Duskfall was on fire.
Not literally—though Astra wouldn't have been surprised if a few drunken warriors set a district ablaze by sunrise—but the Springtime Advent Tournament had the city in a fever pitch. The streets pulsed with life, the air thick with the scent of roasted saffron, charred meats, and heady spiced wine. Noble houses had draped their banners over balconies, their sigils catching the flickering glow of enchanted lanterns. Everywhere he looked, there was something happening—bards singing ballads of past champions, gamblers throwing down gold over street fights, and warriors boasting of their inevitable victories.
And yet, somehow, none of that noise was as loud as the whispers about him.
Astra barely moved three steps before the crowd parted around him like he carried a plague. It was subtle at first—wide-eyed stares, murmurs behind hands—until a few too bold, too starstruck individuals tried to approach.
He saw the way some of them looked at him. Like he was a rare beast in a gilded cage.
"Gods, I liked it better when people ignored me."
Unfortunately, that wasn't an option anymore.
The problem? he had absolutely demolished five Rank Ones in mere minutes. A casual warm-up for him. For everyone else? A blood-soaked legend in the making. They were still talking about it, about how Astra had torn through them like he was brushing dust off his coat.
Some people thought it was terrifying. Others, exciting. And some—well, he didn't miss the way a few too many people were staring at him like he was a rare cut of steak.
"Wonderful. I'm famous. I should start charging for autographs."
Rolling his shoulders, Astra wove Nightshroud over himself, letting the shadows swallow him. It wasn't perfect—he could still be felt by those who knew what to look for—but at least it stopped the gawking.
"I used to hide in these streets because I was nothing. Now, I vanish because I'm too much."
The irony was almost funny. Almost.
He shifted his attention to the Regal Coin's interface, scanning the two unread messages.
One from the tournament officials. One from House Shadow's delegation.
And just like that, his amusement sharpened into something dangerous.
His division alone—the Pawn Division—held over six hundred thousand Rank Ones. Most of them would never see the main tournament. The early rounds were a meat grinder, a battlefield designed to break, wear down, and cull the weak. The strong survived through sheer endurance, forced to fight multiple times a day until only the most brutal remained standing.
But Astra?
He wasn't going to play with the fodder.
The guild overseeing the tournament, alongside the noble houses funding it, had ruled him too strong for the early rounds. He, along with eight others, had been seeded directly into the final sixty-four.
His ranking? Seventh.
Meaning he would be up against number two and three on his ways to the finals...
He huffed out a quiet laugh. They were testing him. Not strong enough to be placed at the very top, but too dangerous to ignore.
Then he saw who was seeded above him.
At first seed? Aster Hunt. Of course. The rumours about her power were truly dreadful
Second belonged to a scion of House Dawn, those pristine, self-righteous dueling prodigies, they sometimes wielded fire, the sun and light.
Third was a prodigy from House Dusk, most likely an illusionist or shadowmancer, maybe even someone who wields darkness...
And just like that, his amusement turned dark.
Hunt. Dawn. Dusk.
His enemies.
The same houses that had wiped out his own, that had erased House Night from existence and left him to rot.
"Oh, this just got interesting."
He felt it then—that creeping, insidious curiosity threading through his veins.
What were they like? How did they fight? Did they know who he was ? How funny would it be if they lost to a long lost heir of the same house their houses tried to eradicate?
Gods, the thought of going up against them sent a pleasant chill through him.
Astra exhaled, eyes gleaming as he shut off the interface.
The city roared with celebration, oblivious to the storm of violence waiting beneath the surface.
Duskfall had become a battleground.
Astra made his way to one of the many arenas
The arenas—if they could even be called that—had transformed the city itself into a colossal stage for blood and glory.
Some were built into existing plazas, reinforced with arcane barriers to contain the carnage. Others had been carved from the ground itself, vast pits lined with enchanted stone and runic inscriptions to absorb excess mana. Floating platforms hung suspended above the city, hovering arenas where only the strongest dared to fight, their battles visible from miles away. The grandest of them all was the Midnight Colosseum, an ancient structure where the final rounds would be held—a place of legend where champions were made and broken.
And the people—gods, the people.
Hundreds of thousands had poured into the city. No, millions. The streets were choked with spectators, warriors, merchants, and nobles from across the realms. Duskfall, already a city of shadows and secrets, had swelled to its limits, forced to accommodate the sheer volume of bodies.
They came from everywhere and were of all ranks.
A Bishop from Alfheim, his presence like a walking forest fire, his retinue clad in shimmering greensteel. A sand-scarred Saint of Shahara, speaking in tongues, her acolytes trailing behind like ghosts.A mountain-clan from Apu, draped in volcanic furs, their warriors wielding weapons that bled embers.Dunya's finest duelists, arrogant and gleaming, their noble lineages inked in gold across their skin.Wai's water-sorcerers, barely bothering to walk, gliding across mist like spirits.Even the frostbound warriors of Snaer had come, their presence marked by the unnatural chill that clung to them.
Every realm was here—watching, waiting, betting.
And with so many powerful figures gathered, House Dusk had been forced to increase security tenfold. It wasn't enough.
Guilds had been contracted, their mercenaries patrolling the city with wary eyes and hands on their hilts. Other noble houses had sent their own enforcers to keep the peace, reluctant to let the festival spiral into bloodshed before the tournament even began. But none of them—none of them—could stop what was lurking beneath the surface.
Because Astra wasn't the only one hiding.
There were divine beings here.
He could see them, due to his blessing, just barely—just enough to make his stomach coil with unease.
They moved through the crowd like ordinary people, yet their presence warped reality around them. The air shimmered where they walked, their movements blurred by something beyond mortal perception. He had brutally learned not to look directly at them, not to let his eyes follow the golden threads that sometimes seared across his vision.
He knew what those threads meant. Power. Authority.
And he wanted nothing to do with them.
Astra kept his gaze down, fighting the instinct to look up, to see which demi-god, which angel, which thing might be watching from the rooftops or drifting unseen above the city. The last time he had been caught in a divine being's gaze, the situation had been... unpleasant.
And the last thing he needed was another encounter with a devil or an angel who could see right through him.
He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus, as he entered a large coliseum.
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.