The continent of Valmyra was stitched together from nations old and new, fractured by empires and healed by war. Among its eight countries, none was smaller or more overlooked than the Republic of Selvarath—a sliver of land pressed between mountainous borders and the roaring coast. Its capital, Drosia, was more slum than seat of power, and for the children raised in its underbelly, life rarely offered a future beyond broken bones or broken dreams.
Andrew knew both.
He walked the edge of Drosia's ruined walls with the same ease he handled a blade—silent, steady, and sharper than anyone gave him credit for. His coat was worn thin at the elbows, his boots patched with cloth from a street vendor's rag-bin, and the iron sword on his back was older than he was. But his eyes—ice gray and cold as Selvarath's winters—were unyielding.
Born to a seamstress and a blacksmith's apprentice, Andrew had tasted poverty in its purest form. His father died in the fire that burned the smithy down when Andrew was eight. His mother followed three winters later, taken by a sickness the rich called "avoidable." Since then, Andrew had survived Drosia's streets with nothing but grit, instinct, and a growing mastery of the sword he stole from his father's ashes.
But it wasn't street brawls or back-alley duels that had hardened Andrew—it was the blade tournaments.
Once a decade, Valmyra hosted the Virelion Trials, a continent-wide competition of champions, each representing their nation. It was no simple sport; it was spectacle, politics, and war wrapped in the pageantry of honor. Superpowered warriors from each country—chosen by merit, nobility, or military rank—fought in front of royalty, gods, and shadowed interests alike. The victor would earn glory, riches, and influence capable of shifting borders.
Selvarath, for all its smallness, had never reached the finals. Not once in all seven recorded tournaments.
Until now.
For the first time, the Republic had allowed a wildcard—a representative chosen by open challenge, not lineage. And Andrew, the streetborn swordsman, had defeated every military cadet, every noble-sponsored fighter, and even the reigning captain of Selvarath's palace guard. No superhuman strength, no enchanted bloodline—just discipline, speed, and a style forged in survival.
Now, as he watched the sunrise stain the rooftops of Drosia gold, Andrew's name was being whispered across Valmyra. Some called him a fraud, others a fluke. But a few—those who had seen him move, fight, end—spoke his name with a hint of fear.
The Trials would begin in a week's time. Host nation: Vellvire, the largest and most feared empire on the continent. The arena: the floating city of Caedros, where myth and metal danced in the sky. Forty fighters from eight nations. Only one victor.
And Andrew would be the first man from Drosia to ever step foot in that arena.
He didn't plan to step out.