The days passed by quickly. The sect environment was like the calm before a storm.
All of Lunaris was in motion, disciples sharpening blades and skills, alchemists weaving ingredients into pills, potions and elixirs, and crafters, busy in their forges and embedding arrays weapons.
Every corner of the Moonlight Sect buzzed with anticipation.
In the heart of the sect, the Moonlight Sect Master, Caer Thalorin, stood before a towering window carved from moonstone.
His silver-and-indigo robes flowed like mist, and his long hair, threaded with strands of dream-metal, shimmered in the dawn light.
Behind him, Selyra waited silently.
"Are the preparations on track?" Caer asked, his voice calm, ageless.
"They are," Selyra responded. "The Core Disciples are organising their selections. The town officials of Lunaris have confirmed their arrival by the third moonrise."
The Sect Master nodded, fingers tapping the hilt of the ceremonial scepter resting by his side.
"The people need this." He looked down the mountain toward the sprawling city below. "We must remind them that peace and power walk hand in hand. That their protectors remain sharp."
Selyra hesitated, then added, "There is something else you should know."
"Oh?"
"The boy. The one who fell through the rift."
Caer turned slightly, interest flickering behind his serene gaze.
"Adrien."
"I've taken him under my guidance," Selyra said. "His talent is... unorthodox. And his understanding of crafting borders on divine intuition. I believe he was born for it. He devours knowledge without pause, pushes himself without rest."
Caer's brows rose ever so slightly. "A mortal child who fell through a spatial tear, survives, and awakens a tier 1 Dream Core strong enough to enter our sect... Now displays signs of being a world-class crafter?"
"He doesn't understand his value yet," Selyra said. "But others will. I plan to add him to my list of selections for the festival."
Caer turned fully now, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.
"Then we must decide, will we nurture this flame... or temper it?"
Meanwhile
Adrien swung the hammer down for the sixth time, the impact of dreamsteel against soul-tempered iron sending an arc of sparks into the air.
He was drenched in sweat, his sleeves rolled back, revealing the faint lines of glowing runes that had begun to appear along his forearms, residual effects of aether channelling will into metal.
Around him, several apprentice crafters were watching with curious expressions. Some had scorned him days earlier, thinking him a poser from the outer sect, playing at being a craftsman.
Now, they watched in silence as his hands danced between tasks, folding alloys, cooling parts, setting gem cores, all without pause.
Nearby, a tall, sharp-eyed elder known as Instructor Feiyun observed with his arms crossed.
"A week ago, this boy didn't know how to tell a soul core from a focus gem," he murmured. "Now he's reinforcing high-tier conduit arrays into beginner-grade staves like it's second nature."
Another instructor leaned over. "It's unnatural. He doesn't have training... but he reads blueprints like he's remembering them."
Feiyun didn't respond, his gaze narrowing.
Adrien, meanwhile, was focused entirely on the piece before him, a segmented blade forged from dreamsliver and black quartz, designed to flex and bend mid-swing.
The runes pulsed with barely-contained force.
He whispered softly to himself, "Just a little more…"
Then...
Clang!
The forging was complete.
A soft hum filled the air as the weapon stabilized, resting on the anvil like it had always belonged there.
Someone clapped.
Adrien turned, and his heart sank.
Ilyra.
She stood at the edge of the workshop, arms behind her back, expression unreadable.
"Not bad," she said. "For an outer disciple, who reads like a show-off."
Adrien raised an eyebrow. "So, you've been doing your research? Besides, I'm just quick, I'm not trying to show off There's a difference."
She walked closer, her gaze appraising the blade. "You'll need more than style at the festival. You've heard what's coming, haven't you?"
"The festival?" he asked.
"The tournament," she corrected, her tone now serious. "It's not just games and music. It's where the sect displays its finest. Where Core Disciples scout new talents. Where the High Elders take note of who's rising... and who should be culled."
Adrien swallowed.
"Sounds intense."
"It is," she said. "And for a human outsider like you, surviving the public rounds would be a statement. Winning... would be a declaration."
"Declaration of what?"
Ilyra looked at him then, her eyes glinting.
"That the old rules no longer apply."
Elsewhere
The Elder Council convened.
Twelve seated figures surrounded a floating disc of star map projections. Lines of projections stretched and twisted between stars, representing disciples, instructors, and elders.
"Have you confirmed the anomaly child?" asked Elder Ilven, he was wizened elf whose robes were embroidered with living moss runes.
"Yes," replied Elder Kura. "He trains under Selyra. He has potential."
Ilven's eyes narrowed.
"The balance is delicate. We've invested in Ilyra for decades. She is Moonveil's future."
"And yet," came a new voice, deep and musical, "Sometimes the Moon does not choose the calm tide... but the rising storm."
They turned toward Elandros, Ilyra's grandfather. His long hair was tied back in a single braid, and his silver eyes shimmered with unreadable emotion.
"Ilyra will endure," he said. "She always has. But we mustn't ignore a new ember, just because another flame already burns bright."
Later That Night – Adrien's Quarters
Adrien stood on the balcony, a warm wind brushing through his hair. He held the segmented sword he'd forged earlier, the blade humming gently in his hand.
Stars blinked above him, the same way they had back on Earth, but somehow... different.
Sharper.
He didn't know what the tournament would bring. He didn't know why fate had thrown him into this world. But he knew one thing:
He wouldn't be overlooked.
Not here.
"Maybe I should open a stall to sell my crafts."
...
The mountain was alive with motion.
As the Festival of Moons drew closer, the energy in the Moonlight Sect changed. Where once there had been routine and quiet focus, now there was competition.
The air rang with the clash of weapons, the pulse of aether, and rivalries ran rampant.
For those not participating, bets were placed, in the city and the sect. once the disciples taking part in the arena fights were announced.
Adrien stood facing the evaluation platform, his segmented blade sheathed behind his back and his newly reinforced dream core pulsing with quiet determination.
He had finally reached the second tier for his dream core after relentlessly cultivating his core.
And today, was the first day of the festival.
To his left stood disciples from the outer sect, the bulk of the hopefuls.
To his right, a smaller contingent: those from the inner sect who had yet to distinguish themselves.
Towering above the crowd on floating platforms were several elders and instructors, including Selyra, who stood beside an impassive robed figure with dark red eyes and a cruel, hooked smile.
Elder Hualin, the master of weapon arts and known to show no mercy during his evaluations.
The platform crackled with energy as Elder Hualin raised a hand, voice echoing across the entire amphitheatre.
HIs voice boomed across the arena as he spoke.
"The Festival of Moons is not a celebration. It is a crucible. You are not here to entertain the masses, you are here to prove your value to the sect, to the council, and to fate itself."
He gestured, and a series of divination mirrors flared to life, reflecting the essence of every disciple on the ground.
Hualin narrowed his eyes. "Strange…"
Selyra said nothing, but her gaze was steady.
The evaluations began.
This stage would sort their brackets for in a tournament style.
Ilyra sat beneath a moonlit tree, surrounded by lavender blooms that drifted in slow spirals around her head.
Several inner sect disciples accompanied her, tending to her needs, and, watching her with quiet reverence.
She sat cross-legged, her eyes closed, as her spirit weapon floated before her. a bow made of translucent moonstone, strung with dream thread.
She opened her eyes suddenly. "He's qualifying, isn't he?"
One of her attendants, wearing the crest of Elder Elandros, nodded. "He is. And causing a stir while doing it."
"Of course he is." Her voice was unreadable. "He's too loud to do otherwise."
One of the others, a girl with spirit beast tattoos running up her neck, leaned in. "You don't seem bothered."
"I'm not," Ilyra said.
She turned to her weapon, fingers brushing the string lightly.
"The moon does not concern itself with waves."
Back at the Arena
Adrien stepped onto the duelling stage.
His opponent, an inner disciple named Vael, known for his mastery over spiritual spears and wind-based weapon arts. Vael sneered, spinning his wind-spear in tight, showy arcs.
"A craftsman? On the arena floor?" he said. "You'll wish you stayed at the forge."
Adrien smirked. "Funny. I was thinking the same about you."
With a roar, the duel began.
Vael launched forward in a blur of wind, his spear a flickering mirage of thrusts, but Adrien's movement was clean, reactive, almost instinctive.
His segmented blade spun from his back and clicked into full length in a blink.
"No arts today, and no abilities, let's try out my sword skills, just like Selyra taught me, otherwise it would all be meaningless."
Clang!Clang!
Sparks flew as the segmented weapon deflected strikes like a coiled serpent.
Then Adrien stepped forward, channelling dream force into his blade, and it sang.
The weapon didn't just strike, it harmonized, vibrating with sonic force that sent a ripple through the arena's protective barrier. It channelled aether like a conduit.
Vael staggered, ears bleeding.
"What, what kind of sword is that?!"
Adrien's response was a grin. "Prototype."
With a final twist, he swept the blade low, catching Vael's feet and flipping him off the platform.
Silence.
Then a murmur. Then roaring.
Elder Hualin rubbed his chin, amused. "He improvises. Dangerous. Very dangerous."
On the upper balcony, Selyra allowed herself a small smile.
The Sect Master stood alone, watching the duelling grounds from afar. Behind him, the doors creaked open. Elder Elandros entered silently.
"You saw him?" Caer asked without turning.
"Yes," Elandros said, folding his arms. "He's not refined. But he's... fascinating."
"He reminds me of you, when you were younger."
Elandros chuckled dryly. "He's louder than I ever was. In the sense of causing an uproar I mean."
"Even so," Caer said, "a flame like that, if guided, could burn away old shadows. Or, if left to its own course… destroy the hearth entirely. I sense an endless depth to his talent and drive. Maybe you he should join hands with your granddaughter."
Elandros scoffed, and stepped forward, watching the glow from the arena below.
"You say some outrageous things Caer, even though he some talent, his standing is not nearly high enough to even make a move. Besides, you know as well as I that my son promised Ilyra to another already."
"Well, it was worth a try, I am only making needless conjectures. Ilyra will cross paths with him eventually. She must. Perhaps it is fate... that two such flames exist at the same time."
Elandros didn't respond. But his eyes glinted.
Meanwhile
Adrien collapsed onto his bed, muscles aching, spirit humming. His blade lay on the desk beside him, still humming softly.
He stared at the ceiling, the glow from floating crystals casting shadows on his face. He fought in quite a few battles today.
He should have felt tired. But he didn't.
He felt thrilled.
This world, this place, it thrilled him.
He had survived a rift.
Now, he would rise through this sect.
And when the festival came pass... he would have made a name for himself.
"Well, somewhat. I wonder if they have more fun things to do here though, apart from growing your strength every day?"