The Great World of Da Zhou stretched beneath the endless heavens, uniting five continents, each home to countless kingdoms, free cities, and lands forgotten by the gods. Here, under the eternal gaze of the stars, lived humans and orcs, naga and tieflings, elves and dwarves—all born of magic and the will of the ancient gods. Yet over this diversity reigned a single order, for the world was ruled by the Celestial Emperor and his four advisors—those whose power and wisdom maintained the balance between light and darkness, progress and tradition.
Cassian Vel-Ardan – The Embodiment of Сontrol
He sat upon the Crystal Throne, raised above the clouds, and his word was law. Kings trembled at his name, and beggars whispered it in prayers, for Cassian was not merely a ruler—he was the very essence of authority. His gaze pierced hearts, his decisions altered the fates of entire nations. They said he did not sleep, for sleep was the lot of mortals, and he—the living incarnation of heaven's will.
Morgaël Deshu – The Weaver of Fate
If Cassian ruled with an iron hand, Morgaël spun the future with threads of magic and technology. She was called the Greatest Witch of the Age, for she wove spells and mechanisms into a single web that ensnared the world. Her laboratories stretched into underground depths and soaring towers, and her creations—half-living, half-mechanical—roamed the land, fulfilling her will. She did not predict the future—she crafted it.
Elias Sol-Inis – The Voice of the Gods
His prayers were screams, his suffering—a sacred ritual. Elias bore the world's pain so others would not know it. When he walked the capital's streets, people fell to their knees, unable to withstand the weight of his gaze. He spoke to the gods, not as a priest—but as an equal. And sometimes, it seemed the gods answered—with the whisper of the wind, the trembling of the earth, rains of blood.
Orpheon – The Spirit of Balance
He was neither man nor spirit—he was nature itself, its ancient voice. His eyes saw past and future, his hands weighed good and evil. Orpheon did not interfere in the wars of men, but if someone disturbed the world's fragile balance—he appeared. And then rivers changed course, forests awoke, and mountains parted to punish the arrogant.
Yet even they — omnipotent, all-seeing — could not watch over everything. In the shadows of their power, conspiracies festered; on the empire's edges, rebellions flared; and in the depths of dungeons, ancient horrors awaited their hour.
And so, the Council created the Tournament.
Once every eight years, the Gates of Possibility opened, and anyone—be they a beggar, warrior, mage, or even a criminal—could challenge fate. "Requiem of the Lost"—that was the name of this trial.
The rules were simple:
- Anyone could participate.
- Past winners were barred.
- The victor would have any wish granted — even if it meant rewriting the laws of existence.
They said that once, a winner asked for a dead city to be resurrected—and it rose from the ashes. Another demanded the destruction of an entire kingdom—and by dawn, only ruins remained.
And now, the Gates were preparing to open once more...
The great world of Da Zhou was cruel to the weak. It devoured dreamers, broke the proud, and ground to dust those who could not flee in time. But sometimes—very rarely—it spared those destined to change everything.
And perhaps Kun Lian was one of them.
He did not remember his parents' faces—only fragments of voices, the scent of smoke, and screams in the night. Their home had burned to ashes, and with it—everything that tied him to the past. Father, mother, grandfather… all turned to cinders the night unknown assailants attacked the village.
Only his grandmother survived—harsh as winter wind, wise as ancient stones. She never spoke of what happened. Never told him who they were or why their family was doomed. But she placed two things in his hands:
- His grandfather's tattered books—records of a martial art no one else practiced.
- An amulet with the symbol "Emptiness"—a gift the old man had never gotten to give.
She never explained what it meant. But something in her eyes said these were not just mementos—they were a key.
Kun Lian was the living embodiment of fragility.
- A gaunt body, like a reed bending to the slightest breeze.
- Pale skin that bruised from the lightest touch.
- Hands too weak to hold a sword, legs that buckled after a few steps of running.
The village laughed at him. Children mocked him as "Shadow," adults whispered that the Lian bloodline had decayed. Even his grandmother, for all her efforts, could not make a warrior of him.
Because Kun Lian's true strength was not in his muscles.
The old books were not just records of combat techniques.
They were the "Silent Wind" style—a discipline that turned weakness into a weapon.
But most importantly—it was the art of Emptiness.
And the amulet around Kun Lian's neck was no mere trinket.
It was waiting for its time.
Meanwhile, word spread across Da Zhou:
"Requiem of the Lost" begins anew.
And Kun Lian—weak, unwanted, a nobody — felt it for the first time in years.
This was his chance.
A chance to learn the truth.
A chance to become something more than just a shadow in the wind.
The air in the hut hung thick, like smoke from the hearth. His grandmother did not move, her wrinkled fingers gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. Her eyes, usually so firm, now trembled, reflecting the candle's flame.
Kun did not look away. He knew—if he faltered now, he would never find the courage again.
— I will enter the Tournament.
His voice was quieter than rustling leaves, but there was not a trace of doubt in it.
His grandmother slowly raised her head.
— You've lost your mind.
She said it not with a shout, but with a bitter calm, as if stating a fact.
— Kun, my dear… You're all I have left.
Her hand reached for his cheek, but he leaned away. Not out of rudeness—but because he feared that if he felt her warmth, his resolve would melt like snow in the sun.
— I have to.
— Have to? — Her voice sharpened for the first time. — For whom? The dead? They won't ask for your heroics, child. They just wanted you to live.
Kun clenched his fists. Something ached in his chest—she was right. But…
—I want to prove it. To myself. To them. To the whole world. That I am a worthy heir to Grandfather.
His grandmother froze. Then her lips trembled, and she turned away—toward the window, where darkness was already gathering.
— Kun…
She whispered it so softly he barely heard.
— You look more and more like him. Like your father.
A pause. Outside, an old pine groaned, as if sighing.
— But back then, we had Wei.
At the mention of his grandfather's name, the air in the hut seemed to thicken.
— And he talked your father out of it.
Kun's head snapped up.
— What?
He had never heard this story. His father… had wanted to enter the Tournament?
His grandmother did not answer. She only stared into the darkness beyond the window, as if those they had lost still stood there, in the past.
— And I… doubt I can stop you.
Her voice wavered.
— All the men of the Kun family… have always been stubborn.
She turned to him, and there were no tears in her eyes—only pride. Sad as autumn rain, but pride.
— Go.
Kun stood. He did not bow, did not thank her—they both knew words meant nothing now.
He stepped into the dark.
And his grandmother remained at the table, her hand resting on the worn cover of her husband's books.
— Watch over him, you old fool, — she whispered into the emptiness. — Your boy is following in your footsteps...
And somewhere in the night, as if in answer, the amulet gleamed faintly.
When Kun Lian first saw the capital, he realized his village was not just small—it was nothing.
Qinlan did not merely surpass his homeland—it mocked it.
The capital of Da Zhou lived at a pace incomprehensible to a provincial. Here, everything was bigger, faster, brighter:
- Skyscrapers of white stone and shimmering glass, their peaks lost in the clouds. Mechanisms crawled along their walls — decorations or sentinels, it was unclear.
- Streets paved in black marble, where crowds did not walk but flowed. People in silk and armor, merchants with floating stalls, monks with eyes full of stars.
- Smells — spicy, sweet, metallic. Scents of food he had never tasted, of machines he had never seen.
And above it all — the Coliseum.
It appeared suddenly in Kun's sight as he emerged from a narrow alley into the central square.
And he froze.
The Coliseum was larger than the biggest mountain he had ever known.
- Walls of polished black stone, veined with gold.
- Thousands of arches, each lit with blue, star-like flames.
- Above the main entrance — the Tournament's sigil: two crossed swords entwined by a serpent.
Kun felt the amulet on his chest tremble.
"Grandfather… did you fight here?"
In the village, Kun had been invisible. In Qinlan, he became a speck of dust.
- His worn clothes drew disdainful glances.
- Even the beggars pleading for coins outside temples looked through him.
And that… was for the best.
Because as long as he went unnoticed—he could observe.
In a few hours, Kun learned more than in years back home:
- The Tournament would begin in three days. Heralds with mechanical voices proclaimed it.
- The mortality rate in the preliminary trial was 60%.
And one more thing…
In an alley that smelled of fried insects, Kun overheard:
— They say the Council added a new rule this year.
— What?
— The winner won't just get a wish… but a place among them.
After hours of wandering Qinlan's noisy streets, Kun finally found shelter. The **"Golden Phoenix"** inn glittered with gilded lanterns and carved pillars—even its sign looked more expensive than his entire village hut.
Kun hesitated at the entrance, clutching a meager handful of cassium coins. Three hundred coins for three nights—a sum that could buy a year of luxury back home. And he didn't even have half.
— Hey, kid, either come in or scram! — barked the burly innkeeper, wiping his hands on a stained apron.
Kun opened his mouth to apologize when a bright voice cut through the hall:
— Leave him be, uncle! This little one's clearly lost in the big city.
From behind an ornate screen emerged— no, glided —a figure that made Kun forget to breathe for a moment.
Before him stood a being with the features of both tiger and man, yet something indescribably more.
— Shao Xiaotian, — the beastman introduced himself with a graceful nod. — But you probably already know who I am.
Kun blinked in confusion.
— Uh… a girl?
The inn erupted in laughter. Even the stern innkeeper snorted into his mustache.
Shao rolled his eyes, but a smile played at his lips:
— First, I'm male. Second — a celebrity. Third… — His gaze swept over Kun. — ...you're clearly not from around here. Village?
Kun nodded, still unable to believe he was face-to-face with the Shao Xiaotian — the legendary fighter who had once defeated an actual god in a beauty contest. Even his backwater village had tales of the beastman with unearthly allure.
— Three hundred cassium? A pittance. — Shao flicked his wrist, and coins fanned out across the counter. — Put him on my tab.
Kun's face burned.
— I… I can't accept...
— Oh, stop! — Shao grimaced. — You're entering the Tournament, right?
It wasn't a question—it was a statement.
— How did you...
— Your eyes. Same stupid determination as every rookie. — Shao turned to the innkeeper. — And bring us dinner. This bag of bones clearly hasn't eaten anything but roots.
Over a lavish meal (the grandest Kun had ever tasted), Shao proved surprisingly talkative:
— It's my first time too, — he admitted, twirling a fork. — Though I could've won eight years ago. —
— Then why...
— Boredom! — Shao laughed. — But now the Council's promising something special for the winner. How could I resist?
Kun picked at his food silently. Still couldn't believe he was sharing a table with a legend.
— Hey, country boy, — Shao suddenly turned serious. — You know your chances are...
— Zero? — Kun met his gaze for the first time that evening. — I know.
The beastman froze, then grinned unexpectedly:
— I'm starting to like you.
That night, Kun slept in a real bed for the first time in years. And before drifting off, he studied the amulet, thinking how Shao Xiaotian's strange green eyes gleamed.
After three day:
Morning greeted them with blinding sunlight reflecting off the Coliseum's golden domes. The crowd at the entrance seethed like a boiling cauldron—hundreds, thousands of challengers, each with their own destiny, ambition, and fear.
Shao walked ahead, and the crowd parted for him. His golden fur shimmered, his long tail swaying lazily with each step. Kun, in his tattered training garb, followed like a shadow beside this radiance.
A clerk in gold-embroidered robes looked up and instantly brightened at the sight of Shao:
— By the gods! Shao Xiaotian himself!
His trembling hands reached for a pen and scroll:
— Might I trouble you for an autograph, my lord? My daughter is your ardent admirer!
Shao smiled indulgently and signed with a flourish, then nudged Kun forward:
— Register my companion as well.
The clerk gave Kun a once-over, snorted, but added his name to the list.
Crossing the threshold, Kun froze. Inside, the Coliseum was even more magnificent.
— Incredible… — escaped him.
Shao smirked.
— First time?
Kun only nodded, unable to tear his eyes away.
Thousands of participants filled the arena, but even in the mass, certain figures stood out — the favorites.
Luo Zhien stood apart, his intricately carved longbow resting on his shoulder. A descendant of an ancient archer lineage, he surveyed the crowd with cold indifference. They said his arrows never missed.
Nearby, Feilin Yue hovered in the air. Half-spirit, half-human, she was wreathed in a soft glow. Whispers claimed she was a disciple of Morgaël Deshu herself, her magic intertwining with technology to create something entirely new.
In a corner, arms crossed, stood Natsuki Kengo. A tiefling with blood-red eyes and elegant horns. His long, slender sword seemed an extension of his arm. A scion of an ancient swordsman clan, he was lethal grace incarnate.
And finally — Riannel. An elven princess, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes closed. Rumors said no one had ever seen her fight—her opponents fell unconscious before they could raise their weapons.
A chill ran down Kun's spine.
— Well, country boy, — Shao slapped his shoulder — still sure you want to compete?
Kun exhaled slowly. His fingers tightened around the amulet.
— Yes.
Not a trace of doubt.
Shao smiled, baring sharp fangs:
— Then try not to lose in the first round. It'd be embarrassing if my protégé got eliminated so fast.
A trumpet blast echoed from above.
The Tournament had begun.