The Bishop, Alistair Tenebrous, drifted through the upper halls of the academy with the unhurried ease of a man who feared nothing and never needed to. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, his black-and-silver robes whispering across marble floors like the passing of a quiet storm.
For all his near-divine might—for all the reverence the world placed upon a Demi-god—even he was not immune to boredom.
He had ascended to his Demi god status in a time of strife and war, his life had been riddled with battles and glory yet here he was for the last century stuck with tasks that cannot even compare.
Meetings.Politics.Endless committees of lesser minds yapping about regulations or magical theory they barely understood.
Monotony disguised as duty.
He had just escaped yet another such ordeal: a meeting with the Academy Master—an ecstatic, notoriously eccentric Saint whose obsession with magical permutations bordered on mania. The man radiated brilliance, yes… but by the gods, spending an hour listening to him babble about theoretical frameworks felt like being flayed by enthusiasm alone.
Alistair let out a long, slow sigh as he walked.
Anything—literally anything—would have been more stimulating.
And then, as he passed one of the grand overlooks that surveyed the Academy's primary training arena, something caught his eye.
He paused mid-stride.
Below, within the vast hall, the usual din of steel and spellwork had condensed into one singular point of focus. Dozens—no, hundreds—of students had drifted toward the outer edges, eyes fixed on the battle taking place at the center of the floor.
A lone fighter.Five opponents.
Five trained, coordinated, above-average Rank Ones—all of them pushing hard, all of them weaving their mana into a synchronized assault.
And yet—
They were being undone.
Not overwhelmed.Not outpaced.
Dismantled.
A slow, intrigued hum escaped Alistair's throat as he leaned slightly forward.
Astra.
The boy moved like a wraith cloaked in midnight—slipping between blows with a grace that looked casual, almost disinterested. His blade struck not with brute force, but with an elegance sharpened by calculation. Every dodge, every counter, every shift of weight was deliberate.
"How curious," Alistair murmured.
He had lived long enough to witness the rise and fall of legends. To see empires rise from dust and crumble back into it. He had seen prodigies, monsters, chosen ones, saints, and sinners.
What he was witnessing now was something rarer.
"He is progressing at a much faster rate than I anticipated…" His lips curved faintly—somewhere between amusement and professional excitement. "How fitting for his position."
Astra's speed defied the boundaries of a Rank One.His precision suggested years of training.His mana control? Impeccable.
If Alistair was to speak of true warriors then Astras skill was merely amateurish at best even for rank ones Alistair had seen those with far lesser talent and potential wield swords in times of war just as good as the nobles they served, but it was not his sword play or fighting capabilities that made him pause.
It was the shadows that made Alistair's breath still.
They did not merely obey Astra, they revered him.
As if the darkness itself strained to be closer to the boy.
As if the night bent knee.
Alistair's eyes narrowed, a ripple of something strange and sharp flickering behind his calm exterior. Envy? Admiration? A scholar's hunger? Even he could not name it.
He, Alistair Tenebrous, possessed an A-grade affinity to shadows and a lineage of a legendary angel, Tenebrous Umbra—a rarity that marked him among the most feared and revered mages in the realms even at rank four. A Demi-god whose spells could rend mountains apart and drown cities in night.
And yet…
The boy's raw affinity dwarfed his own.
Impossible.And yet… undeniably true.
Out of the entire House Shadow—one of the mightiest arcane lineages in the world—only thirty percent possessed affinities high enough to even wield shadow magic competently.
Of those, S-rank affinity was something so rare that most realms considered it mythical.
And House Shadow had ten percent.
Even so—
Among all mortal members of the house, Astra stood second only to Vesper.
And then there was the boy's second affinity—The Stars.With estimated talent that mirrored his shadowcraft.
Alistair inhaled softly, a gesture that belied the tremor of astonishment that passed through him.
"A remarkable child," he whispered. "Even for us."
Even for a Demi-god, the sight stirred awe.
Astra moved below like a rising calamity wrapped in human skin, shadows bending, twisting, worshiping the ground he walked upon.
Alistair shook his head slowly.
For the first time in many years, he felt his boredom dissolve.
Replaced by interest.
By excitement.
By the rarest of things—
Wonder.
....
The training hall was far too bright.
Lightstones burned overhead, their glow pressing against Astra's skin like an unwelcome hand. The shadows he carried—those quiet, loyal things—shrank back, thinned, peeled away from the ground as if suffocating.
Sybil made sure of it.
She lunged first, her spear carving a silver line through the air as she summoned a radiant orb overhead. The light bloomed like a false sun, washing the entire chamber in pallid brilliance. Astra's shadows hissed and recoiled, thinning to smoke. A deliberate tactic.
Smart. Annoying—but smart.
His jaw tightened, though only slightly. He scanned the room, senses stretching like a net across the battlefield—measuring breaths, steps, mana flow, the minute shifts of weight before someone moved.
Ronan was the first to break formation.
Water rippled along his blade, turning his swordsmanship into a tide—unending, rhythmic, exhausting. A style meant to drown opponents in pressure.
Edwin closed in right behind him, flames licking along the edges of his greatsword. Fire made him bold, impatient, loud. Every swing promised devastation, demanding respect.
Lance moved differently—erratic footwork, wind buffeting his morning star until it blurred. Air bent around each swing, pulling the atmosphere with it, creating a suction that threatened to drag Astra off balance even when the weapon missed.
Garek, the largest of them, stood back. Quiet. Patient. Earth mana pulsed beneath his feet; even a single strike would reshape the ground to their favor.
Sybil kept her false sun high above them, empowered by the radiance she controlled. Her spear glowed with that same sanctified light.
They were coordinated. Focused.Working together far better than students of their level should.
Astra exhaled once.Then smiled.
"Good."
Ronan's strike came first—fluid and precise, angling for Astra's ribs.
Astra stepped into it.
He locked blades near the hilt, killing the strike's momentum, then twisted sharply. Ronan's arm jerked off-line, opening his guard—
—just in time for Edwin's fire to roar toward him.
Astra pivoted, heat brushing his cheek, scorching the air. Flames passed close enough to force his shadows further away.
Light above, fire beside me. They're forcing me into the open.
Astra had to expend more of his mana reserves to keep his shadows manifested under such terrain.
Edwin pressed forward, but Astra was quicker.
He slashed downward at Edwin's shoulder. Edwin barely blocked—
—but Astra wasn't there anymore.
He ducked beneath Lance's whistling morning star, feeling the pull of wind magic claw at his hair and cloak. A slower dodge would've meant a shattered skull.
The ground trembled.
Garek finally acted.
His hammer struck stone, and earth surged upward—a jagged spike lunging for Astra's spine.
No time to evade.
Astra spun his sword behind him, shadows condensing along the blade in a thin, trembling sheath, and struck the forming spike. It shattered like brittle glass.
Sybil didn't wait.
A beam of light tore across the room, hitting Astra square in the chest.
Searing, merciless.Light magic didn't need to overpower shadow—it simply burned through it.
He gritted his teeth, breath catching as the radiance rattled through his ribs.
Sybil charged with her broken spear, movements clean, disciplined. A feint left—bright, deliberate—then the real strike from the right.
Astra didn't bother dodging.
He let the feint slip past his guard and caught the true strike with his bare hand.
Splinters stabbed into his palm. Warm blood trickled between his fingers.
Didn't matter.
He yanked Sybil forward—not for an attack, but into Edwin's line of fire.
Edwin's flame burst struck her shoulder. She screamed, rolling away, trying to smother the flames clinging to her sleeve.
The hesitation—just a heartbeat—was all Astra needed.
He stepped in, swept Edwin's leg with surgical precision, and slammed his palm into the fire mage's chest. A soft burst of shadowed impact flared beneath his hand. Edwin hit the ground, gasping, fire sputtering out.
One.
Ronan was already moving. His stance shifted—taller, more cautious, blade turning into a defensive shield.
Lance and Garek, though, abandoned subtlety.
Wind howled as Lance channeled more mana. His morning star accelerated, the air warping around it until the weapon's form nearly vanished.
Astra needed space.
He whispered, "Sink."
Shadows pooled under his feet, rippling like dark water. He pushed mana through them—enough to blur the boundary between light and dark. Shadows surged outward in a circular wave, knocking dust and gravel into the air. The light overhead fought back, eating away at the edges, but it forced Lance to adjust his footing.
Ronan regained pressure first. He stepped forward, water gathering at his blade's tip.A rising tide.
Astra answered with his own.
He flicked two fingers, summoning a thin arc of water from the condensation and sweat in the room. Not a spell—just manipulation. Enough to clash with Ronan's blade, disrupting its momentum. Water slashed against water, making Ronan's next movement sluggish.
Lance's morning star came next, cutting through the dust cloud.
Astra didn't dodge.
He advanced into the danger.
It was reckless. Insane.But calculated.
Lance overcommitted.
Astra slid under the swing, palm grazing the ground. Shadows erupted upward like tendrils, not to bind—but to pull him forward. A slingshot burst that sent him right inside Lance's guard.
He rose with a sharp knee to Lance's stomach. Breath exploded from the wind mage's lungs. Astra grabbed the chain of the morning star and yanked, twisting Lance's wrist. The weapon clattered away.
Garek responded instantly.
Earth mana surged beneath Astra's feet, trying to trap his ankles—stone gripping like jaws.
Astra's shadow flickered, slipping through the forming earth long enough for him to break free. He spun around Garek's reach, shadows sharpening the edges of his movements into something almost predatory.
Sybil was still recovering.Edwin was down.Ronan was regrouping.Lance was coughing on the floor.Garek raised his hammer—
Astra stopped.
Centered his breath.
The false sun burned above him. Shadows trembled. Pain prickled where light had scorched him.
"Let's end this," he murmured. His voice trembling with raw mana.
The training hall darkened—just slightly—as Astra's mana tightened around him like a coiled serpent.
Shadows stretched from the floor and walls, rising obediently, eager—almost hungry.
And Astra moved.
Lance's pupils shrank; he barely had time to shift his stance.
Astra's hand shot upward, grabbing the chain of the morning star mid-swing. The wind-enchanted links tore at his already bleeding palm, biting deep enough to draw fresh warmth, but Astra's grip tightened rather than faltered.
Pain is nothing. Move.
He pulled with brutal efficiency.
Lance lurched forward, his footing shattered. Astra stepped in—not hesitating, not gracious—driving his knee into Lance's ribs with merciless precision.
The crack was audible.
Lance spasmed, collapsing with a strangled gasp, air ripped from his lungs. The morning star fell with a heavy clatter beside him.
Garek roared, a sound like an avalanche breaking loose.
The earth answered him.
Stone surged beneath Astra, exploding upward in a violent pillar. He twisted, but not fast enough—rock slammed into his side, hurling him across the hall like a ragdoll. He hit the ground hard, rolling across stone and dust.
Pain lanced through his ribs, sharp and hot.
Astra exhaled through clenched teeth.
Move.
Garek was already charging, warhammer raised, the head glowing with dense, pulsing earth mana. A finishing blow—meant to end a fight, not just a spar.
Astra's fingers flexed.
He threw his sword.
A streak of dark steel whirled through the dimming air, spinning once—twice—before plunging into Garek's gauntlet.
Metal cracked.
The dwarf howled, grip faltering.
Astra was already on his feet.
He sprinted—silent, shadow at his heels—closing the gap in a blink. One precise step planted on Garek's sturdy knee, using the dwarf's own height as leverage. Astra vaulted upward, body rotating with acrobatic ease.
The world spun around him.
His hand found the hilt of his sword mid-air.
Momentum carried him through the flip—
—and he brought the pommel down onto the crest of Garek's helmet with a sharp, ringing clang.
Garek toppled like a felled titan, crashing to the ground. Unmoving.
Astra landed lightly, breath steady, posture relaxed—as if the entire exchange were nothing more than a warm-up stretch.
Dust drifted in the dim air.
He turned.
Sybil stood alone now, the glow of her artificial sun flickering overhead. The radiance trembled—shrinking—dimmed by exhaustion and fear alike. Her spear was nothing but a half-splintered shaft in her hand.
She stared at Astra as he approached, shadows folding around him like a cloak woven from night itself.
His aura wasn't just pressure—it was a tide.
It surged.
And surged.
A heavy, crushing presence like a river in flood, bearing down on her, sweeping away whatever bravado she'd tried to hold onto.
Her knees buckled slightly.
She raised her hands slowly.
The remnants of her broken spear clattered to the floor.
"I… I yield."
For a long, breathless moment, the training hall was silent.
The clang of steel, the crackle of mana, the scuff of boots against stone—everything had ceased. Even the flickering torches along the walls seemed to dim in deference.
The crowd of Rank One disciples, who had been leaning over the sidelines, froze where they stood. Their faces were a mixture of shock, fear, and something deeper, harder to name—something like awe, tinged with a raw, instinctual dread.
The fight had begun as a test, a challenge. Five trained fighters against one unknown prodigy. Some had whispered in confidence that Ronan, Edwin, Sybil, Garek, and Lance could handle him—that they had a real chance.
That illusion had shattered.
Astra had disassembled them piece by piece, like a masterful puppeteer with knives instead of strings. He had outmaneuvered, outclassed, and overwhelmed each one, their combined might unable to touch him. Five against one—and he remained untouched, barely winded, while they lay sprawled across the hall, groaning, grimacing, or struggling to rise.
A subtle ripple passed through the spectators. A few flinched, instinctively stepping back, as though fearing the shadows themselves might reach out and strike them. They had trained for years, honed their skills, yet in Astra's presence they felt like children wielding sticks against a storm.
Hands tightened around hilts, knuckles white, breaths coming faster. The realization settled over them, heavy and suffocating:
This wasn't normal.
"He—he made it look easy," a voice whispered, small and brittle, barely audible over the dust settling on the floor.
"That wasn't just skill," another stammered, voice trembling. "It… it was like he knew what they'd do before they did."
"The way he moved…" muttered a fourth-year, eyes flicking with reluctant admiration. "Footwork, timing, control of space… He made them fight on his terms. They didn't even see it coming."
A younger recruit swallowed hard, throat tight. "And he… he wasn't even using his full strength, was he?"
No one dared answer. The truth hung in the air like a blade poised at the neck: Astra had held back. And yet, even restrained, he had annihilated five seasoned fighters.
The more experienced disciples exchanged glances. They had seen prodigies before—talented duelists, ambitious spellcasters—but this… this was different. Astra wasn't just strong or clever; he was precise. Lethal. Calculated. There was a cold, unflinching logic to him, honed by survival in places none of them could imagine. Every dodge, every strike, every shadow-conjured movement had been deliberate.
He didn't move like someone who trained to compete—he moved like someone who had trained to survive.
One of the older Rank Ones exhaled slowly, watching Astra dust off his sleeves as though nothing had happened, a faint smirk curling across his lips. "That," he said quietly, almost reverently, "is someone who knows how to kill."
A chill ran down spines, deeper than the stone floors could ever reflect.
They weren't merely looking at a fellow Rank One anymore. Not even a prodigy.
They were looking at something else entirely.
Something sharp. Something dark. Something that carried the weight of countless battles survived—and won.
And whether they liked it or not, they knew it in their bones:
Astra had risen above them all.
Above skill.Above training.Above fear.
Astra was above them.
A scion of House Shadow.
And the world of the training hall had just been reminded. Reminded of the stark difference between those of common blood and those of the Great Houses.
.....
Astra finally let out a slow, measured breath, his body still thrumming with residual energy. One hand rose, dismissing his helmet, which dissolved into the storage of the mana coins with a soft shimmer.
He inwardly was panicking. "Gods that was close, If I had made one mistake I actually would have embarrassed myself and lost miserably!" He was somewhat accustomed to fighting multiple opponents but these five were nothing like he had ever fought! an army of thugs from the ghettoes couldn't even compare to these five! "Damn that was close!"
Sweat traced dark rivulets through his damp curls, sliding down his forehead and temples. His chest rose and fell in deep, controlled motions, each inhale deliberate, each exhale steady. Around him, the five defeated warriors were only now pushing themselves up from the ground, groaning and flexing sore limbs.
Violet eyes scanned the hall, a faint, satisfied smile brushing Astra's lips.
Then he realized the silence.
Hundreds of Rank One disciples had frozen mid-motion, their gazes fixed upon him. Eyes wide, mouths half-opened, they seemed suspended between disbelief and awe. Respect was there, too—but layered beneath it all was an unease, a recognition that what they had just witnessed was far beyond ordinary.
The Rank Twos, leaning from the sidelines or standing with folded arms, smiled knowingly. Monsters were always fascinating to watch.
Astra shifted, a familiar coil of anxiety tightening in his chest. He had been too absorbed in the fight, too immersed in the rhythm of battle, to feel the eyes on him—but now, hundreds of silent stares pressed down like an invisible weight.
"Fuck me, Is this how my life is gonna be? I just get stared at by people like some famous being?"
Then, heavier than the crowd, he felt it: a gaze.
A presence, deep and shadowed, crawling through the hall and settling over him like a hand on his shoulder. It sent a shiver rattling up his spine, cold and insistent.
Slowly, Astra lifted his head.
Above, in the upper halls, a figure in flowing black-and-gold robes observed him. The faint glimmer of mana around him was subtle yet palpable—coiled, disciplined, almost regal. Bishop Alistair Tenebrous.
Astra's eyes met his. Alistair's lips curved in a small, knowing smile before he inclined his head and stepped back. Shadows in his wake twisted and flowed, following like obedient specters before swallowing him entirely.
The moment he vanished, Astra exhaled. The tension bled from his shoulders.
"What an awesome man…" he muttered under his breath.
The spell of silence shattered.
The hall erupted. Thunderous applause, shouts of disbelief, and murmurs of admiration rolled through the room like a rising tide.
"Unbelievable," a student breathed.
"That was insane! He took all five of them down like it was nothing!" another shouted.
"He adapted mid-fight! Did you see how he countered Sybil's light magic? How he read Lance's wind movements?"
The five warriors he'd just bested were being tended to by healing mages, golden and green light swirling around bruises, splintered armor, and aching muscles.
Edwin, the fire swordsman, laughed, a short, breathless sound as he rolled his shoulders. "Damn… that was a thrashing."
Ronan, rubbing his jaw where Astra had struck, nodded slowly. "He's… a monster," he admitted, but there was no resentment in his tone. Only respect.
Garek, still massive and imposing even bruised and bloodied, let out a low, gravelly chuckle. "First time I've ever been hit so hard it rattled my helmet. Nice one."
Lance exhaled sharply as the mages eased his pain. "You didn't even exhaust your reserves," he observed flatly.
Sybil, still steadying her breath, gave Astra a sharp, curious look. "You… held back, didn't you?"
Astra's smile was quiet, but genuine. He stepped forward, shaking each of their hands in turn. "Not really, all of you fought well," he said. "Had I not been careful, I might have ended up on the floor myself."
Edwin scoffed. "Bullshit."
Lance smirked. "But I appreciate the sentiment."
Garek let out a full, booming laugh. "Let's fight again sometime. You won't get off easy next round."
Astra allowed himself a final glance at them before moving toward the far side of the hall. There, on a raised wooden platform, the old blind instructor sat, his white hair tied into a simple bun. Milky eyes stared forward as if they still saw the battle's every move. His presence radiated calm, steadiness—a mountain unmoved by wind or storm.
As Astra approached, the corners of the old man's lips lifted slightly.
"Did this quench your thirst for battle, young lord?"
Astra, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, Ser. I thank you."
The instructor chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. "Good. Then go rest. You've earned it."
Astra gave a slight bow of respect before turning away, already feeling the exhaustion creeping into his limbs. He needed a break—but he knew this was only the beginning.
"Gods im tired" Astra headed back satisfied as he knew, one real battle was worth a thousand lessons
....
The fight ended there.
The battle had been won, the five contenders had yielded, and Astra had left the training hall with nothing more than a lingering ache in his muscles and the satisfaction of combat well fought.
But House Shadow had other plans.
Somewhere in the crowd, a scion sent by House Shadow had recorded the duel—capturing every moment in stunning clarity. The way Astra moved like liquid shadow, dancing between blades and hammers, slipping through gaps that shouldn't exist. The way he fought with ruthless efficiency yet a strange, effortless grace. The way his deep violet eyes gleamed beneath his helmet before he finally pulled it off—revealing damp black curls, sweat-slicked skin, and a smirk that sent hearts racing.
The footage made its way onto the Mana Network.
And then, it exploded. As House Shadow and the Church wanted.
By nightfall, the entire Duskfall Network was flooded with reposts, slowed-down replays, and heated discussions.
- "Who is Astra? Where did he come from?"- "That fight wasn't just talent—it was pure dominance."- "Astra just dismantled five talented contenders from the academy, ones projected to place high and he did it without breaking a sweat."- "No, he did sweat—look at him at the end. He's literally glowing. Who let someone this pretty be this terrifying?"
It didn't take long before the conversation left Duskfalls domain and spread further.
The broader nobility, mercenary guilds, and even other great houses started picking up on the whispers.
After all the entire realm would watch this tournament, it was tradition! and further more they paid attention to the upcoming weeks, it dictated the betting odds!
Who was Astra?
The fight itself had been enough to send a shockwave through the ranks of young warriors, but what truly sent the public into a frenzy was how Astra looked at the end.
His charcoal-black curls clung to his forehead, drenched from exertion. His pretty, ethereal face—sharp yet soft in all the right places—was damp with sweat, his violet eyes flickering with the afterglow of battle. The exhaustion in his posture only made him look more human, more untouchably alluring.
Comments on the Mana Network were relentless:
"Astra's existence just confirmed that House Shadow has been hiding a beauty." "Bro, I thought we were hyping his fighting, why is everyone fawning over him??" "He is..just wow.""I showed this to my sister, and she said, 'He can ruin my life.' I have no words." "This guy fights like a demon and looks like a dream. How is this fair?"
Even those uninterested in swordplay were captivated.
Astra's fame was no longer limited to warriors and tacticians—his name was spreading like wildfire across every circle.
Some envied him. Some wanted to fight him. Some wanted something else entirely.
Back in House Shadow, Astra had no idea what was happening, he had expected a less of a result at a later date.
At least, not until Vesper barged into his room with his Mana Tablet in hand, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Astra blinked, half-dressed, his hair still damp from a bath. "What?"
Vesper threw the device onto Astra's bed.
"You...Princess" he wheezed, "are a problem."
Astra glanced at the screen.
Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of comments. Millions of views. His face, plastered across different angles, clips slowed down and enhanced, debates raging about his fighting style, his mysterious identity, and, of course, his absurd attractiveness.
Astra's stomach dropped.
"...Oh gods...."
....
Duskfall Elven District
Central Region
In a vast arena the air in the arena was thick with the scent of damp earth and the crisp perfume of blooming flora. Heavy vines coiled around towering marble pillars, their emerald leaves swaying gently in the evening breeze. In the center of the verdant battlefield, a lone figure stood—an elf, tall and poised, her presence as sharp as the wind before a storm.
Her pale skin seemed to glow beneath the filtered fake sunlight. Her skin was moonlit porcelain, unblemished and cold. One eye was a sharp sapphire streaked with threads of gold, the other a deep violet marbled faintly with crimson, that carried the true weight of her power. They flickered with intrigue as she watched the holographic video hovering before her, displaying the dark-haired warrior from House Shadow.
She had been eager—hungry—to face the five contenders.
She had studied them, analyzed their movements, and dreamed of the hunt. They were to be her prey, their defeat a testament to her skill.
And yet, in mere minutes, Astra had undone them.
The recording showed everything—the shattering precision of his strikes, the way he moved like a phantom through their attacks, the eerie stillness in his gaze before he struck with unrelenting force.
The elf clicked her tongue.
"What a shame," she murmured, though her disappointment was short-lived.
She tilted her head, studying the young lord more closely. His violet eyes, the way they gleamed as if he saw more than what was in front of him. His swordplay, which was both instinctual and honed, as if he had been forged in battle rather than trained.
"He looks strangely familiar"
The five were no longer her concern.
She had found something far more interesting.
A small, amused smile curled on her lips. Bigger game to hunt, indeed.
Mana surged around her in an instant—wind twisting the leaves into a spiraling vortex, lifting the very air around her as her body seemed to blur, moving faster than sight. Her training resumed, but her thoughts remained elsewhere.
Astra of House Shadow.
She would find him soon.
...
Duskfall Central District
Human Quarters
The training chamber was long, stretching into the darkness, with towering pillars casting elongated shadows. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, broken only by the steady pulse of mana—a suffocating, living darkness that devoured the dim glow of the setting sun painted across the walls.
At the center of it all sat a man, his posture still yet commanding. His long, wavy hair cascaded down his back, catching the faintest hint of light, but it was his eyes—light purple, burning gold at the edges—that pierced through the gloom like a predator scanning the abyss.
The darkness around him wasn't mere shadow—it was true darkness, tangible, heavy. It pressed against the walls, slithered along the ground, pulsed in tandem with his breath. It did not merely obscure the light; it consumed it, absorbed it, thrived in its absence.
Then, something changed.
A flicker of mana. A whisper of something... worthy.
His dark golden eyes sharpened, a smile curling onto his lips before he even realized it.
"Astra, huh?"
The name was new, but the weight behind it was undeniable. He had seen the video. He had watched the dark-haired noble of House Shadow dismantle five of their finest without breaking a sweat.
Another monster had entered the tournament.
His fingers twitched as the darkness around him responded, writhing like living tendrils.
House Shadow, always so secretive. First, they tucked away their infamous demons—that bastard Vesperion, the darkness genius Velora. Hiding them away from prying eyes, letting them grow in the depths of the abyss.
And now this?
A new contender. A prodigy he had never seen that they seem to have had been cultivating in silence.
He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Truly a house shrouded in mystery."
It was almost poetic—how they lurked, only revealing the pieces they wanted the world to see. But no matter.
It wouldn't change the outcome.
He pushed forward, diving into the abyss of his own mana, the darkness swallowing him whole.
The tournament just got far more interesting.
...
Duskfall Human District
Eastern Quarters
In a chamber unlike any other, heat rippled through the air, distorting the very space itself. The walls, reinforced with powerful enchantments, glowed with an amber hue, absorbing the immense energy radiating from the colossal sphere above—a miniature sun, a condensed mass of divine fire and raw mana.
Beneath it stood a lone figure, his golden eyes gleaming, his skin pale but kissed with freckles that softened the sharp regality of his face. He looked like a prince ripped straight from an old heroic tale, the kind spoken of in reverent whispers, destined for greatness.
His golden eyes flickered with amusement as he watched the screen floating before him, playing the viral footage of Astra, the so-called rising specter of House Shadow.
"My, oh my," he murmured, the light of the sun illuminating his smirk. "The shadows seem to have grown quite audacious."
His steps were slow, deliberate, the very ground beneath him molten, softening under his weight but never daring to claim him. It obeyed him, just as all things under the sun should.
"Sending in a monster…" He tilted his head, golden strands of hair shimmering as he watched the dark-haired noble devastate his opponents with effortless grace. "What exactly are they trying to prove?"
A challenge? A declaration? Or merely another power move in the eternal game between light and shadow?
He exhaled, and his breath alone stirred the mana in the air, feeding the flames above. Then, his voice rang out—not as a whisper, nor as a boast, but as a command infused with the weight of his power.
"Rise."
The miniature sun trembled, pulsed, and then soared higher into the chamber, growing, intensifying. The already stifling heat surged, devouring every trace of darkness in the room as if it were cleansing the world itself.
Beneath its might, he stood unwavering, basking in its radiance, his aura flaring to its absolute peak. The sheer force of it sent cracks racing across the floor, the molten veins beneath the surface churning like a beast awakened.
And yet, he only smiled, standing directly beneath his creation, basking in the inferno, untouched.
"Well then… let's see how long this little shadow lasts beneath of my Sun."