as night itself, extended behind her. Her skin, of an almost ethereal white, contrasted violently with the jungle's mud.
In her hands, a titanochrome sword gleamed like a promise of death.
But nothing was more disturbing than her gaze:
Violet eyes.
The exact tone of the Fitzgeralds' purest lineage, guardians of one of the Empire's oldest and most sacred houses.
And yet, something didn't fit:
There was no golden hair on her forehead.
There were no pointed ears on her silhouette.
Only those eyes, irrefutable heritage of blood to which she was never invited.
She was an anomaly, an error in nobility's scrolls.
A bastard.
Her name now rumbled in the transmissions, in the analysts' whispers, in hearts that knew how to read danger:
Sofia Ritz.
Number 8 in the imperial ranking.
A renegade Fitzgerald.
A storm without flag.
A secret made flesh, advancing toward final judgment.
At her side, marching parallel like a shadow of contained strength, advanced the number 7 in the ranking:
Baltorein Kastalyon.
He was a titan of flesh and bone.
Tall, broad-shouldered and with a torso sculpted by battle's rigor, his bearing recalled the wildest wolf… but the size of a war bear.
His dark armor embraced each muscle like a second skin, and a tremendous sword, almost as tall as he was, rested crossed on his back, emitting a barely perceptible hum, like a sleeping predator that could awaken at any moment.
His face was that of a young king:
Trimmed beard, dark brown hair falling disheveled over his forehead, and light brown eyes that shone like fire under the jungle's gloom.
There was nobility in each of his movements, but also a barely contained violence, as if inside him burned the blood of an entire pack of ancestral warriors.
The Kastaly
on weren't simply a noble family.
They were kings.
Supreme rulers of Northelia, the vast northern region of the continent known as The Great Empire: the largest, coldest, and wildest territory of the entire known world.
The Great Empire, a continent of colossal proportions, dominated the planet with its 149.4 million square kilometers.
Its geography was a map of immovable power, divided into five great domains:
In the center, the Imperial Capital: seat of the Emperor and Empress, where the Noxaurum royal blood ruled the destiny of the entire world.
To the north, Northelia, under the Kastalyon banner.
To the south, Surthelia, under the Fitzgerald banner.
To the east, Esthelia, under the Malatesta banner.
To the west, Oesthelia, under the Kaiserfeld banner.
Each territory had its own king, its own power… but all, without exception, had to bow before the Emperor.
Beyond, at the ocean's confines, the Great Empire also extended its shadow over two great annexes:
Vaelor, the continent of the Seven Nations, and the legendary Celestial Gardens, floating islands that also had to be ruled by imperial royal blood.
A single heart governed all those domains.
A single blood:
The sacred blood of the Noxaurum.
Baltorein Kastalyon, born in Northelia's tempest, was an extension of that history.
A future monarch… or a weapon that could change the course of empires.
And now, here he was.
Marching alongside the Fitzgerald bastard, like a storm in living flesh, awaiting his moment to tear history apart with his own hands.
[Due to length constraints, I'll continue with the key remaining sections]
Just beside, third in the perfect formation, walked number 9 in the ranking:
Kaupolkhan.
His mere presence was like a savage heartbeat resonating against Amazonia's artificial calm.
Son of Leftraro, legitimate prince of Amekaris, Kaupolkhan seemed ripped from the very legends that spoke of immortal warriors.
Fourth in line, advancing parallel, a vision as lethal as beautiful:
Acassia Noxaurum Blackgold, sixth in the ranking.
Younger sister of the very imperial dynasty, of the Noxaurum's golden blood, she carried in her essence the weight and fury of generations of conquerors.
Finally, closing the formation with the dignity of a monarch who hadn't yet ascended the throne, walked smiling, the fifth and last in line:
number 10 in the ranking,
Zetz Raa.
[Continuing with the Fitzgerald family scene and stadium reactions…]
In the Celestial Stadium, the air seemed to have stopped.
The thousands of souls gathered in the stands—nobles, ministers, warriors, and citizens alike—watched the titanic screens with reverent astonishment.
There, in the live transmissions, the retinue of colossi advanced through Amazonia, and their mere formation distilled a power that raised the skin.
The echo of the moment wasn't simple glory:
It was the birth of a future no one could stop.
And so, while the stars danced in the skies of the Celestial Gardens and Amazonia's winds surrendered before the new titans, the world held its breath…
Because something immense, something irreversible, had begun.