Aldinia, the capital city of Bellacia and its crowning jewel, stood as a testament to human ingenuity and ambition. The metropolis spanned the heart of the nation, so vast that traversing it on foot could easily consume an entire day. All railways in Bellacia converged here, solidifying Aldinia's role as the epicenter of Bellacia's prosperity.
The city's layout was a maze of winding streets and distinct districts, built upon the foundations of an ancient city. Traces of the old world lingered in the seamless stonework of the forebears, now interwoven with more modest materials—wood, stone, and glass.
Aldinia's districts were marked by imposing ramparts and gates that outlined their borders. The High District stood atop the city, a haven for noble houses whose grand keeps and estates offered commanding views of the city below. The Merchant's Quarter brimmed with energy, its many shops and market stalls drawing traders and travelers eager for rare goods and treasures from distant lands. The Residential District spread outward, home to the common folk who sustained the city's heartbeat, with its welcoming taverns, cozy inns, and bustling neighborhoods. Beyond these lay the Agricultural District, where fertile fields thrived under meticulously planned crop rotations.
The Entertainment District stood as a vibrant hub of culture and festivity. Lavish theaters with ornate facades showcased dramatic plays and musical performances, while street corners and open courtyards were alive with the melodies of bards and the mesmerizing movements of dancers. Jugglers, fire-eaters, and other performers drawing crowds from all walks of life.
Adjacent to this lively district lay the Colosseum District, home to one of Aldinia's most awe-inspiring structures—a massive arena left behind by the ancients. The colosseum's towering stone arches and intricate carvings spoke of a long-forgotten era, yet its purpose endured. Here, combatants clashed in displays of martial skill, gladiators fought for glory, and tournaments held captivated audiences. The roar of the crowd echoed through the district, a mix of exhilaration and raw intensity that could be felt in the very air. Surrounding the colosseum, weapon smiths, trainers, and vendors thrived, catering to both participants and spectators alike.
To the north of Aldinia stretched the Veldt Reach, a sprawling forest of towering redwoods and silverfirs, their ancient trunks reaching for the clouds. Among the dense canopy, sunlight filtered through in golden beams, illuminating the forest floor. The forest was punctuated by rugged cliffs and isolated plateaus, their stony outcrops rising above the treetops like natural fortresses. Each plateau supported unique ecosystems, harboring hardy and elusive fauna that thrived in these secluded havens. Rivers carved winding paths through the forest, their crystal-clear waters nourishing the land and connecting scattered villages nestled among the trees.
To the south, the forest gave way to the Golden Plains, a vast expanse of rolling grasslands that shimmered like gold under the sun's warm embrace. These fertile fields swayed gently in the breeze, creating a mesmerizing dance of wildflowers and crops cultivated by rural communities. The grasslands were dotted with small, sturdy homesteads and granaries, their presence a testament to the quiet industry of the plainsfolk.
Southeast of Aldinia stood Mount Haldron, a solitary peak that dominated the horizon with its rugged grandeur. Its jagged form was both imposing and majestic, often cloaked in a veil of mist near its summit. Hardy alpine vegetation clung to its rocky slopes, defying the elements. The mountain's lower reaches were home to hidden caves and cascading waterfalls, while its peak often reflected the fiery hues of dawn and dusk, earning it reverence as a symbol of silent beauty.
Through these diverse terrains, a network of well-constructed roads and railway tracks snaked their way toward Aldinia. Bridges arched gracefully over rivers and ravines, their stone and steel structures blending functionality with aesthetic elegance.
Aldinia was a city that never truly slept, its vitality sustained by extravagant festivals, lavish parties, grand theater performances, and the ceaseless tournaments held at the colosseum. While other old-world spires dotted the world, none could rival the singular grandeur of Aldinia.
"Come one, come all!" a barker called out in a nasally voice to any passerby who would listen. His gaudy clothing and painted face designed to draw in the curious and the eager alike.
Siegfried Albrecht, a nobleman whose name carried weight across Bellacia, strode confidently through the crowded streets of Aldinia. His well-fitted armor gleamed in the dwindling daylight, the finely crafted Bellacian steel proof of his wealth and status. A longsword, its hilt decorated with subtle etchings of swirling vines and intricate knotwork, rested securely against his back. His short-cropped blond hair framed a face marked by deep blue eyes that glimmered with an air of discontent, and his presence seemed to demand space and respect wherever he walked.
He ignored the lively chatter and activity around him, his mind already set on his true destination: the colosseum. The raucous noise of the Entertainment District, from the barker's shrill voice to the clamor of performances, grated on Siegfried's nerves. He was unmoved, having no patience for such frivolous distractions.
The Entertainment District was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, many of which were owed to the ingenious thaumaturgic devices that had become a staple of Bellacian amusements. Spheres floated in the air, projecting vivid illusions of fantastical creatures and monsters. Enchanted instruments played lively tunes on their own, their melodies weaving through the bustling streets. A trio of performers demonstrated a device that emitted bursts of harmless colored flame, delighting a crowd. Siegfried barely spared them a glance, though the thrumming energy of the district, powered by thaumic ingenuity, was impossible to ignore. Even in his haste, the faint hum of magic whispered through the air, a reminder of the new age of magitech and its influence on Bellacia.
Commoners quickly stepped aside as Siegfried passed, as was expected. But those who recognized an Albrecht were even swifter to clear his path. Though Siegfried was the youngest of his line, it did nothing to diminish the effect of his passing as merrymaking hushed, and fools sobered in his wake, instinctively aware of his presence.
Some of the more epicurean nobles, indulging in the opulent offerings of the district, watched the boy pass with mild interest. It wasn't a surprise to see an Albrecht with a longsword, but wearing armor as well? That was another matter entirely. All of them knew where the boy was headed and exchanged amused glances, gossiping amongst themselves, though even their whispers hushed until he had fully passed by.
Even the dimmest of the local population were well aware of the bi-yearly Aspirant Selection, an event where the Wardens, the nation's military elite, accepted new recruits into their ranks. It was a spectacle in itself, comprised of several grueling tests designed to measure an individual's skill, endurance, and intelligence—weeding out the lesser participants. Those who succeeded were accepted as aspirants, but they wouldn't become full-fledged Wardens just yet; they would still need to prove themselves further through additional trials in the future to prove their merit.
The gateway to the Colosseum District came into view as Siegfried stepped onto another street. His gaze remained fixed ahead, making his way through the district, eager to leave the theatrics behind. Forest green banners, trimmed in gold and emblazoned with the Warden's insignia, fluttered from the ramparts. Nearing the border between the two districts, the atmosphere shifted. The flamboyant colors and eccentric attire of the entertainment district gave way to a more somber crowd—armored figures now populated the streets, each adorned with weapons of every shape and size, hanging from hips, slung over shoulders, or strapped to backs. Those present were divided into either, wardens overseeing the competition or fellow competitors vying for a place among the nation's military elite.
Siegfried paid them no mind. He was beyond confident in his abilities and had no intention of losing to any of the common rabble. It was the other nobles, the ones who had the same ambitions as he, that he had to watch.
"Siegfried Albrecht, Fourth Child of Siegmar," a gruff voice broke through the din of the crowd, drawing Siegfried's attention to an older warden that was approaching him.
The man was a towering figure, his bearing as commanding as his physical size. The clank of his full-plate armor followed his purposeful steps. The armor had long since dulled from the gleaming silver it once was. The edges of the metal plates were roughened, bearing scars from old strikes and deep gashes, each one a permanent tale of past encounters. Miniscule dents and scratches marred the breastplate, each one a testament to years of service. The engravings that had once adorned the chest were nearly erased by the passage of time, their original designs barely visible beneath the wear and tear. The joints and hinges were stiff with age, and though the heavy armor seemed to restrict movement, the warden wore it as if it were an extension of his own body.
A broadsword, its hilt worn from years of use, hung at his hip in a scabbard of tough leather reinforced with metal.
The warden's face was a roadmap of his past. Jagged scars criss-crossed his features, most notably across his scalp and chin, where the skin had been so torn that hair no longer grew in those areas. His dark hair, speckled with grey, hung in a loose, disheveled mane. Sharp eyes pierced through the crowd with the same intensity he once brought to battle. He stared down at Siegfried with undeniable authority, the weight of his experience alone was enough to command respect.
"I'm surprised Siegmar was willing to relinquish another of his offspring to us," the warden remarked. Siegfried couldn't tell if the man was speaking to himself or expecting a response.
"Am I acquainted with you, or are you yet another of my father's… associates from the war?" Siegfried inquired, his tone laced with impatience. He was well-versed in the social graces expected of noblemen, but he made no effort to disguise his disdain for those who did not belong to his circle. This man, Siegfried was certain, was no noble.
"Tancred Caden," the warden announced, extending his right hand. Siegfried, however, made no move to return the handshake. Tancred, unfazed, slowly lowered his arm, his expression remaining stoic.
Siegfried was well studied and had never heard of a village by the name of Caden. Either the warden was lying to him or his village was one of the hundreds that were lost during the war.
"Given that you are already acquainted with my identity, I shall forgo further pleasantries and pose to you a question instead," Siegfried began, his tone steady and composed. "Are you familiar with my brother, Viktor?"
"This... is not a matter for me to discuss," Tancred said, his words tinged with hesitation.
"I see," Siegfried replied with an air of finality, his tone cool and aloof. "Then our conversation ends here." With that, he brushed past the older warden.
"Good luck, Son of Siegmar," Tancred murmured as the noble walked by.
Siegfried ascended the worn stone stairs of the Colosseum, each step creating faint echoes that rippled across the ancient material, like a pebble breaking the surface of a still pond. The grandeur of the rectangular structure loomed above him, its colossal arches and towering walls seeming to grow with each step he took, as though the very act of climbing magnified its scale. The weight of history clung to every carved stone, and the sheer immensity of the arena seemed to press down on him.
"Figures I'd find you here," Markus's voice drawled, low and teasing, just inches from Siegfried's ear.
Siegfried whipped around in an instant, his blade drawn and arcing downward in a fluid, vertical slash. To the average onlooker, the transition from stillness to attack was imperceptible—a blur of motion that embodied the grace and skill of a seasoned swordsman.
The tumultous clang of steel meeting steel shattered the air, sending a flash of sparks dancing between the clashing weapons. Two blades intercepted Siegfried's longsword: a rugged broadsword and a curved blade, the kind favored by mercenaries in the Southern Badlands. Siegfried's glare burned past the shimmering point of contact, locking onto the smirking face of his older brother.
Markus cut an imposing figure, his jet-black hair tousled in a way that seemed both careless and deliberate, a stark contrast to Siegfried's fair locks. His blue eyes, almost identical to Siegfried's, gleamed with a mixture of mischief and menace, giving away a man who thrived on chaos. He wore a gambeson coat, its dim, quilted fabric well-worn and patched in places, though it seemed more for show than practicality. The lack of metal armor gave him an air of defiance—he didn't need the protection. Strips of leather adorned him, tied in asymmetrical patterns, and a frayed scarf hung loosely around his neck. Around his wrists were bracers made from thick, studded cloth, furthering the impression that Markus prioritized speed and flair over traditional defense. Everything about him exuded an irreverence for tradition, a deliberate rebellion against the rigidity of noble expectations.
Onlookers shifted uneasily, their eyes drawn to the confrontation between the two Albrechts. While it wasn't uncommon for blades to be drawn in a city teeming with nobles, these two were an exception. Noble infighting, while not explicitly forbidden, was heavily frowned upon—especially when it involved such prominent figures.
Markus, the reigning grand champion of the colosseum, was infamous for his unparalleled skill in dueling and his sadistic delight in combat. His reputation alone made most challengers think twice. Siegfried, by contrast, was a younger, lesser-seen figure, known more for his reclusive nature within the walls of the Albrecht estate than any public exploits. To the gathered spectators, the outcome seemed inevitable—a clash with only one possible victor.
"What will good old Dad think?" Markus taunted, his voice dripping with venom. He pressed forward, both blades forcing Siegfried to stumble back a step. His smirk widened, eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and control. "Go home, Sieg. We both know you can't join the Wardens."
"Can't or forbidden?" Siegfried corrected, adjusting his stance. His blade, poised and steady, pointed directly at his brother. "Do not mistake paternal decrees for barriers. I am more than capable of earning my place among the Wardens, Markus—regardless of Father's wishes."
"Ugh," Markus groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically with a scowl. "You sound like such a spoiled brat. Seriously, do you even hear yourself?"
Siegfried responded with a swift lunge, his longsword thrusting forward in a precise, direct strike. Markus' smile returned in full force while deftly tilting his broadsword, redirecting the blade mere inches from his cheek. In the same instant, his other arm moved fluidly, the curved blade in his hand slashing low in a calculated arc toward Siegfried's extremities
Another clash of steel rang out as Siegfried's sword deflected the blow aimed at his legs. In an instant, his posture morphed, as if the very flow of time had paused to accommodate him. With a fluid twist of his wrist, not only did he send the broadsword careening off course, but his own blade met the curved weapon mid-flight, stopping it with a smooth, almost effortless motion.
Siegfried's eyes remained unblinking, his gaze fixed on his opponent, a spark of determination stoking within them. Spira surged through his body, enhancing his speed and reflexes, allowing him to transition between stances at a rate that defied normal human limits. Each movement felt like it was guided by something beyond mere skill, a power that propelled him quicker than before.
"Really?" Markus pouted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're really going to use artes on your dear brother?"
The next moments passed in a blur of motion as their blades clashed with brutal efficiency. Steel rang out loudly, the high-pitched sound of metal striking metal cutting through the air like a battle cry. Each time their swords met, a shower of sparks exploded from the points of contact, projecting the harsh light as they moved at speeds that seemed impossible. The brothers shifted stances in perfect synchrony, effortlessly blocking, deflecting, and countering, their movements almost fluid as they danced around each other. Onlookers watched in stunned silence, murmurs of surprise weaved through the crowd at the sight of the younger Albrecht holding his ground against the famed champion. However, the few veteran warriors in the crowd, could see the truth—the faint hesitation in Markus' strikes, the way he deliberately kept his blows from landing with full force. Despite Siegfried's impressive display, Markus was clearly holding back.
Suddenly, a strange sound echoed through the air, strident and unnatural, as both brothers' blades came to a sudden, grinding halt mid-swing. Faint translucent cracks radiated outward from the blades, like the delicate fracture of a windowpane, an opaque barrier appearing seemingly out of thin air to arrest their movements. Several more magical barriers shimmered into existence around them, enveloping their weapons in an invisible grip, halting the fight in its tracks.
"That's enough," Tancred's voice boomed, cutting through the tension while he casually strode toward the two Albrechts, his armored figure looming over them. His tone was firm, unwavering, with the weight of experience.
"Bah," Markus scoffed, forcefully pulling his blades through the magical barriers with ease and sheathing his weapons. He eyed the older warden with curiosity. "Didn't expect to meet a legend in the flesh when I took a shit this morning." He continued, sizing up the mountain of a man standing before him.
Siegfried cocked an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to Tancred with newfound interest. He struggled more than Markus as he pulled his longsword free from the magical barriers, the blade resisting as if it had grown heavier with each passing second. When it finally came loose, he stumbled back, having to regain his balance. With practiced motions, he sheathed the weapon, never breaking his watchful gaze on the strange warden and his brother.
"If you want to fight, you'll have to wait until the Wardens are finished with the colosseum," Tancred said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We won't interfere with an official duel, but we won't tolerate one of our potential aspirants being assaulted."
"Is that so?" Markus hissed, his eyes flicking around the crowded district. "If you weren't here, I can't help but wonder if anyone else would've stepped in."
"If it's to be a duel, then I wouldn't mind presiding over it," a new voice entered the conversation.
The crowd parted slightly, and a figure stepped forward. His calm demeanor contrasted sharply with tense atmosphere. He was very young, likely the same age as Siegfried himself, with soft brown hair that fell just above his shoulders. His almond-shaped eyes, analytical and observant, sat behind thin spectacles, flicking over the gathered people before settling on the two Albrechts. His features were unmistakably eastern, a Shinhanan.
His attire, while simple—muted tunic and soft trousers—spoke of a man more concerned with purpose than appearance. A sleek, narrow blade was sheathed at his side, its curve subtle and elegant in comparison to the broader swords of Bellacia, the weapon a reminder of his eastern heritage. A charm, rested on a chain around his neck, the faintest glimmer catching the light.
Siegfried glanced at the foreigner with a suspicion he didn't bother to veil. How could one of Bellacia's mortal enemies simply wander into the heart of their nation, unchallenged? His eyes narrowed as they fell on the strange blade at Kodomagi's side. He had heard whispers of shinhanan katana—enchanted weapons capable of evoking the power of the elements.
"To tread where the land knows not your name, is to dance upon the edge of a blade — neither friend nor foe, but a fleeting shadow in a land of enemies," Markus waxed poetically with an outstretched hand extended skyward while facing the foreigner.
Siegfried's brow furrowed in confusion as his brother's words lingered in the air, the odd shift in tone catching him off guard. Markus, who was typically brash and unceremonious, now spoke with an exaggerated solemnity, his hand sweeping through the air in a manner that seemed far more suited to the stage than to a colosseum. Siegfried's gaze shifted between Markus and the foreigner, the latter's subdued composure standing in stark contrast to his brother's theatrical display. He couldn't quite make sense of the sudden shift—Markus, the man who thrived on provoking others and pushing boundaries, now speaking in a tone so unlike him. It was as if the words had come from a completely different person, leaving Siegfried to wonder what had prompted such an odd outburst.
"The Moonlit Exile: Act Two," the foreigner mused with a thoughtful smile. "It's not often one finds such a romantic soul beneath the hardened exterior of a champion."
"Should I duel my brother...?" Markus contemplated aloud, his gaze shifting back to Siegfried, a mischievous glint flashed in his eyes. "Perhaps, not today." With that, the champion turned on his heel and made his way toward the entertainment district, the tension melting away as swift as it had arrived.
"A regrettable turn of events," the foreigner remarked, his tone laced with subtle amusement. "A duel to the death between two Albrechts would surely have been a spectacle worthy of legends."
"Kodomagi," Tancred said, turning his gaze to the easterner. "You are here as an observer, and I must ask that you refrain from causing any further disturbances."
Kodomagi inclined his head in a deep, deliberate bow before retreating silently into the crowd, his presence fading as effortlessly as it had emerged.
Siegfried's voice cut through the lingering tension like the edge of his blade. "Enlighten me—why does my brother speak of you as a legend? And further still, by what twist of fate does an eastern rat find himself within the hallowed walls of our fair city?"
For a fleeting moment, Tancred's stoic expression seemed to betray a hint of amusement at Siegfried's sudden interest. The resounding peal of a bell echoed from the colosseum, echoing off of the district walls. "It seems our time is up," Tancred remarked, his voice calm but firm. "The selection process is about to commence. Proceed, Son of Siegmar—we shall continue this conversation another time." He nodded his head toward the nearby entryway.
The crowd, which had previously lingered in morbid curiosity, began to shift and move, a tide of bodies funneling into the massive structure with anticipation.
Siegfried begrudgingly turned away and headed for the ancient structure. The sun had begun to set, and the thaumaturgic lamps came to life, casting a golden glow over the streets. Their light stretched into long, wavering shadows that danced with the movements of the bustling crowd.
He quickened his pace, the towering silhouette of the colosseum looming ever larger before him. The hum of voices from within its walls mingled with the fading clamor of the Entertainment District behind him. Stepping beneath the massive archway, a chill breeze brushed past, carrying the weight of anticipation.
This was more than a trial—it was his opportunity to rise beyond the shadow of expectation, to carve his own destiny. This was his first step toward proving his worth, unbound by the legacy of his family.