The Celestial Stadium trembled under an impossible silence. The thousands of souls gathered held their breath, trapped between astonishment and disbelief. Above, the floating screens projected the figure of Garreth Fitzgerald, walking wrapped in black fire, his violet eyes burning like ancestral gems, and the two revolvers hanging from his hands like judges from another world.
A whisper broke the ice. A curious voice, almost mocking, from one of the boxes:
"Why all the fuss? Who the hell is this Garreth guy?" asked a young aristocrat, oblivious to the weight of the words he uttered.
An old man at his side—face furrowed with scars, eyes like blades, a veteran of many wars—turned slowly toward him. His voice, grave, roared like contained thunder:
"Seriously… you don't know?"
The young man blinked, confused. The old man leaned toward him, almost with pity, but also with rage:
"You're looking at… the Fitzgerald legend. Garreth Fitzgerald. The idol of the rebellion from two hundred years ago. The man who defied the Empire when the Celestial Gardens had already been suspended above the world for a hundred years… and wanted to bring them back down."
A murmur ran through the stands, like waves of electricity. The old man continued, his voice rising in intensity, drawing looks from nobles, soldiers, and commoners alike:
"He was one of the two strongest in his era. The original bearer… of the Violet Eyes. Yes, they had existed centuries before… but he was the first to awaken that power after dormant generations. The first heir… and the forgotten bastard of his lineage."
The young aristocrat's eyes widened, astonished.
"Bastard…? But then…?"
"Exactly!" the veteran nodded, striking the box's railing with his fist. "Don't you see? His hair… it's black! His violet eyes! Like that girl in the exam, the one with the specters. The girl who invoked the Dance of the Specters… is a Fitzgerald bastard. Like him! Something the Fitzgerald House has tried to erase from its history by decorating false portraits of Garreth with fine golden hair and pointed ears to hide their shame—their greatest pride was a bastard."
The crowd was paralyzed. Everyone's eyes returned to the screen, to Sofia, surrounded by burning specters, behind Garreth Fitzgerald's very specter, advancing toward Godric like an omen of death.
The old man continued, almost like a forbidden tale:
"He was the one who created the first energy weapons through primary flow. But he didn't stop there… he reinforced them with nanotechnology. Garreth was the first to fuse nanoparticles with vital energy, creating a synthesis no one ever equaled. That's why Fitzgerald weapons aren't just weapons… they're living works, extensions of their soul."
Another voice from the stands asked, incredulous:
"But… that technique…? The Dance of the Specters…? What is primary flow?"
The old man smiled, a smile that was half reverence, half fear:
"A technique that no one… no one has been able to replicate since Garreth died. Only he was capable of invoking it. Not even the pure-blooded Fitzgeralds inherited it. None of them."
His gaze returned to the screen, his tone lowering almost to a reverent whisper:
"…until today."
His voice became even more solemn:
"Flow," he said, "is the vital energy that runs through every living being, channeled in different ways according to the nature of the technique or power one wishes to use. Some abilities require one or several flows: spiritual, psychic, celestial, cosmic, elemental, bestial, or divine. Primary flow, in particular, is what allows one to create and manipulate matter itself. Creating a weapon through primary flow is extremely difficult and advanced, and even more complex to launch a projectile through it. On the other hand, the specter summoning technique requires channeling energy through spiritual flow, but not just anyone can use this technique: only those who possess Fitzgerald blood can awaken this inherited genetic technique, and only when they manage to activate their spiritual flow. Moreover, not all Fitzgeralds can use it: only those born with violet eyes have the ability to invoke the Dance of the Specters; a Fitzgerald with blue or green eyes could never do so."
The words floated like an omen. Garreth Fitzgerald's face on the screens was a poem of fire and shadows, advancing amid the dancing specters.
The old man murmured to himself:
"And now… it reappears… in another bastard… just like him."
The silence that followed was absolute. In the boxes, in the stands, in the very sky… it was as if the entire world were waiting.
Down there, Sofia and Garreth walked together, shadows swirling around them. And in their violet eyes burned the same spark that two centuries ago had ignited a man's rebellion against the heavens.
History… had just repeated itself.
And this time… no one knew how it would end.
Down there, the air trembled like a taut string about to break. Godric, motionless before Garreth Fitzgerald's burning specter, stared with eyes wide open, pupils constricted like those of a trapped animal.
A chill ran down his spine. His lower lip trembled. His words came out broken, shattered, laden with disbelief and fury:
"N-no… don't tell me that…" he swallowed, unable to look away. "Garreth… Garreth had… black hair?"
A venomous whisper ran through his mind, like a dagger burying itself deeper and deeper. His face contorted in horror and rage.
"That… that means he was a bastard…" his voice trembled, his jaw slackened. "The legend… of our lineage… is a bastard!"
His knees gave way. He fell to the ground, kneeling, trembling hands pressing fists against the earth.
"It can't be… it can't be… it can't be…" he murmured, whispered, moaned.
And suddenly, as if an inner dam broke, he raised both fists and began hitting his head forcefully, again and again, gasping between each blow, his breathing accelerated, eyes overflowing with hatred and desperation:
"Damn dirty blood!" he screamed, between choked sobs, each blow against his forehead bouncing in the air like a desperate drum. "Damn brat! Damn bastard!"
From her position, Brenda raised her rifle, aiming at him with steady hands but burning eyes. Her mouth trembled for an instant, but the words burst forth, laden with everything she had kept silent for years:
"Don't forget, Godric…" her voice was firm, frozen, but at its core burned hidden fury. "The dirty blood…"
Godric turned sharply toward her, the veins in his neck pulsing, eyes unhinged.
Brenda took a deep breath, and her next phrase was a shot straight to the soul:
"…the dirty blood… is your sister."
A cutting silence spilled like blades.
Godric paled. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. A shudder ran through him like an invisible whip.
Brenda kept her sight fixed, her voice barely breaking:
"The same sister you despised all her life… the same one who carries those violet eyes you fear so much…"
Her finger closed on the trigger.
"…that's why…" she whispered, bitter and determined. "That's why I hate you, Godric."
The shot cracked.
A roar of violet light pierced the air, straight at his heart.
The echo rumbled through the jungle.
History… had just shattered.
Brenda's shot crossed the air like a cutting roar, but before it impacted… something else struck him.
A memory.
Godric felt his mind being dragged, submerged in a whirlpool of memories.
Little Sofia.
She was there, before him, with those same violet eyes, looking at him from the past. She was barely six, seven years old. Her black hair gleamed under the sun, tangled in soft locks, and her laugh… her laugh was crystalline, light, innocent.
He took care of her. Always took care of her. He held her hand and they walked through the Fitzgerald house gardens. He brought her hidden sweets, taught her to climb walls, told her stories under the stars.
And Brenda, small too, always with them. The three of them. An innocent trinity, a circle that seemed eternal.
But then…
The image changed.
She appeared.
His mother. Catherine Fitzgerald. A tall, slender figure, almost unreal. With skin pale as marble, platinum blonde hair falling like frozen cascades, green eyes like sharpened jade, and those pointed ears that made her seem more an elven creature than human. Her beauty was legendary… and her tongue, a soft poison.
The woman called him, sat him before her, hands crossed on her lap. Her voice was sweet, melodic, but the words fell like serpents from her lips:
"Godric… listen well, my beautiful boy…" she said, caressing his head with deceptive tenderness. "That girl… that creature… is not one of us. She's a stain. Dirty blood. A disgrace sent by fate to ruin our family."
Her green eyes sparkled, like hidden embers under ice.
"You must distance yourself from her," she continued, with a dangerous smile. "She… will only bring shame. She'll darken your name, ruin your lineage. She's your father's mistake… and now she'll be your burden, unless you reject her."
Godric, still a child, trembled.
"But… but she's my sister…" he whispered, voice breaking.
The woman tilted her head, her lips drawing a slow, glacial smile.
"No. She's not your sister." Her words were daggers wrapped in velvet. "She's an intruder. An impostor. A black thorn in our house's garden."
The image changed again.
The following days.
His mother, whispering lies in his ear.
Black seeds sown one after another: "Sofia hates you," "Sofia wants to take everything from you," "Sofia is the shadow of shame."
Then the orders:
"Go. Tell everyone what she is. Let them know. Let no one else approach that abomination."
Godric, pushed, forced… went to the streets.
He shouted it. Repeated words that weren't his.
People began to whisper. Then to point. Then to strike.
Sofia, small, confused, hurt. Her scraped knees, her little face stained with tears, looking with those violet eyes only at him.
At her brother.
At her traitor.
And after… his mother forbade seeing her again. Closed the doors. Closed the windows. Closed his world.
Godric, behind those walls, heard her cry in the courtyard. Every night. Weaker. More distant.
Until one day… she cried no more.
"…It can't be…" Godric whispered, now, in the present, kneeling in the earth, gasping, hands still hitting his forehead. "It can't be… it can't be…"
He raised his gaze. Before him, Sofia. Upright. Firm. Surrounded by specters and black fire. With those same violet eyes he had once betrayed.
"Damn dirty blood!" he roared, but his voice no longer sounded furious… but broken.
Brenda, raising the rifle, looked at him with a mixture of contempt and compassion.
"Don't forget, Godric…" she said, voice low, but as sharp as a dagger. "The dirty blood… is your sister."
A shot broke the air.
Memory, truth, the present… collapsed at the same time.
The shot exploded. A dry, brutal roar.
The bullet impacted full in Godric's chest, and his body, as if propelled by an invisible force, staggered backward. His breathing cut short for an instant. His eyes, overflowing with memories, blinked confused.
He fell.
His knee struck the earth. Then his entire body, as if gravity weighed more than ever. Dust rose around him. A fragile instant, suspended.
Before him, Sofia took a step forward. Pure instinct. Her arm rose, her hand extended toward him, as if wanting to stop his fall.
"Brother…"
But then something stopped her. Something deeper. She remembered.
She remembered those same hands that once lifted her, covered her, held her… and then those same hands that pointed at her, pushed her away, betrayed her.
Her face's expression changed. She slowly lowered her hand. Her gaze hardened, transforming into tempered steel.
Godric fell completely, his body striking the earth, exhaling a broken breath. He looked at the sky. Clouds spun above his head like heavy whirlpools.
And then…
A shadow rose beside him.
A gigantic, colossal figure, marked by scars and power. A man with bare torso, arms like iron columns, and a mane of golden fire bristled backward. His asymmetric dark titanochrome armor seemed born from a battlefield, still with ancient blood stains and cracks forged by war.
Thorgar Blooddrake.
Monarch Captain of Kraven's squadron.
A monster made flesh.
His voice rumbled over Godric like thunder laden with mockery:
"Get up, Godric." A harsh laugh burst between his fangs. "What are you doing lying on the ground like a wounded dog?"
His gaze descended on him, fierce, proud.
"Don't tell me these brats…" his chin pointed toward Sofia, Brenda, Eldar "…are beating you."
Another laugh, graver, crueler:
"Didn't you say you were going to take the Monarch Captain title from me?" his golden eyes burned, intense as embers in darkness. "Not under my damn watch."
Godric raised his gaze. His breathing was harsh, agitated. Sweat and blood ran down his temples. But then… something in his gaze changed.
A gleam returned. A flame lit amid the ashes.
His hands closed into fists.
His body rose.
"…Tch." He spat blood on the ground, his lips twisted in a crooked smile, broken, but alive. "They won't take anything from me…"
His legs trembled, but he rose completely. The earth beneath his feet cracked. His back straightened. His shadow grew again.
"I won't lose." His voice was a grave whisper, dense as a promise sealed in iron.
And before him, Thorgar nodded, satisfied, while thunder began to roar above.
The storm hadn't ended.
It was only beginning.
A radiance descended from the sky.
First a silhouette. Then wings. And finally, a sublime figure:
It was Zophiel, Cherubim of the Archangel Fortress, second highest rank. Her hair was a pink river floating like a divine veil. Her eyes, red as hidden embers, looked from the heights with an impossible mixture of tenderness and judgment. Her angelic face seemed sculpted by the gods, and her violet, metallic, and brilliant armor embraced every curve of her sensual, elegant, fearsome body. Four metallic wings, white and pointed, spread behind her, casting flashes with each beat.
At her side descended another figure.
Aralim, a Throne of the Archangel Fortress, third highest rank. His golden armor gleamed like the sun itself, celestial hair billowed like liquid flames, and celestial eyes sparkled like fragments of sky. Aralim's wings were pure fire, pointed wings of living flame that crackled like burning spears.
Both floated over the battle. A reverent silence enveloped them. The jungle itself seemed to bow before them.
Zophiel spoke first, her voice ethereal, laden with a sweetness that cut:
"The Judgment has begun."
Aralim smiled, arms crossed, gaze serene and merciless:
"Who dares… to defy the heavens?"
Everyone looked up.
Because Heaven itself had descended to Amazonia.
And Judgment… was just beginning.
Then descended Arjun Senapati. Tall, with coppery skin, amber eyes burning like embers, his black hair braided with golden threads falling to his shoulders. His armor, engraved with ancient inscriptions and small gems, seemed to pulse with ancestral power. On his chest, the symbol of a roaring sun shone intensely. He carried a ceremonial khanda whose edge changed color with his anger, and a round shield adorned with heroic reliefs. Around him, the air vibrated, as if he walked wrapped in invisible fire.
He was more than a warrior. He was the Lieutenant of Monarch General Elena Malatesta's squadron. One of her right hands. Her faithful shadow. Her indomitable spear.
Brenda swallowed, her energy rifle still smoking. Sofia tightened her lips, surrounded by specters wrapped in black fire, awaiting the order. Eldar, covered in dark fur, bleeding, growled:
"…Now the fight has become impossible…" his voice, rough as stone. "We're at a disadvantage."
Before them, Godric, Thorgar, Zophiel, Aralim, and Arjun aligned themselves. Five titans. Five living banners of the Empire. Each step was thunder, each gaze, a judgment.
Sofia inhaled deeply, raised her arms, and whispered to her specters:
"Dance… one more time… with me."
Brenda loaded her rifle, nanoparticles spinning in purple spirals, solidifying the weapon as an extension of her soul.
Eldar flexed his claws, his fur bristling, eyes lit.
And on the other side… the five figures advanced.
Each of their steps was a falling mountain.
Each of their gazes was a sentence.
But none retreated.
Not Brenda.
Not Sofia.
Not Eldar.
Because even though everything was lost… they remained standing.
Because even though the sky had descended… they would keep fighting.
Because even though death came dressed as angel, throne, and warrior… they wouldn't surrender.
The earth vibrated.
The air burned.
The gods descended…
…and the true battle began.