Vesper's smile deepened, his stance relaxed but poised, like a predator playing with its prey.
"Wow you adapt fast," he mused, tilting his head as he infused his voice with mana strengthening himself. "But let's see if you can keep up."
Astra's instincts flared.
Something about Vesper shifted.
His presence sharpened not like a noble teasing a friend, but like a blade finally being unsheathed.
Astra barely had a moment to process it before Vesper moved.
Fast.
A flicker of motion—a step—a blur of shadow.
Astra raised his sword on instinct. Too slow.
Vesper's strike came at an unnatural angle, bending around Astra's guard like a coiling serpent. The moment Astra adjusted, the blade disappeared.
He barely dodged the true attack a reverse grip slash that skimmed past his ribs.
Astra pivoted, stepping back to reset. Vesper gave him no time.
A rapid barrage of strikes rained down unpredictable, flowing, ruthless. House Shadows unique variation of Shadow Sword. Every motion was a deception, every feint a real threat.
Astra tried to meet speed with speed, flowing with the rhythm instead of fighting it. He twisted, dodged, redirected. His mind burned, his Curse devouring every movement, analyzing every micro-adjustment in Vesper's stance.
But it wasn't enough.
Vesper was still ahead.
Astra barely blocked a downward slash, the impact rattling his arms. Before he could counter, Vesper twisted inside his guard, flipping his blade and driving his hilt straight into Astra's ribs.
Astra staggered.
Another impact a kick to his knee.
His stance broke a fatal mistake.
Vesper's sword was at his throat before he could even blink.
Silence.
Astra stood there, panting. His sword still raised but useless.
Vesper's grin never faded as he stepped back. "Not bad."
Astra exhaled sharply. His body screamed in protest, but his mind? It was clearer than ever.
Because now, he understood.
Every move Vesper made, every adjustment it was all calculated. His skill wasn't just raw talent it was honed instinct, refined by years of mastery.
Gods Astra sighed. He knew Vesper was on another level with his battle strength, but he didn't know which level...Well he had just caught the barest glimpse of that level.
"Rank two battle strength" He sighed inwardly. Vesper was a mere rank one yet he could reach rank two battle strength and perhaps even mid their rank two if he fully went out. This was an uncommon feat!
Vesper sheathed his sword with a satisfied hum. "You're still rough as hell, but…" He met Astra's gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his sharp grin. "Yeah. You're gonna be terrifying soon."
Astra wiped the sweat from his brow. "…I'll take that as a compliment."
After getting thoroughly humiliated by Vesper, Astra groaned and stretched his sore limbs. "I swear… you get off on beating the hell out of me."
Vesper laughed, clapping a hand on Astra's shoulder. "You're not wrong."
Astra shoved him off with a glare, but Vesper just smirked and led the way toward the showers.
The estate's bathhouse was quiet at this hour—a dark, stone-clad chamber with warm water cascading from carved spouts, steaming against the cool air. They both stepped in, letting the heat melt away the exhaustion from their bodies.
Astra sighed, sinking into the water. "I think my bones are crying."
Vesper scoffed, scrubbing his hair. "Please. If your bones could cry, mine would be writing poetry about suffering."
Astra chuckled. "You're insane."
"You're just figuring that out?" Vesper smirked.
They cleaned up quickly, dressing in fresh training gear before heading to the dining hall.
The dining hall was mostly empty, save for a few servants and late-night warriors grabbing meals. Astra and Vesper piled their plates high—roasted meats, spiced rice, and thick bread slathered in butter.
Astra devoured his food like a man starved, earning a raised eyebrow from Vesper.
"You eat like someone's about to steal it," Vesper remarked.
Astra swallowed a mouthful of rice. "That's because someone usually does."
Vesper gave him an exaggerated side-eye. "You do realize we live in a noble estate, right? No one's snatching food here."
Astra stabbed a piece of meat as he sighed. "Old habits die hard."
Vesper hummed in amusement but didn't push further. Instead, he picked up a piece of bread, dramatically sniffed it, then nodded. "Ah yes, the scent of privilege."
Astra nearly choked. "Shut up."
Vesper just grinned.
.....
Kingdom of Stars, Unknown Space
Astra reclined on a high, celestial chair carved from obsidian and starlight, the throne of the Night God himself. The holy Castle of the Night loomed around him—vaulted ceilings made of deep nebula stone, walls that shimmered with drifting constellations, and stained-glass windows depicting myths of the long-dead god whose realm he now governed.
Astra looked over a report sent from Saint Satalus. He flipped through his notes with a faint, amused chuckle. His sudden appearance in the Church of Night had caused absolute pandemonium. Saints scrambled, meetings derailed, networks of communication fell into disarray. The moment Astra had taken initial control of the Kingdom, it sealed itself off completely. Even those who possessed the sacred rites to enter could not breach the realm unless he permitted it.
Astra.The realm's new ruler.
And that single fact had shifted the balance of power between him and the church more than any political maneuver ever could. The Sacred realm had always been their hidden trump card—a fortified sanctum overflowing with divine protections, ancient wards, relics, and rituals. Now all of it rested in his hands.
He leaned back, letting that delicious realization linger."They're in a tight, tight spot," he murmured.
His gaze turned upward toward the swirling constellations embedded in the throne room's ceiling. Here, in the heart of the sacred realm, something within him always felt… different.
"With my current strength, I'm barely a high-tier Rank One. Maybe a pinnacle-tier on a very good day." He rubbed his temple, brows furrowing. "Yet in here? My soul feels… overwhelming. Sharper. My senses cut through space like blades. I can feel every inch of this kingdom—its walls, its wards, its laws."
He paused, breath steadying."And last time, I could even use divination…"
Astra raised a hand.
The stars responded.
The air warped, shimmering with celestial distortion. The constellations spiraled downward like a slow cosmic whirlpool, their light filtering through the stained glass and collecting before him. Reality folded into a vision—threads of possibility, arrays of power, pathways of authority.
He divined what the Kingdom offered him.What it allowed.What it concealed.
Moments later the stars snapped back into their rightful places, and the swirling distortion dissolved. Astra blinked twice, grounding himself as the haze of concentrated power faded.
His eyes regained their clarity.
"…I see."Shock flickered across his face.
The Kingdom held passive abilities—and active ones he could mobilize in bursts.
No being could sense that he carried the Kingdom with him—not unless they were an extremely high-tier angel, one whose godhood touched the concepts of Night or belonged to the Night God's lineage. Even gods themselves would remain blind unless they possessed a realm intimately connected to this one—and were close enough for the divine resonance to overlap.
"That explains why the Devil couldn't sense this trump card at all…"
He exhaled, piecing the logic together.
The realm could serve as a harbor for his soul, reinforcing his existence—but only for short windows of time. When divining, he could bypass even divine-level barriers, so long as he had a proper anchor or a key subject to base the divination around. Nothing could be deduced from nothing.
He could also open or close the realm's access, allowing beings to enter even when the world outside was locked against them. He could bypass wards and communication restrictions, summon saints to safe areas, and move them unnoticed.
But one ability stood above the rest.
"The passive boost to my Star Magic…" His breath deepened. "It's no small increase. At least twenty percent. Combined with the Crown of Stars…" He shook his head in disbelief. "If I learn proper Star Divination, the results will be terrifying."
His affinity surged, amplified by the realm's silent blessing. The very air responded to him differently.
"There are more abilities here," Astra admitted quietly, "but I'm too weak to see them."
He let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"A sacred realm is still a sacred realm... and I barely understand what I'm sitting on."
The castle answered only with the soft hum of distant constellations.
....
Days later
The training hall darkened as Astra and Vesper stood across from each other, not wielding their own shadows, but calling upon the untamed ones around them.
Most mages, even those at the pinnacle of Rank one and some with lower affinities at rank two, struggled to mold raw, wild shadows the chaotic darkness cast by flickering torches, twisting columns, and distant moonlight. But here they were two Rank One monsters, shaping them like artists wielding paintbrushes.
The difference between them, however, was stark.
The moment Vesper lifted his hand, the wild shadows leaped toward him eagerly. They twisted and coiled, dancing like lovestruck spirits, flowing into his grasp as though desperate to please him. The darkness adored him fluttering, shifting, embracing his presence with open arms.
Astra, on the other hand?
His shadows were fearful.
They obeyed, but only out of necessity. They slithered into place as he commanded, forming jagged edges and weak pillars, but there was hesitation a tremor in the way they moved, as though terrified of disappointing him.
Yet even with such a stark contrast, their battle was nothing short of extraordinary.
"Go."
The instant the word left Astra's lips, his shadows snapped forward, launching jagged fragments like knives, each one flickering in and out of reality, illusions masking the real strikes.
Vesper laughed as his own shadows curved, catching the projectiles midair and dispersing them into dust. The wild darkness wrapped around him protectively, spinning in gentle arcs, as though they were dancing to his heartbeat.
Then, he attacked.
A colossal wave of shadow crashed toward Astra not brute force, but something fluid, elegant, beautiful. It wasn't a direct strike, but a test—a display of control so smooth it was almost effortless.
Astra gritted his teeth, slamming his palm down. His shadows, even unwilling, obeyed, erecting brittle pillars that buckled under the weight of Vesper's attack. He darted sideways, weaving through flickering illusions as the room warped in layers of shifting darkness.
For an instant, it looked like Astra had disappeared.
But Vesper merely grinned. "Nice trick, but you're still too slow."
His hand flicked. The shadows parted, revealing Astra just as he was about to launch a counterattack. Before he could react, Vesper's shadows curved, forming a crescent blade that sliced through Astra's defenses—just barely missing his face.
Astra twisted away, breathless.
No normal Rank One should be able to do this.
No normal Rank One should be able to free-form shadows in battle, to manipulate illusions, pillars, and shards without spells.
And yet, here they were.
The shadows trembled beneath their feet weak, fleeting, untamed but still, they danced to the wills of two monsters in human form.
Astra wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "…Shit."
Vesper rolled his shoulders, his wild shadows humming around him, filled with joy. "Getting tired?"
Astra scoffed. "No. Just realizing how ridiculous this all is."
Vesper smirked. "What did you expect?" He paused as he walked around circling Astra. "You clearly are not normal if I have a Saint asking me to train you and furthermore spar with you constantly." His smile deepened as he further inquired."Not only that but the talent and affinities you show are way too profound." His eyes glinted dangerously for a second as he tried to make out what Astra truly was.
Astra being always vigilant around Vesper sighed. "What can I say, Im just that special" He laughed it off. As he warned himself internally. "Prince Vesper really is smart, even under all that chaos and un seriousness he shows, he is still a prince and an extremely powerful one at that!"
After a couple more rounds and damn near falling over due to mana and physical exhaustion, Vesper let Astra off as he went to hit the showers, the cold water numbing the bruises as he had to wait for his mana to replenish before his body can start to fully heal...
Astra hit the bed and got his long needed rest.
Astra awoke feeling sore, his body protesting every movement. The past days had been brutal sparring with Velora, being completely manhandled, then getting destroyed in swordplay by Vesper. Even their shadow magic duels had left him drained. But that was the cost of improvement. Two days. That was all he had left before the tournament.
Normally, he'd have trained with Vesper or Velora, but both were unavailable today.
Vesper had been pulled into diplomatic responsibilities a duty Astra was grateful to avoid, while Velora had her own business to attend to. That left him alone.
He needed to train. Resting wasn't an option—not with the tournament creeping closer by the hour and the weight of every expectation pressing against his ribs like armor too tight to breathe in.
So he went where he had to go: the academy's public sparring hall.
Both House Shadow and the Church of Night had urged him—politely, insistently, irritatingly—to "demonstrate his strength" before the tournament committee. A display of dominance, they had called it. Something to catch the eye. Something to justify letting him skip the early rounds where "accidents may occur."
Flaunt my might? Astra rubbed the bridge of his nose. Gods, who do they think I am? I get my ass beat every single day!
After dragging himself through yet another freezing bath—which felt more like baptism by suffering than actual hygiene—he dressed, buckled on his boots, and headed out.
The private academy rooms were unavailable and even if they were Astra didn't really know many he could ask to spar against. Apparently, the academy's upper ranks needed them today. That left only the main training hall—the arena for the anyone who wanted to attend leaving plenty of variety.
As he approached, the sound hit him first.
A constant ringing of steel upon steel echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, a metallic choir of ambition and desperation. Mana drifted through the air in shifting currents, thick with heat, elemental scents, and the tang of exertion. Sparks of fire clashed against shields of water. Blades of air sliced through conjured stone. Even shadows flickered like half-tamed beasts, darting between the limbs of sweating trainees.
Rank One students crowded the sparring rings while a handful of Rank Two instructors prowled through them—correcting stances with sharp gestures, extinguishing miscast spells before they caused lasting damage, barking orders that cracked like whips.
Astra paused beneath the tall archway leading into the hall. His fingers flexed, not with fear—he knew fear far too intimately to confuse it with this. Not with hesitation either.
No, it was something far more irritating.
The knowledge that the moment he crossed the threshold, every head would turn.
The mana network had assured it.
Some rat—some absolute bastard—had unearthed his old wanted poster from the gutters of Duskfall and plastered it across the school's public feeds as if it were a divine proclamation. The image was grainy, his hair too long, his height off by several inches, the star rating being one and the fifty golds made a lot of people apprehensive.
Astra knew the truth. House Shadow had re-released it intentionally. A smear to shroud his true identity. A distraction so immense no one would suspect the truth: that a so-called vagrant from the slums was heir to one of the highest Houses in the realm.
And it worked—just not entirely in the way they intended.
Now, students didn't know what box to put him in.
They looked at him too long, worry creasing their brows. Some watched him with guarded suspicion, as though he might carve his way through the crowd for fun. Others eyed him with jealousy, convinced he'd schemed or seduced his way into nobility.
And the women…
They were the most conflicted of all.
As Astra stepped forward, passing a cluster of second-years, whispers rose like smoke.
"He's definitely a criminal," one murmured.
"Yeah, but like… a handsome criminal," her friend whispered back.
"Ugh. He's probably a player."
"Probably? He was naked in a hot spring with that old hag!"
"I swear, I don't know whether I hate him or…"The girl lowered her voice even further. "Or something else."
Astra inhaled sharply through his nose.
The girls realized they were being too loud and turned red as they scurried off.
Astra was conflicted.
Gods. Just… gods.
When Vesper discovered the resurfaced poster last night, he'd laughed so hard he nearly passed out.
"You're terrible," Vesper wheezed between gasps. " You actually got a one star bounty and fifty gold standards for merely having a fun time with the wife of a minor house baron! Gods just what is your luck!"
Astra had considered kicking him. Several times.
The urge had not faded.
But now he stood alone—no Vesper, no Velora to deflect attention—just him and a hall full of Rank Ones and their swirling judgments.
He exhaled slowly.
"I can handle the divine giving me attention...just how bad can the scrutiny of a bunch of teenagers my age possibly be."
Astra stepped across the threshold into the academy's main training grounds.
The moment he entered, the murmurs sharpened.
The clang of steel did not cease, but it faltered.
Mana rippled.
Dozens of eyes shifted.
As Astra stepped forward, something subtle and then unmistakable shifted in the vast expanse of the training hall.
At first it was only a whisper at the edge of perception, a faint tightening in the air as though the light itself had taken a hesitant breath. But then the shadows responded, one after another, like a silent forest bowing to a sudden, unseen wind.
Where they had once flickered freely across stone and steel, restless things dancing to the rhythm of a hundred sparring bodies they now stiffened, their movements halting all at once. The long silhouettes cast by the towering pillars stood to rigid attention as if awaiting command. Even the shadows born of flame, those bright, capricious flickers drew inward, shrinking from Astra with a fear that felt almost animal.
Within heartbeats, the entire hall dimmed around him.
Not because the lamps faltered…but because the darkness itself recoiled.
Astra froze mid-step, his mouth flatlining to a thin, horrified line.
No. Not again.
Unbeknownst to him or rather, unknown until far too recently—his affinity for Shadow had been swelling like an untamed tide ever since Devils blessing. And stress… well, stress made it bleed outward. Made it act.
Made it obey.
His mana had reached such a level and he needed to learn control. Gods, he needed it badly.
A suffocating hush rolled through the hall, swallowing the clangor of steel and the crackle of mana. Heads turned. Conversations died half-formed. Dozens of trainees looked up as one, all wearing the same expression:
Half confusion.Half fear.All directed squarely at him.
Not because of the rumors.Not because of the wanted poster.Not because of the muttered gossip that trailed him like smoke.
But because the shadows—their shadows—had just bowed like supplicants kneeling before a shrine.
Astra felt a cold trickle of dread slip down his spine.
Inside, his thoughts began to spiral like leaves in a storm.
Shit—shit—why now?They all hate me, don't they?Great, they think I'm cursed. Or dangerous. Or insane.Is my hair messed up? Am I glowing? Gods, I look weird, don't I?They're judging me. I stand out too much. I blend in like a damn explosion. Why did I even come here? Why did I leave my room? I take it back this is just as bad as Saints looking down on me.
He kept walking anyway, each step outwardly calm, inwardly screaming. The tension in the hall thickened until even the air seemed to wait for whatever he might do next.
The Rank Twos stared hardest of all, the instructors' eyes narrowing as if trying to place a memory or a rumor. The wanted poster had certainly done its damage. So had the whispers. And now this—the shadows themselves treating him like a sovereign.
Just keep walking, he told himself. Act normal. Pretend you're not unraveling.
Then—
A voice boomed across the hall, sharp as a blade cracking stone.
"Back to work!"
The instructor's aura flared, rattling the wooden racks, and the spell of silence shattered at once. Trainees jolted, blinking hard, and noise rushed back into the world—steel meeting steel, mana snapping like sparks, footsteps scuffing against polished stone.
Life resumed as though the hall itself had exhaled.
Astra reached an open training square at last, the shadows loosening their grip, the weight of a hundred stares fading to a tolerable burn.
He dragged a hand down his face and let out a slow, exhausted sigh.
"Gods," he muttered under his breath, "that was awful."
At the far end of the hall—beyond the churn of sparring bodies and the echoing ring of steel—stood the one presence capable of quieting the entire room without speaking a word.
The head instructor.
A man so old that time itself seemed to bow slightly as it passed him. His long white hair fell past his shoulders like a waterfall of pale silk. Scars crisscrossed his face, neck, and hands in a map of old wars, each one a history written in flesh. His eyes, milky and sightless, stared into nothing… and yet they seemed to drag in everything. Every motion, every breath, every ripple of mana. He saw more in blindness than most saw with perfect vision.
Unlike the other instructors clad in hardened armor, he wore a flowing black robe threaded with subtle strands of silver—an austere garment that marked his authority far more sharply than any title could.
A Rank Three Knight.
A realm Astra could barely comprehend.
The closer he walked, the heavier the air became, as though the instructor's presence thickened the mana itself. Conversations dulled into murmurs. The clang of weapons softened. Even the shadows held their breath.
Astra swallowed hard.He felt small—uncomfortably small.
Rank Three… a Knight.
He reached the old man and offered a respectful bow. "Ser," Astra said, forcing his voice to remain steady, "I need a training partner."
For a moment, there was no answer—only those blind, unblinking eyes fixed upon him.
The silence stretched long enough to make Astra's skin prickle.
Then the instructor's voice finally emerged—deep, rough, and measured, like a weary mountain addressing a traveler.
"You seek battle."
Not a question.A truth pronounced.
Astra nodded. "Yes."
The old man inhaled slowly, long-scarred chest rising and falling beneath his embroidered robes. There was something off in his aura—subtle, buried, but unmistakable. A wound not of flesh, but of mana. A scar that whispered of an ancient fight that had bent his spirit rather than his bones.
"You..you are the one Shadow sent?" the old man said.
Sent? Astra questioned inwardly as he nodded.
"You know I cant see you nod right?" The knight laughed.
Astra was awe struck.
"Apologies..but wait how could you tell I was nodding?" Astra asked embarrassed.
The instructor ignored him as he tilted his head—a small motion, thoughtful, almost curious—before raising a single scarred hand and gesturing to the hall at large.
"You seek battle... let us see if you are worthy of one."
He turned toward the gathered students, raising his voice only slightly—but the sound rolled across the hall like a command etched in stone.
"Who among you will test this one?"
A beat of stillness.Then—
Five hands shot into the air.
Astra's stomach dropped.
Of course. It had to be the five strongest in the hall.
The first was a massive, broad-shouldered man holding a war hammer large enough to crush a horse. Earth mana rippled beneath his feet, making the stones tremble faintly. His square jaw and crooked nose only made him look more like he'd been carved out of a mountain.
Next stood a wiry man whose lean frame belied a dangerous sharpness. Wind mana curled lazily around him, stirring his loose gray hair as he hefted a morning star with insulting casualness.
His smirk said everything: I'd love to break you.
Then came the pair of sword users, standing shoulder to shoulder like brothers-in-arms.
One was tall and intense, fire dancing at his fingertips, flickering up the blade he held as if eager for violence.The other shorter, broader, water gathering calmly around his wrist—a study in control and discipline.
Fire and water.Aggression and precision.
And lastly—the only woman among them.
Spear in hand, blonde hair pulled tight, blue eyes sharp as winter frost. Light mana shimmered faintly along her weapon, dancing in thin luminous threads. Her posture was perfect—balanced between offense and defense.
A complete party of specialists.A challenge no sane Rank One would volunteer for.
The old instructor let the smallest hint of a smile tug at the corner of his scarred mouth.
"Very well…"
He turned his blind gaze toward the five.
"All of you."
A silence fell so abrupt it felt like the world missed a heartbeat.
Then the whispers hit—rising like a storm.
Astra blinked once.
Then again.
"Wait," he managed, incredulous. "What?"
The swordsman hesitated before speaking, glancing between Astra and the instructor as if hoping for some cosmic reprieve.
"Uh… no offense, Ser, but… five against one? Isn't that… overkill?"
The old man's smile widened—not kindly, but the slow, pleased grin of someone about to witness something interesting.
"Then overkill."
Silence dropped like a stone.
Astra exhaled through his nose, long and tired, staring at the five idiots—soon-to-be opponents—arrayed before him.His mind offered him a very reasonable suggestion: Turn around and leave.But another voice, a quieter, more familiar one, simply sighed.
I already get my ass beat every day.
He rolled his shoulders, let the breath settle in his chest… then lifted his head and let a grin cut across his face.
"Sure..Why not?"
The entire training hall stilled.
Students abandoned their drills mid-strike. Hundreds of Rank Ones turned in unison, the echo of movement sweeping across the room like a shifting tide. Even the instructors paused, watching from a distance as six figures stepped onto the center arena.
Astra's boots touched the training floor like he was stepping into a ring of execution.
His opponents spread out in a loose half-circle. The air thickened around them with the rising pressure of mana and the sudden pulse of anticipation. A murmur rippled through the watching crowd.
Then—without warning—they shouted their names like they were announcing themselves for war.
"GAREK!"
The hammer-wielding dwarf slammed his heel into the ground, the earth itself grumbling beneath him as his aura surged. Dusted leather armor clung to his enormous frame, built for speed despite the sheer bulk of him. His grin was shameless and wild, like he was already celebrating a victory that hadn't happened yet.
"Lance."
The wiry man twirled his morning star, the spiked ball whining through the air as wind mana stirred around him. His polished armor gleamed like a mirror—fitting for someone who clearly admired himself.
"Ronan."
The fire-aspected swordsman flicked his blade, embers dancing along the edge and crackling upward. His stance was aggressive, edged with impatience, armored in light plate over chainmail like he expected to cut Astra down in a single blazing rush.
"Edwin."
Water mana hummed around him like a faint tide. His steady blade was a stark contrast to Ronan's flare—calm, analyzing, unshakably composed. His armor was older, battered, like he'd inherited it from someone who survived a dozen wars.
"Sybil."
Her voice was sharp enough to split stone. The spear in her hands glowed with hard, brilliant light mana, her whole form crystal-bright in its presence. Her armor was refined, polished, purposeful—fitting for someone who fought like precision incarnate.
Astra blinked at all of them.
"…Was that necessary?"
Garek cracked his knuckles. "Yes."
Lance flashed an infuriatingly theatrical grin. "Why of course, my lord. Let's give them a show."
Sybil huffed. "Are we fighting or talking?"
Astra inhaled slowly—the kind of breath that steadied his pulse, tightened his focus, and woke the cold edge of instinct at the back of his mind. His fingers flexed. Mana stirred beneath his skin, whispering in anticipation.
Then—with a thought—his armor answered him.
Night Shroud unfurled like a living eclipse. Plates of lusterless black steel slid over his limbs, each piece locking into place with a soft, resonant whisper. It wrapped him in familiar shadow, embracing him like something ancient and protective, like the night itself drawing close.
And then came the sword.
The longsword forged by the Angel of Steel settled into his hand, its dark edge shimmering with a wicked, ethereal gleam—a blade that had tasted heaven, hell, and the uncharted places between.
He stood no longer a elagant scion.
He stood as a knight carved from shadow, a harbinger draped in dusk.
The shadows answered his call before he even consciously summoned them. They writhed at his feet—silent, reverent, alive. They curled around him like loyal beasts awaiting command, their devotion instinctive and absolute.
The air shifted.
A wave of cold pressure rolled through the hall as Astra's aura expanded, pressing down on the five like a warning of something forgotten in ancient stories.
His opponents tensed—instinctively, involuntarily—as if prey sensing a predator in the dark.
And still… Astra had not called upon his full might.
The old instructor lifted a hand. His voice, infused with mana, cut cleanly across the vast hall.
"Begin."
The shadows shivered.
The crowd held its breath.
And Astra—hidden behind the visor of night—smiled.
The instant the word "Begin." left the old instructor's lips, Astra moved.
The room seemed to lurch at once—air splitting around him as a spear lunged toward his throat like a striking serpent, a morning star screeched through the air beside it, swords flashing in twin arcs, and somewhere behind it all, a hammer descended with the force of an avalanche.
Instinct and calculation fused into one. His blessing—hungry, analytical, relentless—flooded him with data in a flash.
Angle. Distance. Weak points. Footwork. Mana signatures. Breathing patterns.
Astra didn't think.He adapted.
Sybil's spear cut toward his neck—precise, sharp, disciplined. But predictable.
Astra's body twisted like living smoke; his form blurred, his Shadow Sword style unraveling into its fluid, deceptive dance. His shadow coiled beneath him, snapping taut like a spring and hurling him sideways, the spearhead grazing the edge of his pauldron instead of spilling his blood.
Then came the hammer.
Astra caught the downward arc in his peripheral vision—a brutal, unstoppable swing that no normal Rank One could have avoided.
But Astra was not normal.
His shadows surged under his boots, forming a tense, elastic lattice that launched him backward mid-motion. He flipped, barely clearing the blow before the hammer struck the ground.The floor cratered, shockwaves exploding outward.
The impact shoved Astra off balance, skidding him across the arena—an actual pushback.
The crowd gasped.
Then the swordsmen were on him.
Ronan feinted low, Edwin sliced high; fire flared, water hummed, twin blades converging with perfect choreography.
Astra's mind broke it down instantly:
Ronan: aggressive. Overcommits.Edwin: stable. Precise. Predictable pattern—three-beat rhythm.
He moved to the rhythm.
His longsword met Edwin's steel with a scream, redirecting it by a fraction—just enough to break the man's stance. At the same time Astra's off-hand snapped upward, and a thin ripple of water—barely more than a sheet—burst into existence.
Just enough to turn Ronan's incoming fireball into a cloud of steam that hissed against Astra's armor.
The hall went silent.
A Rank One Shadow user casually weaving water?
Astra didn't give them time to process it.
His shadow leapt forward—no shapes, no spikes, just raw darkness snapping like a whip at Ronan's legs. The fire mage stumbled back, cursing, his balance momentarily broken.
Astra pressed forward.He didn't stop.He couldn't stop.
Five against one meant one truth: if he ever stood still, he was dead.
So he moved.
He ducked beneath a spear thrust. Sidestepped a sweeping blade. Pivoted around the morning star's chain, shadow flattening beneath his feet to help him slide past the attack.
His sword became a streak of blackened steel, his movements a chaotic blend of elegance and violence.
Sybil lunged again—she was faster this time, sharper, angrier—but Astra met her not with steel, but with strategy.
He let the spear tip skim his ribs, rotating his torso with razor precision. His shadow rose like a snake, twisting around the shaft of the spear and locking it in place. Sybil froze, momentarily caught.
Astra moved to punish—
—but Lance was already there.
The morning star hurtled toward him.
Astra dropped low, but the chain wrapped, catching his pauldron. The spiked head smashed against his shoulder and sent him staggering, pain flaring through his arm.
The crowd roared.
Astra gritted his teeth.His curse burned.Every mistake, every angle, every ounce of pain—fed into him like fuel.
Ronan charged with flame roaring along his blade.Edwin matched him from the opposite side.Sybil tore her spear free.Garek raised the hammer again.Lance whirled his morning star overhead.
All five came at him—pressing him, smothering him, forcing him back on the defensive.
Astra's boots scraped across the mat as he retreated, parrying, sliding, narrowly dodging each killing blow by fractions of inches.
He wasn't winning.
Not yet.
But gods… he was learning.
He saw Ronan's openings.Edwin's habits.Sybil's overextension under pressure.Lance's arrogance.Garek's slow recovery after heavy swings.
His breathing steadied.
His footwork sharpened.
His shadow obeyed.
And then the shift happened.
"—He's changing," Edwin hissed between blows, awe leaking into his voice. "He's getting faster—!"
Ronan spat blood, eyes wild."No… he's dissecting us."
Sybil's knuckles turned white around her spear."Then we end it. Now."
The five regrouped in a tight formation.Mana surged—fire, water, wind, earth, light—colliding and merging into a torrent of raw power that pressed outward like a crushing tide.Their combined aura roared like a river bursting down a mountainside.
Astra felt the pressure.He felt the threat.He felt the weight of five Rank Ones drawing on everything they had.
And he smiled.
Not in arrogance.
In exhilaration.
The shadows around him responded—not stirring, but rising, like an entire sea of darkness lifting at his command. They thickened around him, tendrils stretching outward, eager and hungry.
Astra wasn't calm.
He was focused.
He had always enjoyed fighting. Recently he had been stuck playing politics and rag doll for beings stronger and more talented than him, this was a much needed change for his egos sake.
The ground beneath him darkened.His aura pulsed, a deep, haunting resonance that filled the hall.
He stepped forward.Just one step.But the pressure shifted, the air bending around him.
His voice carried—not loud, but sharp, cutting clean through the roar of mana.
"Give the crowd a show, huh…?"
A faint, almost amused chuckle.
"Astra of Shadow."
He lifted his sword. Shadows curled around the blade like loyal hounds.
"Its a pleasure to meet all of you."
His grin sharpened behind his visor.
"Now…"
His shadow surged outward with a sound like tearing silk.
"…Please, show me something new."