The valley of Oakhaven, once a place of vibrant markets and the gentle rustle of oak leaves, had been consumed by the machinery of war. As Konja, Mina, Renzo, and Tali crested the final ridge of the foothills, they stopped dead in their tracks. The village did not look like home anymore. It looked like a cage.
A massive perimeter wall of dark, reinforced iron now encircled the lower districts, topped with jagged Prana-spikes that hummed with a low, threatening violet light. Massive banners of the Vane Family and the Iron Spire Academy hung from the watchtowers, snapping in the cold wind. The "Crimson Moon Tournament" wasn't just a sporting event; it was a military occupation.
"They didn't just build an arena," Renzo whispered, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade. "They turned the whole village into a fortress. Look at the Lower Sluices... there are checkpoints at every alleyway."
Konja's silver eyes scanned the gates. He saw the "Ordinary" people—his neighbors, the bakers, the tailors—standing in long lines, being poked and prodded by guards with Prana-scanners. The air, once filled with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat, now smelled of cold metal and ozone.
"They're looking for you, Konja," Mina said, her voice barely a whisper. She adjusted the hood of her scouting cloak, pulling it lower. "The Vane family hasn't just increased security; they've turned the village into a giant trap."
"Then we walk through the front door," Konja said. His voice was steady, but the brand on his palm—the mark of the Dragon-Piercer—throbbed with a dull, rhythmic heat.
The Gatekeeper's Toll
As the group approached the main gate, a towering structure of black steel known as the Boiling Maw, a squad of Iron Spire Enforcers stepped forward. Their leader was a man named Captain Krell, a scarred veteran with a Crest-Mon that looked like a jagged, obsidian-skinned wolf.
"Identify yourselves," Krell barked, his eyes lingering on Tali's bright orange wraps and Renzo's Leaf-Blight. "This village is under high-security lockdown for the duration of the Crimson Moon. No itinerants, no peddlers, and no 'Ordinaries' without a registered permit."
Konja stepped forward, his hood still up. "We're here for the tournament. I have an entry token."
He reached into his pocket and produced the black iron coin Kalia Frost had dropped. Krell took it, flipping it over in his calloused hand. He saw the word Survivor engraved on the back, and his eyes narrowed.
"So, the rat returns to the kitchen," Krell sneered. He signaled to his men, and the Prana-spikes on the gate began to rotate, the violet light intensifying. "You're the Munka boy. The Vanes have been waiting for you. But a token only gets you in. Your friends go to the detention camps."
"Like hell we do," Tali chirped, her hand moving toward her tonfas. "I'm Tali Ginger, daughter of the Spice-Temple. If you want to detain me, you'd better have insurance for your face."
The tension was a physical weight. Zale stood on Konja's shoulder, his blue fur beginning to crackle. But before a fight could break out, a cold, familiar voice echoed from the battlements above.
"Let them in, Krell."
Kalia Frost stood atop the wall, her white hair contrasting sharply with the dark iron. Her Frost-Wraith circled her like a silent, snowy ghost. She looked down at Konja, her expression unreadable.
"He is an official contestant," Kalia said. "The rules of the Crimson Moon state that a contestant's retinue is granted passage. Don't let your personal distaste for the Lower Sluices override the Academy's bylaws."
Krell grumbled but stepped aside, gesturing for the gates to open. As the massive iron doors ground apart, Konja looked up at Kalia.
"Why help us?" Konja asked.
"I'm not helping you," Kalia replied, her eyes cold as the salt-flats. "I'm ensuring that when I break you in the arena, there are no excuses. Enter, Munka. See what your village has become."
The Shadow of the Spire
Walking through Oakhaven felt like walking through a graveyard of memories. The Lower Sluices were quiet. The street vendors were gone, replaced by automated "Food-Dispensers" owned by the Vane Corporation. Konja passed the spot where his family's cart used to stand; now, there was only a metallic kiosk selling bland, processed "Power-Rations."
"It's gone," Konja whispered. "The life... it's all gone."
"Not all of it," a muffled voice hissed from a dark doorway.
A hand reached out and pulled the group into the shadows of a defunct blacksmith's shop. It was Garam, Konja's father. He looked tired, his face covered in soot, but his eyes were sharp. Behind him, a dozen "Ordinary" people were huddled together, sharpening makeshift spears and mending old leather armor.
"Dad! You're okay," Konja said, embracing him.
"We're surviving," Garam said. "The Vanes have moved everyone into the 'Worker Zones.' They're using the people to power the arena's Prana-batteries. They're literally draining the life out of the village to fuel the tournament's spectacle."
"They're using the people as fuel?" Mina gasped, her hand over her mouth.
"The tournament isn't just about fighting," Garam explained, leading them to a table covered in blueprints. "The arena is a giant Siphon-Array. Every time a fighter uses a high-level technique, the array captures the excess energy and stores it. The Vanes want to use that power to activate the Great Hearth—an ancient weapon buried beneath the village."
Renzo looked at the blueprints. "So the fighting is just a distraction. A way to harvest Prana."
"Exactly," Garam said. "And the finals are scheduled for the night of the Crimson Moon, when the natural Prana is at its peak. Konja, you can't just win. You have to destroy the Siphon-Array."
The Forbidden Training
That night, in the belly of the old blacksmith shop, the group prepared. The air was thick with the scent of oil and iron. Konja sat in a circle with Mina, Renzo, and Tali.
"We have two days," Konja said. "The tournament is a bracket system. Sixty-four fighters. We need to reach the quarter-finals to get close enough to the arena's core."
"I've been scouting the roster," Mina said, pulling out a list of names. "It's not just Kalia. There's Baron's older brother, Valerius Vane. He's a Third-Gate user. And there's Sunder, a mercenary from the Iron Spire who specializes in 'Crest-Breaking'—he targets the animal, not the fighter."
Zale let out a nervous chirp, and Konja stroked the creature's head. "We won't let them touch you, Zale."
"We need a team technique," Tali suggested, swinging her tonfas. "If we're going to take down the Siphon-Array, we'll have to fight our way through the guards while the tournament is happening. We need a Combined-Flavor Strike."
For the next forty-eight hours, they didn't sleep. Under the guidance of Garam and the notes from Master Shor, they practiced a technique that blended their disparate styles.
Renzo provided the Acid-Agility, creating openings with his Leaf-Blight's speed. Mina provided the Sweet-Flow, weaving her ribbons into a defensive net that redirected attacks. Tali provided the Salt-Structure, her tonfas acting as the anchor. And Konja... Konja was the Umami. He was the balance that tied the flavors together.
During one particularly intense session, the silver light in Konja's eyes began to bleed into his hands. He felt the Third Gate—the Gate of Bitter Endurance—creaking open. It wasn't a sudden burst of power; it was a slow, agonizing heat that felt like his bones were being forged in a furnace.
"Hold it, Konja!" Garam shouted. "Don't let the heat escape! Fold it into your spirit like steel!"
Konja screamed, his skin glowing with a dull red hue. Zale merged with him, the blue electricity turning a deep, royal indigo. The room vibrated. A nearby anvil cracked down the middle from the sheer pressure of Konja's aura.
When the light faded, Konja fell to his knees, gasping. He looked at his hands. They were steady. The brand on his palm was no longer a scar; it was glowing with a faint, pulsing light that matched his heartbeat.
"You're ready," Garam said quietly.
The Eve of the Crimson Moon
The morning of the tournament arrived. The village was jolted awake by the sound of a hundred war-drums. The Arena of the Iron Petal had been expanded, its stone seats replaced by hovering platforms for the wealthy families.
Konja stood at the entrance of the competitor's tunnel. He was wearing a new gi, sewn together by the women of the Lower Sluices. It was made of reinforced hemp and drake-hide, colored the deep indigo of a midnight sky. On the back was the Munka crest, but this time, it was embroidered with silver thread.
Mina walked up to him, her face pale but her eyes bright. She reached out and tied her crimson combat ribbon around his wrist.
"For luck," she whispered. "And so you remember to come back to us."
Konja looked at the ribbon, then at the crowd of thousands waiting in the stands. He could see Baron Vane in the VIP box, his face healed but his eyes full of malice. He saw Valerius, a man who looked like a mountain of muscle and cold ambition. And he saw Kalia, sitting silently, her Frost-Wraith a chilling presence in the morning sun.
"I'm not just fighting for a name anymore, Mina," Konja said, tightening the ribbon. "I'm fighting for the heart of Oakhaven."
The gong sounded—a deep, booming note that signaled the start of the first round.
"Contestants, enter the sands!" the announcer's voice boomed.
Konja stepped out into the light. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but to him, it was just background noise. He focused on the rhythm of his breathing, the heartbeat of Zale, and the latent heat of the Third Gate.
The Crimson Moon was only hours away. The feast was set. And Konja Munka was ready to serve the first course.