A day later—on the fifth day of the tournament—the quarterfinals began.
Astra sat cross-legged at the center of his private waiting chamber, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. His breathing was slow and measured, each inhale drawing mana inward, each exhale settling it deeper within him. His eyes remained closed as power pulsed through his veins, coiling around his core like a living thing. He could feel its vastness now—no longer distant, no longer abstract—but present, immense, and pressing just beyond his grasp.
The stars called to him.
Distant, ethereal whispers brushed against his thoughts, beckoning from across unfathomable reaches of the firmament. A siren song of infinity, of endless light and unknowable truths. His inner star hummed in response, vibrating with longing, urging him to listen—urging him to reach.
He refused. Not yet.
Instead, Astra turned inward, toward the shadows.
They answered instantly.
Darkness stirred around him, reverent and eager, coiling at the edges of his perception. Shadows danced in silent devotion, bending and shifting as though aware of his gaze. They clung to him like faithful acolytes, awaiting nothing but his command.
And then—
The water pulled at him.
A faint tug, cool and persistent, rippling through his awareness. He felt it in the thin sheen of sweat on his skin, in the moisture lingering in the air, in the unseen particles woven through the fabric of existence itself. It was subtle, quieter than the shadows, but no less real.
Beyond the chamber walls, the coliseum lived.
The distant roar of the crowd throbbed through stone and enchantment alike. Screams rose and fell in waves, punctuated by the booming cadence of the announcer and the deep, rhythmic thunder of ceremonial drums. It was a symphony of anticipation—of blood, glory, and fate pressing ever closer.
Slowly, Astra opened his eyes.
A mana-screen shimmered to life along the chamber wall, broadcasting the arena outside. But Astra was far from alone.
The room bustled with activity.
Quarterfinalists were granted private chambers of their own, staffed either by the tournament administrators or their respective houses. Astra's was filled entirely with House Shadow's people.
Healers murmured incantations as they monitored his condition. Magicians traced glowing sigils, tracking fluctuations in his mana. Analysts hovered near projection screens, replaying Lucien Solaris's previous matches again and again, dissecting every movement, every pause, every strike.
This preparation had begun long before Astra secured his place.
They had planned for this outcome—and now it was here.
A woman stepped forward from the cluster of attendants. She had deep purple hair, pale skin, and sharp dark-blue eyes that missed nothing. A Rank Three knight—a commoner elevated by merit and entrusted with advisory duties.
"Be cautious, Lord Astra," she said, her tone crisp and professional. "Prince Lucien's Light and Sun magic are innately overwhelming. However… he is not without weakness."
Astra tilted his head slightly, signaling her to continue.
"The warriors of House Dawn—those who wield Light and Sun—are strongest at noon and under full daylight." She gestured to the chronometric display. "But we are hours from dawn. In these conditions, Prince Lucien is at his weakest."
She tapped the screen, and layers of calculations and projections flared into view.
"His mana expenditure will be significantly higher tonight. That said—do not underestimate him. He is rumored to possess mastery over his House's domain: the Sun of Dawn itself but these are merely rumors. He is both spellcaster and swordsman, excelling in enhancement techniques, domain manipulation, and long-range high-output spells."
Her eyes sharpened.
"He wields three blade disciplines at mastery—enough to earn him the title of Master Swordsman, if not Grandmaster. The Sword of Light. The Sword of Dawn. And if you push him far enough…"
She paused.
"…the Sword of the Morning. House Dawn's trump card."
Astra exhaled slowly. None of this surprised him—but preparation was never wasted.
"He is wary of you, my lord," she continued, a faint smile touching her lips. "And rightly so. The murmurs are spreading. Even among the knights of Dawn. And I can feel your shadows growing restless."
Her gaze flicked briefly to the corners of the room, where darkness stirred almost imperceptibly.
"That is a good sign."
She studied him for a long moment, then smirked.
"You freeform shadow far too well. Honestly—too well. I'm informed you're already close to a breakthrough in Domain Magic." She hesitated. "I would not mention this on the eve of such a bout if Prince Vesperion himself did not believe you capable."
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.
"I cannot tell you how to do it. But you meet the qualifications. Exert your will upon the world. The shadows already revere you. And if you push yourself…"
Her eyes gleamed.
"…the results will be extraordinary."
Astra absorbed her words in silence.
She was right.
He was close.
He had attempted to manifest a domain countless times in training—failing far more often than he succeeded. And even when he succeeded, the results were weak, incomplete, fragile. Still, he had seen what true domains looked like. Vesperion had wielded several. Velora possessed one of her own.
Any Rank One who intended to reach the finals needed a domain.
He at the very least can hope to deploy one that can negate or lessen the effects of Luciens.
Something in Astra's mind stirred as fragments began to align, curiosity surging as pieces fell slowly into place.
"One step closer," he murmured inwardly.
The knight straightened. "Something to consider, Lord Astra. I wish you victory."
She stepped back into the bustle of the room.
Astra smiled faintly. "Thank you."
He didn't bother looking at her reaction as he turned back toward the mana-screen.
His breath hitched.
Lucien Solaris was walking out.
Golden hair caught the light first—long, sun-kissed locks that shimmered like spun gold with every step. He was tall, broad-shouldered, built with an effortless grace that spoke of both nobility and relentless training. Pale skin dusted with faint freckles glowed beneath the arena lights, and when he lifted his head, golden eyes gleamed—bright, piercing, almost luminous, as if dawn itself burned behind them.
Astra exhaled slowly through his nose.
"What a handsome bastard," he muttered under his breath.
It was an idle thought—dismissive, almost flippant—but it lingered longer than he liked. Astra had always been described as pretty. Delicate. Ethereal. His features carried an androgynous beauty that leaned softer than most warriors, something people commented on whether he wanted them to or not. Lucien, on the other hand, looked like a statue carved by the gods themselves—a paragon of masculine divinity, radiant and unblemished.
A walking incarnation of sunlight.
Astra chuckled quietly, though unease threaded through the sound.
The announcer's voice thundered across the coliseum, magnified by mana and divine amplification.
"From the golden palaces of Sunspear—Heir to Dawn itself—Crown Prince Lucien Solaris, the Golden of House Dawn!"
The response was immediate.
The stadium erupted.
Thunderous cheers crashed together in a single overwhelming wave, shaking the stone beneath Astra's feet. Lucien strode into the arena as if born to it, his golden aura flaring against the night sky, light spilling from him in radiant arcs that pushed back the darkness itself.
Astra rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders as the weight of expectation settled fully onto him.
A man entered the room, grinning, giving him a firm thumbs-up.
Astra returned the gesture with a nod. "Thank you," he said simply.
Cheers answered him.
"Show them the shadows, my lord!"
"Glory and honor!"
He turned toward the exit.
Outside, the camera crews snapped to life, lenses gleaming as mana-recorders activated. Across the realms—across continents, cities, temples, and hidden sanctuaries—the broadcast went live.
Astra took his first step toward the tunnel leading into the coliseum.
His thoughts raced.
Billions would be watching.
Hundreds of thousands filled the stands, their voices already swelling in anticipation.
The weight of House Shadow—of its history, its ancestors, its unspoken expectations—pressed down on him like an unseen mantle.
And yet…
Beneath it all, something else burned.
Curiosity.
To witness Sun Magic firsthand.
To clash against the second seed.
Against Lucien Solaris.
Excitement curled in his chest, sharp and electric.
The shadows around him deepened, thickening as if drawn to his pulse. The air itself grew heavier, mana responding instinctively to his presence.
This is it.
He walked closer to the stage. The arena trembled, dust shaking loose from ancient stone as the roar of the crowd grew louder and louder, swelling into something vast and feral. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Then—
He stepped out onto the grand stage.
The world exploded.
Sound crashed over him in a deafening storm, voices merging into a single, overwhelming force. The announcer's voice boomed above it all, carried by mana and fate alike.
"From the streets of Duskfall—Lord Astra of Shadow, Champion of the Shadows!"
The chanting began.
Saharans filled the stands—thousands upon thousands—proud of the two warriors from their realm standing at the pinnacle, baring their strength before the world.
"Sa! Ha! Raaa!"
"Sa! Ha! Rah!"
"Sa! Ha! Raaa!"
The chant rolled like thunder.
Astra stood amid it all, shadows curling at his feet, eyes locked on the golden figure across the arena.
....
Astra stood—a warrior wrought in darkness, his armor an abyss that drank the light whole. Shadow clung to him like a second skin, coiling and breathing with him, deepening with every measured inhale. His long curls framed sharp, elegant features—lashes too long, cheekbones too refined, beauty edged with something cold and dangerous. Violet eyes gleamed behind the visor of his summoned helm, distant and star-lit, their glow piercing, unreadable, ancient.
At his side hung a long, dark sword. Its metal did not gleam. It devoured. Light bent away from its surface, swallowed without reflection. It felt less like a weapon and more like a relic, a sliver of the abyss given shape, a harbinger made steel. A blade forged by an Angel.
As his aura unfurled, the air thickened.
The arena dimmed.
Shadows stretched unnaturally long, warping and twisting as they answered their master's silent call. The weight of Astra's presence pressed outward, settling over the battlefield like an unspoken decree. This was not a challenge. It was a statement.
And yet—
Across from him stood Lucien Solaris.
Radiance given flesh.
Golden armor embraced Lucien's form, its surface etched with intricate carvings that caught the light and reflected it outward in radiant waves. A sun blazed upon his chestplate, brilliant and unmistakable, as though dawn itself had been hammered into steel. His golden hair framed a face sculpted with effortless nobility—freckled skin, sharp jaw, eyes bright with confidence and divine favor.
In his grasp rested a long bastard sword of immaculate polish, gold filigree tracing its length, a burning sun set into the hilt. It was a weapon meant to be seen. Meant to shine. Meant to inspire.
Lucien lifted a hand.
Light gathered.
A helm formed in his grasp—gold and silver interwoven with masterful precision, elegant engravings etched deep into its surface. Upon its crown rested a circlet of silver, unmistakable in its symbolism. A crown not merely worn, but claimed. He lowered it onto his head, and when his gaze locked onto Astra's—
Twin suns burned to life.
Then his aura expanded.
Warmth surged through the arena in an instant. The oppressive cold of shadow recoiled as golden radiance flooded the battlefield, light pressing hard against the abyss Astra embodied. It was like standing beneath the noonday sun—overwhelming, relentless, suffocating in its brilliance. Astra felt it immediately: his mana resisting, his shadows shuddering before settling once more, coiling tighter, denser.
"What magical prowess…" Astra murmured under his breath. "He's stronger than Vesper. This presence… it reminds me of Iskander."
This is undoubtedly S rank talent, S rank Light, S rank Sun? How terrifying.
Lucien's prowess was refined—polished through lineage, discipline, and divine favor. Radiant in a way few ever achieved, even among the elite. Light itself bent toward him, eager to obey.
A bishop mediator stepped forward, ceremonial robes trailing across the stone. His expression was composed, but his presence was deliberate. This was no ordinary bout. Given the status of those standing before him, the match bordered on lethal. The heir, after all, had to be protected.
The bishop smiled.
Mana laced his voice, carrying it across the arena with a weight that made the air tremble.
"Fight until you cannot. Best of luck. Bring honor to this tournament."
Silence followed.
On one side stood a warrior of shadow—a living abyss clad in dark steel, sword humming with restrained malice. The world around him felt dimmer, colder, anticipation coiling thick in the dark.
On the other stood a prince of the sun—golden and unyielding, a beacon of warmth and authority. Light shimmered around him, as if dawn itself had descended into the arena.
The moment stretched.
Tension thickened, taut enough to snap.
Then the horn sounded.
Uuooooo!
The battle began.
Astra moved first.
He stepped forward, blade lifting into a high guard as shadows pooled beneath his feet, unfurling like an ethereal mantle. The arena hummed with restrained violence, the roar of the crowd fading into a distant, formless pressure. His violet eyes never left Lucien.
Across from him, Lucien Solaris stood bathed in gold, his posture relaxed—too relaxed. His sword rested in a loose, open stance, unguarded to the point of insult.
A fool's stance.
He's testing me, Astra realized at once. Every subtle shift of Lucien's weight carried intent, every breath an invitation to overreach.
Don't overcommit.
The reminder echoed just as Astra vanished.
He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, shadows compressing beneath him as his blade came down. Steel met steel with a thunderous crack that rippled through the arena. The force shuddered up Astra's arms, numbing, but he held firm, pressing into the bind.
Lucien flowed with it.
There was no wasted motion—no strain. His sword slid, turned, riposted as though it were an extension of his body rather than a weapon in his hand. The counter came in a smooth, rising arc, aiming to peel Astra's guard open from below.
Astra stepped inside the strike.
The Sword of Shadows took hold.
He closed the distance, forcing the engagement into a tight bind where leverage mattered more than flourish. Their blades locked, screaming under the pressure. For a breathless instant, neither yielded.
Lucien's golden eyes met Astra's through the helm.
There was no strain there. Only amusement.
He's not using his full strength yet.
The realization struck just as Lucien disengaged.
His blade snapped back, then flashed forward in a precise, lethal cut aimed for Astra's head. Astra retreated a half step, barely clearing the strike—but Lucien was already moving. His hips turned, power transferring cleanly through his frame as the sword came down in a flawless vertical arc, honed by years of perfect discipline.
Too fast.
Astra raised his blade in time, but the impact scraped down his armor, carving a shallow gash through shadowed steel.
Damn it.
Lucien didn't pause. His sword was already in motion again, light streaking with each movement. Astra's instincts screamed as he calculated, adjusted, searched for an opening at Lucien's flank—
—but Lucien was faster.
He spun away, blade singing through the air, its edge grazing Astra's cloak of shadows. The darkness recoiled, shuddering under the oppressive brilliance pouring from Lucien's weapon.
Pressure mounted.
Every strike Lucien made was precise, measured, merciless. Not reckless. Not desperate. Each one carried the quiet authority of mastery.
What a swordsman, Astra thought grimly. How does someone this young wield such perfection?
He'd fought skilled opponents before. This was different.
There was something else here—something deeper than technique alone. A power layered beneath the blade, reinforcing every motion. But Astra couldn't afford to dwell on it.
Shadows surged as he called them in, lunging forward with a sweeping horizontal strike meant to break Lucien's rhythm.
Lucien met it without effort.
His golden blade turned in a wide arc, intercepting Astra's strike cleanly. The force rattled Astra's arms, but he used the recoil, pivoting sharply and driving a thrust toward Lucien's chest.
Too slow.
Lucien swayed aside like a dancer avoiding a partner's step.
Then his fist crashed into Astra's face.
The blow sent him stumbling back, blood spilling at the corner of his mouth as heat flared behind his eyes.
Shit.
He wiped the taste of iron away with his tongue, fury simmering beneath the pain. He's toying with me.
The arena seemed to grow hotter with every breath Lucien took.
Astra answered with desperation and guile, calling water and shadow together as he fired a compressed sphere at point-blank range—a vicious, treacherous strike meant to carve space.
Lucien cut it apart mid-flight.
The water split cleanly, dissipating as Lucien slipped through the lashing shadows that followed, his movements effortless, almost graceful. His blade passed through darkness as though it were mist, severing tendrils before they could close.
Astra's frustration surged.
I can't keep up like this.
His muscles burned. His breath came harder. Light and heat pressed down on him from all sides. Somewhere deep within, the blessing stirred—the star magic tugging, urging him to unleash it, to tip the scales.
Not yet.
Not here.
He wanted more than survival.
Lucien's voice carried across the space between them, light and amused.
"Not bad for a mere Champion of Shadow," he said, almost kindly. Almost mocking. "You are quite skilled."
His blade lifted, golden light intensifying.
"You shall witness the Sword of Light," Lucien continued. "Consider it your greatest honor."
Astra's eyes widened.
His sword came up on instinct, but he already knew—it was too late.
The bastard sword in Lucien's hands began to glow.
At first it was little more than a breath of light, a soft halo clinging to the steel. Then it intensified, swelling, brightening, until the blade blazed as if it were being reforged midair, becoming something closer to sunlight than metal. The radiance bled outward, oppressive and absolute.
The shadows recoiled violently.
They did not resist. They fled.
Astra had never faced anything like this. This was no mere technique, no clever manipulation of form or angle. Lucien was no longer just fighting with a sword—he was bringing his magic fully to bear.
Light detonated.
Lucien vanished.
Then he was there.
Right in front of Astra.
The thrust came for his chest, impossibly fast, the blade screaming as it cut through the air. Astra barely reacted in time, his sword snapping up in a desperate block. The impact was catastrophic. Power crashed into him like a falling star, driving him back, rattling his bones.
"Shit!" Astra cursed.
He twisted desperately, sacrificing position to avoid the worst of it—but not enough. The tip of Lucien's blade scraped across his side, tearing through armor and flesh alike. Pain flared white-hot as blood spilled freely.
The crowd erupted.
Astra barely heard them.
The world narrowed to heat, light, and the thunder of his own pulse. His thoughts spiraled.
I can't do this. Not like this. He's too strong. His swordplay—his magic—this isn't something I can match head-on. I need to think. I need—
Lucien's voice shattered the thought.
Mana surged with it, the temperature of the arena climbing as he pressed forward, relentless, disappointed.
"Is this really all you can do, little shadow?"
The next slash came down like judgment itself. Astra caught it—but barely. His arms screamed as the impact sent agony tearing through muscle and bone.
"You," Lucien continued, stepping in, pressure unyielding. "The one they dared compare to me? The Champion of Shadow?"
A kick slammed into Astra's midsection, sending him flying backward. He hit the ground hard, skidding across scorched stone.
"Yet this is all you can show me," Lucien said coolly. "Really?"
Astra dragged in air like he was drowning.
His body burned. His muscles felt like lead, his lungs screamed, and the heat pouring off Lucien was suffocating—crushing the breath from his chest. His mana reserves were draining rapidly, pulled apart under the strain.
The shadows shrank from Lucien's aura, recoiling as though the light itself burned them to the core.
He was being countered completely.
Lucien hadn't even fully unleashed his magic—this was swordplay, enhancement, presence. And still, Astra was being overwhelmed.
"This needs to change," Astra rasped. "Now."
He stopped holding back.
Mana surged violently through him as he threw his reserves open. Shadows lashed outward, desperate, clawing for space, for purchase.
Lucien did not relent.
He pressed the attack with the grace of a dancer and the cruelty of a master. His blade flashed again, carving through Astra's armor. Blood followed. Astra staggered, barely upright.
Shadows struck for Lucien—fell short.
Water formed—evaporated before it reached him.
Every strike Astra attempted failed. Every step was backward. He was trapped in Lucien's rhythm, forced into survival.
Lucien's words lingered in his mind, sharper than steel.
The weight of Lucien's gaze bore down on him like a spotlight, forcing him to confront the truth.
He was losing.
The Blessing pulsed.
Astra's thoughts fractured as he analyzed through the pain.
Such swordplay… such power. My ancestors truly faced this? And he's only Rank One. Then what level of mastery does the divine wield?
Curiosity surged—dangerous, invasive.
"Damn it," Astra snarled. "Damn this Blessing!"
The distraction cost him.
Lucien cut him deeply, light flaring brighter as his presence intensified, incandescent now. The pressure mounted—on Astra's body, his mind, his very sense of self.
He felt himself unraveling.
The heat.
The crushing aura.
The crowd's roar turning viscous, suffocating.
Lucien's tireless onslaught.
His inner star calling out, pleading.
The Blessing pulling, tugging, drowning him in impossible curiosity as chaotic threads unraveled before his eyes.
Astra felt like he was drowning.
The pull of his inner star was irresistible, made worse—far worse—by the Blessing gnawing at his thoughts, amplifying every impulse, every reckless temptation.
What if I unleashed everything?
The thought slid through his mind like poison wrapped in silk.
I bet that smug bastard—and those idiots screaming in the stands—would be real shocked.
His star core flickered in response, a cruel, brilliant pulse, mocking him with its boundless light.
Astra clenched his teeth.
No.Not yet.Not like this.
"I can't," he forced the thought through the pressure crushing his skull. "I need maximum benefits."
He reached inward, deeper than pain, deeper than breath, toward the pulsing star at his core.
No. Stop.Stop—no.
The celestial mana within him stirred, vast and ancient, as though something immense were rolling in its sleep. Astra had only ever touched that power within the Kingdom of Stars—a sanctified realm beyond the Fracture, a place that magnified and restrained him in equal measure.
"…No," he whispered."No—NO."
The star did not listen.
It throbbed harder, its rhythm echoing through his veins, relentless, demanding to be seen. And as Lucien's next strike descended—brilliant, merciless—
Something snapped.
Astra's mind roared.
His voice tore free, thick with malice, layered with mana so dense it split the tension of the arena like a blade cleaving silk.
"ENOUGH!"
The shadows answered.
They surged violently, no longer recoiling from the Sword of Light, no longer hesitating. They howled outward, defiant, collapsing inward and then exploding forth with a force that stunned the entire coliseum.
Astra stepped in.
Half a step.Fast.Precise.
His fist slammed into Lucien's chest.
The impact rang like a cannon shot. Lucien was driven backward as shadows roared around Astra, deep and obedient, coiling like a living storm. Light faltered. The arena dimmed. The oppressive heat receded, replaced by a creeping cold as wisps of shadow peeled from Astra's form like falling embers of night.
The pressure lifted—just for a moment.
A flash of inspiration tore through Astra's mind.
Is this… my will?
The pieces began to connect.
Astra wiped blood from his armor as his aura surged violently, raw and unrestrained. His violet eyes burned brighter now, carrying something darker—something heavier. A will to conquer, a will to win. The shadows circled him, restless yet reverent, struggling to keep pace with the intensity of his presence.
The crowd erupted, mistaking the moment for a turning blow, for an ending.
Astra knew better.
This fight had only just begun. Lucien hadn't even gone all out, and Astra was constantly improving.
Lucien rolled to a stop several paces away, boots scraping stone as he rose smoothly to his feet. His golden eyes gleamed—not with anger, but intrigue.
When his gaze met Astra's, Lucien tilted his helmed head.
"Oh yes," he said softly. "Good. Very good."
His grin widened.
"You aren't so weak after all."
Astra didn't answer.
He looked instead to the shadows.
They shuddered.
They had grown darker—thicker, heavier, alive in a way they hadn't been before. Lucien watched with open fascination as they quivered with an unsettling energy, no longer shrinking from his light.
They feared something else now.
They feared him.
"How interesting," Lucien murmured. "The shadows are afraid."
His tone turned thoughtful, almost amused.
"This… I haven't seen before. Shadows that fear their own master. As if you're some kind of tyrant."
A pause.
"Almost sad."
Astra's lips curled.
"Oh, Prince of Dawn," he growled, voice low and sharp with irritation, violence simmering just beneath the surface.
"You really piss me off."
With a sudden burst of speed, Astra surged forward.
Shadows swallowed him whole, wrapping around his form like a living mantle, obedient and absolute. They did not hesitate. They did not recoil. They followed.
Lucien's eyes flickered in surprise. Instinct took over—he released a violent burst of light to repel the charge—but Astra was already inside the glow. His blade slipped past the brilliance, and his strike landed hard against Lucien's side, forcing the prince to stumble back several steps.
For the first time, the crowd roared in uncertainty.
The battle resumed in earnest.
Light and shadow collided again and again, the air cracking with every exchange, mana screaming as it was bent and broken by opposing wills. Lucien's aura grew brighter, hotter, more ferocious—yet with every flare of his sword, Astra's shadows deepened in response. Where Lucien burned like a rising sun, Astra darkened into something vast and bottomless.
Astra's eyes gleamed.
He began to see it.
The Sword of Light was no longer just overwhelming force—it was structure. Pattern. Discipline. He watched how Lucien's blade gleamed a heartbeat before each strike, how light pooled along certain edges, how subtle shifts in weight preceded sudden bursts of speed. Alternating footwork. Controlled overextensions. Precision hidden beneath brilliance.
If Astra had to name its core principles.
Speed. Efficiency. Illusion.
He dissected it all.
And yet—even knowing—countering it remained brutal.
Lucien was a true master.
Still… the onslaught no longer felt impossible.
Astra began to land blows in their clashes—glancing cuts, disrupted rhythms, forced retreats. Each one drew a flicker of surprise from Lucien.
And something else.
Joy.
Then, slowly, they separated.
They circled one another at the heart of the arena, blades low, auras rolling like opposing tides. Above them, airships hovered in silent formation. The crowd leaned forward as one, breath held tight. Outside the coliseum, betting halls erupted—odds shifting wildly, prize pools swelling, spectators flooding in from across the Fracture.
Mortals watched.
And some immortals.
This fight had gone on long enough that any strike could be the last.
Lucien straightened.
His golden eyes burned brighter than before, his armor glowing incandescent, heat radiating outward in visible waves. Astra felt it press against him, forcing him back a step as Lucien's aura continued to climb—stronger, hotter, heavier.
When Lucien spoke, his voice made the very air waver.
"Brace yourself, Champion of Shadow," he said calmly.
"For you are about to witness… the father of all."
He raised his hand and pointed skyward.
"The Sun."
The world responded.
Ambient mana surged from every direction, coalescing above Lucien's head in blinding brilliance. Light gathered—no, condensed—growing hotter, denser, more intense with each passing second. Astra's eyes widened.
This wasn't Lucien's mana alone.
The earth beneath them steamed. The black sand shimmered. Golden flecks embedded in the arena stone began to glow as the air itself trembled.
Lucien was drawing from everything.
Astra could only perceive the truth because of the Blessing's cursed curiosity. His vision fractured—and for a fleeting instant, he saw the threads.
Mana streams everywhere.
Flowing from the ground.From the air.From the arena itself.
Rivers of ambient power fed into Lucien, swallowed whole, devoured by the forming sun above him. This wasn't conjuration.
It was theft.
The world bowed to his will, offering its energy willingly—light, heat, even something deeper.
Life.
Shit—the sun gives life.
What kind of spell is this?
"H—how…?" Astra breathed.
Heat rippled violently now, the air distorting, the crowd screaming in awe rather than fear. To them, it was spectacle. Glory. Divinity made manifest.
To Astra—
It was a herald.
Incandescent purity.Absolute fire.A force that when honed, burned worlds.
Lucien's voice rang out once more, heavy enough to make the shadows shudder.
Astra stood frozen—not in fear, but in grim understanding—as the sun above Lucien continued to grow.
And grow.
And grow.
"Oh Sun, my Sun."
The gathered energy stabilized, condensing into a miniature star suspended nearly seven feet above Lucien's crowned helm. Wisps of radiant mana spiraled inward, feeding it endlessly, until the light ceased flickering and instead burned—steady, absolute, unquestioned.
"Drive out the darkness."
The arena answered.
Night collapsed into day.
Shadows shrank instantly, pressed flat against the ground, clinging to walls and armor as though hiding from judgment itself. What little darkness remained felt thin, suffocated, stripped of confidence.
"Banish the night."
Astra staggered as the weight hit him all at once.
His limbs felt heavy. His breath shortened. His mana churned sluggishly, suppressed beneath an overwhelming authority that rejected his very nature. The shadows recoiled inward, no longer eager—no longer bold.
"Nurture all that is worthy and pure…"
The light intensified.
"…Annihilate all that defiles the light."
Astra's vision swam.
As you rise upon thy eternal domain…
Lucien raised his golden sword high.
And the sun obeyed.
"Oh Sun of Dawn."
Light detonated above the coliseum.
An artificial sun ignited directly overhead, its brilliance merciless, its heat suffocating. Twilight vanished as though it had never existed, replaced by a blinding noon forced violently into being. The sky burned white-gold with hints of violet far above. The air screamed.
Astra flinched as the radiance flooded the battlefield—not just light, but authority. His shadow shriveled beneath him, retreating in protest, pressed flat against the stone like a condemned thing.
Beyond the arena, people gasped.
Across the Fracture, eyes widened.
Such magic stood at the pinnacle of all spellcraft, regardless of rank—an expression not of power alone, but dominion.
Then came the pressure.
Lucien's aura surged outward, vast and crushing, pressing against the world itself. His will slammed into the lingering darkness, challenging it, commanding it—ordering it—to submit.
The shadows recoiled violently.
They writhed like wounded beasts, twisting and shrinking, refusing to advance. Astra felt it intimately—his power panicking, losing cohesion.
Becoming afraid.
The realization stole his breath.
His shadows—his essence—feared Lucien's light.
It was wrong.
Darkness did not simply retreat. It froze. Trapped beneath an invisible gravity, pinned in place by something immeasurably greater. They hated this presence. Resented it.
But more than anything—
They recognized it.
Light was their tyrant.
Lucien stood at the center of it all, bathed in golden radiance, a prince no longer—an emperor ascending his throne.
Astra's grip tightened around his sword, knuckles whitening beneath his gauntlet, violet eyes wide with awe and disbelief.
"Holy shit…" he breathed. "What power… how is he only a Rank One?"
And there they stood.
Astra—the harbinger of Night, driven to the brink.
Lucien—the proud Prince of Dawn, crowned in living sunlight, ready to burn the world clean.