Dawn broke over the Grand Awakener Tournament grounds.
Not with a gentle sunrise.
But with the roar of thousands.
The Grand Arena —
a vast coliseum carved from stone and Nexus-crystals —
shook with the gathered might of the continent's greatest talents.
Nobles lounged in the golden skyboxes.
Guildmasters whispered from shadowed corners.
Ancient clans — Dragonkin, Elves, Sovereign Bloodlines — sent icy gazes down toward the rising field.
The Tournament Masters, clad in gold-trimmed robes, stood solemn at the center.
And overhead, the banners of every Academy and Nation fluttered — a riot of color, of pride, of ambition.
Except one.
One banner was different.
The cracked-crown sigil of Heartland.
Black on silver.
Unbowed.
Unbroken.
Unforgotten.
And it made the gathered lords and heirs shift uneasily, even before a blade was drawn.
The March into the Arena
The Tournament Masters called forth the Delegations one by one.
Stormspire Sanctum —
cloaked in lightning, their students glowing with raw elemental power.
First Crown Academy —
golden lions emblazoned proudly across their tunics, Aria and her crew at the head.
Ironveil Fortress —
grim, iron-clad warriors carrying battle-axes larger than men.
And then—
"Heartland Sovereign Delegation!"
The crowd went silent.
Not just hushed —
silent.
Even the banners seemed to pause, caught in a breathless moment.
Kaelen led his people forward.
No fanfare.
No trumpets.
Just Sovereignty in motion.
His Sovereignblade Astryn resting across his back.
His silver-blue eyes cutting through the air like a blade sharper than steel.
His aura, compressed tightly, still heavier than mountains.
Behind him marched:
Riven, flames dancing lightly across his shoulders.
Lyanna, calm spirit runes shimmering around her.
Mira, invisible even as she walked plain before them.
Eren, a juggernaut barely contained.
Selina, a light shining bright and untouchable.
Damon, a moving wall.
Lyra, the winds themselves whispering through her steps.
They were not many.
But they were enough.
Enough to make the earth itself seem to hold its breath.
First Match Draws
The Masters activated a massive Nexus crystal in the center of the Arena —
a latticework of golden light spiraling upward.
From it, names began to spin.
Battle Pairings.
Some matches caused scattered cheers.
Some caused laughter.
Some caused sharp gasps of fear.
And then—
"Heartland Sovereign Delegation — versus — Stormspire Sanctum Vanguard!"
A buzz swept the crowd.
The lightning-wielders of Stormspire — famed for their brutal offense — against the unknown cracked-crown Sovereigns?
Most expected a massacre.
They would soon learn otherwise.
Kaelen's Calm
Mira leaned in slightly.
"Stormspire will underestimate us."
Kaelen smiled faintly.
"Good."
He stepped forward, cape billowing behind him like a Sovereign banner.
As he crossed the field toward the ready line,
he felt another gaze fall upon him.
Hot.
Fierce.
Unyielding.
He turned slightly.
Aria.
Watching.
Measuring.
Remembering.
Their eyes met again —
this time with the weight of coming war between them.
Kaelen gave the faintest of nods.
Acknowledgment.
Respect.
Challenge.
Aria's silverfire eyes narrowed slightly.
Her lips curved into a faint, fierce smile.
"Soon," she thought.
"Soon we will see who has walked the greater path."
The Opening Announcements
The Tournament Master lifted his staff, Nexus-light spiraling upward.
"By decree of the Grand Tournament Accords,
all matches will be fought without intent to kill.
Victory may be claimed by:
Incapacitation.
Forfeiture.
Ring Expulsion."
"Sovereign Energies beyond the S-Rank level will be suppressed automatically."
"If possible."
That last line was added almost awkwardly.
As if even the Tournament Masters realized that some here today —
especially the Heartland Sovereigns —
might already be stepping beyond the old limits.
Kaelen's smile grew colder.
"Suppressed if possible," he murmured.
"Let's see if the old world's chains can still hold the new Sovereigns."
The Battle Begins
The golden gong rang.
The first fights exploded across the fields.
Flashes of lightning.
Waves of fire.
Shattered stone and screaming wind.
Heartland's match against Stormspire Sanctum was set for midmorning.
Kaelen and his companions waited, still and silent, weapons sheathed, power held tightly within.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
Because when their time came —
when Kaelen finally stepped onto the field —
the world would see:
They were not here to challenge kings.
They were here to replace them.