The transition was not a journey but a cessation of one reality and the immediate beginning of another. There was no disorientation, no lurch of the senses—only the stark, instantaneous replacement of one space with another. One moment, Bradley stood in the familiar, ornate hall of the orphanage; the next, he was… elsewhere.
The new hall was a monument to scale and opulence that dwarfed the orphanage's finest room. It was a cavernous expanse where the very air felt expensive, tasting of ozone and cold stone. The walls, fashioned from interlocking panels of stark white and veined grey marble, soared upwards to a ceiling so distant it was lost in shadowy grandeur. From this impossible height hung golden chandeliers of intricate, sprawling design. But these held no flickering candles or gas jets; instead, they cradled massive, perfectly cut white crystals that blazed with a steady, piercing luminescence, flooding the hall with a cold, sterile light that left no room for shadows or secrets.
Are those… mana stones? Bradley wondered, his gaze fixed on the impossible light sources. The sheer profligacy of it was staggering. To use concentrated magical energy for mere illumination… the empire's wealth must be bottomless.
He tore his eyes from the ceiling to survey his new surroundings, and a low whistle almost escaped his lips. Fucking hell. This place makes our orphanage hall look like a peasant's hut.
They were not alone. The cavernous space teemed with life—hundreds, no, thousands of other youths, a murmuring, shifting sea of adolescent anticipation. It was a living tapestry of human emotion. He saw the brittle, polished confidence of the privileged, the raw, trembling fear of the unprepared, the blank stoicism of the resigned, and the feverish excitement of the deluded. It was a census of hope and dread, all gathered to gamble their very souls.
So many… all here to roll the dice with their lives as the stake.
His eyes, sharpened by a life of assessing threats, scanned the crowd. The social divisions were as clear as if drawn by an invisible line. There were those in patched, worn fabrics, their postures hunched and wary—the commoners, trying to make themselves small, but not all commoners; some stood tall and confident. And then there were the others, clad in silks, velvets, and fine linens, their chins held high, their auras radiating an unshakable sense of entitlement. They clustered together, creating insulated islands of exclusivity amidst the common sea.
Hah. There they are. The noble brats, in the flesh. Already acting like they own the place.
But what truly gave him pause was their physicality. Nearly all of them, boys and girls alike, stood well over 1.7 meters. They were not just tall; they were built, their frames layered with the defined muscle of dedicated, resource-backed training. Bradley, in his new, slender 1.5-meter body, felt like a sapling in a forest of ancient oaks.
Hah? Even the girls tower over me? Goddamn… He glanced toward the spot where the statuesque Lady Sansa stood. Right. I should have expected this. The rules of biology here are clearly different. I'm a shrimp in a world of giants.
He completed his survey, noting with clinical interest the apparent lack of any non-human races. Only humans. A curiously homogenous world for one boasting magic and empires. Where are the elves? The beast-kin? It felt strangely… limited.
The assessment was mutual. A thousand pairs of eyes were doing the same, sizing up potential rivals, marking threats. A few gazes lingered on their group from the orphanage, but Bradley, positioned at the very back, remained largely unnoticed, a shadow in the crowd.
He turned to Adrian, who stood with his arms crossed, eyes serenely closed as if meditating in the heart of a storm. "You good?"
Adrian didn't open his eyes. "Surprisingly, yes. I was braced for the urge to vomit my guts out, but I feel… perfectly fine. It was unnervingly smooth."
"Same here," Bradley agreed, his mind already dissecting the experience. "My guess is it's a feature of Lady Sansa's ability, not a bug. A personal teleportation spell, refined to perfection, versus the crude, industrial violence of a public gate." The implication settled heavily on him. To move nearly a thousand people across what should be a five-day journey in the blink of an eye, without any visible strain or collateral discomfort… She's not just powerful. She's a strategic weapon. One of the absolute pillars of this empire.
His attention shifted to the front, where Lady Sansa stood, a calm center with the impassive Frederic as her granite sentinel. They were not the only adults. Other figures, each radiating a distinct and potent aura, stood before their own groups. Instructors. Some exuded a chill so profound it felt like standing at the edge of a glacial abyss; others offered a friendly warmth that felt just as dangerous in its own way, like a predator's playful purr.
One of them, a woman with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like a summer sky, approached Sansa. She was dressed in an elegant light blue gown that whispered of wealth, a silver necklace glinting at her throat.
"It is great to see you, Duchess Sansa," the woman said, executing a perfect, respectful bow that was just deep enough to convey deference without groveling.
"It is good to see you as well, Miss Arial," Sansa replied, her voice polite but devoid of warmth, her face a flawless, unreadable mask.
A ripple of murmurs spread through those close enough to hear. Eyes widened. Duchess.
Damn, Bradley thought, his own surprise a sharp spike. I was right. In worlds like this, beauty and power are two sides of the same coin. Yet, a question nagged at him, a dissonance in the narrative. Why would a Duchess, a ruler of a domain, personally manage an orphanage? Shouldn't she be mired in politics, trade, and warfare? He shook his head slightly. I guess she truly is an anomaly. A beautiful, terrifying enigma.
"Did you know she was a duchess, Adrian?"
Adrian gave him a look that could wither grass. "Yes. It's public knowledge. Her title was never a secret, though her specific abilities were." He seemed to read the question forming in Bradley's mind. "And before you ask, yes, a noble of her station running an orphanage is unheard of. An absurdity. But trust me, she is just… like that. A law unto herself."
"I see," Bradley replied, filing the information away. The other instructors greeted her with similar deference, which she acknowledged with the same detached, regal politeness.
Sansa turned to Arial. "Where is the head instructor?"
Arial sighed, a gesture of long-suffering. "He is still not here. You know how he is… probably asleep on a rooftop somewhere in the capital, or sampling the wares of a tavern."
Sansa clicked her tongue, a surprisingly human sound of irritation, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sigh. I will be observing. Take care of the children."
The instructors nodded in unison, a well-drilled response.
When Sansa turned back to her orphans, the cold mask melted away, replaced by the gentle warmth that was reserved for them alone. "I must go now, to join the other Dukes who are observing," she said, her voice softening into something almost maternal. "But I believe in you. All of you. Remember your training. Trust in the strength you have built, not just in your bodies, but in your hearts and minds."
Every child nodded, their faces a mixture of determination and naked anxiety.
She gave them one last, sun-bright smile—a benediction. And then, she was gone. Not in a flash of light or the swirl of a magic circle. She simply ceased to be present. One moment she was there, a solid, reassuring figure; the next, there was only empty space, the air undisturbed, as if she had never been there at all.
The silence she left behind was profound, filled with the ghost of her presence.
"As expected of Duchess Sansa," a boy from another group breathed, his voice full of reverent awe.
"Did you see that? No circle, no incantation! She teleported a thousand people and then just… vanished!" a girl whispered, her words trembling with a mixture of fear and admiration.
Bradley was more than shocked; he was recalibrating his entire understanding of magic in this world. Either she is too fast at casting or she can just teleport without a magical circle as well. That is low-key the best power for kidnapping people.
High above, in a secluded observation chamber that overlooked the hall like a god's gallery, the air shimmered and Sansa materialized amidst a gathering of titans. The room held three other figures, each seated in thronelike chairs, their mere presence warping the space around them, their auras a dense, suffocating tapestry of latent, terrifying power. These were three of the four Dukes of the Ladi Empire, beings who stood at the apex of human strength, each a sovereign of their own vast territory.
On the left sat a man whose presence was as vast and untamed as the southern jungles he ruled. Duke Arnold Andrade. His skin was the rich hue of dark teak, his shoulders impossibly broad, straining the fabric of his impeccably tailored black overshirt, which was adorned with golden chords. A mane of vibrant of green hair was swept back from a face featuring eyes with slitted, reptilian pupils that held a perpetual, predatory amusement. A black cape with golden tassels flowed from his shoulders, and coiled around his forearm, perfectly still, was a serpent of emerald green, its body dotted with black patterns like a starless night sky.
Beside him was a man who looked like death's well-dressed cousin. Duke Valentine Bandido, the Lord of the North. His skin was a bloodless, cadaverous white, a stark contrast to his shock of navy blue hair and eyes as black and deep as a burial shroud. He sat perfectly still, his head propped on a fist, his expression one of profound, eternal boredom as he gazed down at the specks of children below. His attire—a flamboyant red shirt with silver embroidery, paired with stark black trousers—was as dramatic and unsettling as his pallor.
To Sansa's right was the only other woman, a force of nature in her own right. Duchess Mira Cleric, ruler of the east. Her beauty was a wild, untamed thing, with sun-kissed tanned skin, hair the color of vanilla latte, and eyes as blue and turbulent as a storm-wracked ocean. She wore tight black pants that strained against powerful, muscular thighs and a simple white blouse under a luxurious fur coat, her entire demeanor radiating a tomboyish, aggressive confidence that dared anyone to challenge her.
"Oh, if it isn't Duchess Sansa," Mira drawled, a wide, teasing grin splitting her face. "Always with the eye-catching entrance. Must you make the rest of us look so pedestrian?"
The gentle smile Sansa had bestowed upon her children was nowhere to be seen. In its place was the cold, impenetrable mask she reserved for the world beyond her orphanage walls. "Good morning to you, Duchess Mira," she replied, her voice as chill and sharp as a shard of winter ice, as she took her seat with fluid grace.
"Ouch," Mira clutched her chest dramatically, as if struck by a physical blow. "How can you always be so cold to me, yet you're all sunshine and rainbows for your orphans? It's unfair! I'm hurt, truly."
Sansa ignored the theatrics, offering a curt, silent nod to the other Dukes, which they returned with similar economy.
It was a known, unspoken truth in the highest echelons of the empire: Sansa's kindness was a fortress with only one gate, and it was permanently closed to all but the children under her care. To the Emperor, to her fellow Dukes, to the world at large, she was an ice sculpture—breathtakingly beautiful, utterly untouchable, and cold enough to burn.
Duke Arnold crossed his legs, the motion fluid and imbued with contained power. "You keep forgetting her disposition hasn't changed since we were all young and foolish enough to think we could melt glaciers," he said, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that vibrated through the room.
"Yeah, I just wonder what those kids have that we don't," Mira mused, tapping a finger on her chin. "I need to learn their secret. Maybe it's a special kind of soap, or perhaps they—"
The air in the room dropped twenty degrees. Sansa's head turned with deliberate slowness, and her crimson eyes locked onto Mira with an intensity that could flay skin from bone and freeze blood in its veins. "If you go near my children," she said, each word dripping with frozen, absolute venom, "I will kill you. There will be no discussion, no duel, no political repercussions. I will simply end you."
"Oh? Let's see if you can stop me," Mira shot back, her grin turning feral, a spark of genuine battle-lust igniting in her ocean-blue eyes.
Two colossal auras erupted then, clashing in the space between them with the force of colliding weather fronts. The very air vibrated, turning thick and heavy. The marble beneath their feet groaned in protest, and fine cracks spiderwebbed across a nearby ornamental pillar. The chamber trembled as two forces of nature, each a master of their domain, vied for dominance in a silent, terrifying war of wills.
Valentine didn't so much as blink, his corpse-like face utterly disinterested, as if watching dust motes dance in a sunbeam. It was Arnold who broke the stalemate, his voice laced with dry annoyance as he gestured downward with the hand not occupied by his serpent. "Do you both wish to be personally responsible for massacring the next generation of our empire? Crushing them into paste because you can't control your tempers?"
The pressure vanished instantly. Sansa withdrew her aura, though her murderous glare remained fixed on Mira, a promise of future violence held in that crimson gaze. Mira simply rolled her eyes, the battle-lust fading as quickly as it came, and settled back into her chair with a dismissive huff.
A thick, uncomfortable silence descended, broken only by the faint, collective murmur from the hall below, a distant echo of the lives they so casually discussed.
It was Valentine who finally spoke, his voice a smooth, calm monotone that cut through the quiet like a scalpel. "How many do you think will survive this time?"
"There are about five thousand attempting the trial today," Arnold replied, his fingers gently stroking the head of his serpent, which flicked a black forked tongue in response. "So, half. Perhaps less. The System is never generous."
Duchess Mira leaned back, propping her boots on the ornate railing with a lack of decorum that was clearly intentional. "I agree. This generation is soft, especially the noble whelps. Decades of peace have made them complacent, fat on their family's legacy. They think power is an inheritance, not a prize wrested from the jaws of death." She snorted. "Complacency is a quicker killer than any monster lurking in the trials."
Sansa said nothing. She simply watched the sea of children below, her expression an unreadable cipher. She knew the statistics were not in their favor. Hope was a flimsy shield against the unforgiving mechanics of the Spiritual System. Yet, she hoped nonetheless—a quiet, stubborn ember in the frozen tundra of her public persona.
Valentine emitted a soft, bored yawn, the gesture grotesquely human on his deathly visage. "An old, old story. Those who adapt, live. Those who do not, become fertilizer for the next batch. The first and final law of the world. It applies even to our own blood. Especially to them."
"My children will survive," Arnold stated, his slit-pupiled eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "They are Andrades. And if they fail and shame the name… I will descend into whatever hell awaits them and kill them a second time myself. The family honor demands it."
Valentine merely shook his head slowly, a silent commentary on the brutish simplicity of such a sentiment.
Duchess Mira's eyes, however, scanned the crowd below with a hunter's keen, predatory gleam. "The Emperor's children and our own are attempting as well. I doubt they'll fail—the breeding is too strong—but death is a democratic fiend. It doesn't care for bloodlines." A speculative, almost hungry glint entered her eyes. "No, I just wonder if we'll see anything truly… interesting this year. A real spark. An anomaly. Perhaps…" she let the word hang in the air, "…someone with a Divine bloodline?"
The shift in the room was immediate and palpable. It was as if the temperature plummeted to absolute zero. Even the unflappable Valentine frowned, the minute gesture looking like a crack in a marble statue. Arnold's predatory grin tightened into something grim. Sansa's cold mask seemed to grow several degrees colder, her crimson eyes glinting with a dangerous light.
Why?
Because her words were heresy against the established cosmic order. A bloodline was the reward, the unique signature granted by the System for conquering the trial. It was a measure of one's potential, a destiny written in the soul. Divine was the highest rank—a myth, a theoretical pinnacle spoken of in hushed tones in ancient texts.
It was said a Divine bloodline was a covenant with godhood itself, a direct line to a state of being no human had ever achieved. Other races had their deities, but humanity's pantheon was conspicuously, humiliatingly empty. For such a human to exist would be to rewrite history, to shatter the balance of power for who knows how long had been ongoing.
Every empire, every hidden force, every ancient monster would move heaven and earth to possess them, or, failing that, to destroy them before a new god could be born.
It was an impossibility. A fantasy.
But fortunately for them, and perhaps catastrophically for the entire world, the impossible was a speciality of the boy in that crowd. He was, after all, a boy who carried the scent of cosmic interference and had a seasoned talent for inviting, and thriving in, absolute chaos.
******
Sorry for the delay man, I was busy asf.