Adrien sat at the edge of his bed, blade across his lap, and exhaled slowly. He had just finished meditating, and cultivating his core.
"Status," he whispered.
The air shimmered. Then came the familiar chime.
[Status
Name: Adrien Cortez
Age: 17
Race: Human / Spark
DREAM CORE: Tier 2, initiate
innate Ability: Genesis Architect / Deus Mentalis
Primary Attributes
Strength (STR): 41
Speed (SPD): 52
Agility (AGI): 56
Défense (DEF): 39
Intelligence (INT): 99
Health (HP): 61
Mana (MP): 84
Stamina: 31/52
Active Abilities [Cosmic Awareness ,Astral Void, Dream Circuit (New), ???]
Passive Abilities [Passive Regeneration, Awareness, ???]
Coins: 790
Profession Tab
Dream Crafting - Tier II
Skill Tier: Intermediate Grade
Focus: Weapon Arrays, Resonant Alloys, Prototype Formation Design
Known Techniques:
Soul weave Imprinting
Adaptive Alloy Forging
Conduit Stabilization
Formation Matrix Drafting
]
Adrien stared at the panel for a long moment.
He had made considerable progress, and he could feel it.
His attributes had grown by about 60% each, and it showed in his fights today. He entered the Arena four times, against inner disciples every time, and utterly dominated, despite only just advancing to a tier 2 dream core.
He was somewhat of a fans favourite now, and he had good looks to boot, even when surrounded by good looking people in this world, his features stood out.
He didn't feel like the same boy who was haplessly sucked into the void. Even though it hadn't been that long since that day, only a couple of months since he arrived on Lunaris.
The gains were considerable, compared to the month post the apocalypse he spent on earth.
The person standing now in this world… was becoming something else.
"Tier 2." he murmured. That was new.
He hadn't earned that lightly. If anything, this represented his growth the most, apart from his stats. Tier 2 ascenders were highly regarded, as far as he had read. that was enough to get you noble status anywhere you went.
And they constituted the majority of the inner disciples in the sect.
He clenched his fist. The numbers didn't lie. He was changing. He was adapting. Faster than most.
His gaze lingered on the locked abilities. The "???" at the edge of his known self.
What else am I becoming
....
The night before had been electric, crowds flooding the lower city, fireworks blooming like ghostly flowers above the spires, and the Moonlight Sect basking in the weight of expectation.
But now, the sun rose to the second day of the Festival of Moons, and that weight had shifted.
It pressed down on the arena.
Like a storm.
The outer and inner sect matches continued and roared to life just after dawn. The public loved them, their fury, their fire, their flaws.
These were the brawls of the hopeful and desperate. Disciples clashed in brutal fashion across ten miniature platforms hovering above the tiled coliseum floor.
Smoke. Blood. Cheers.
A boy from the outer sect screamed as his blade shattered against a shield reinforced with wind talismans.
A girl from the inner sect cackled as she summoned a tide of mud and stone to pin a larger opponent before driving a spike through the earth beneath his foot.
Victory was quick. Defeat was cruel.
And all the while, the crafters in the crowd sold glowing talismans that replayed highlights of previous battles, broadcasting the most violent or dramatic moments to enchanted screens that shimmered above the arena's rim. Gambling houses overflowed.
It was glorious.
And yet, none of the important guests truly watched.
Not the High Elders in their floating glass balconies, nor the nobles seated in the silverspire booths overlooking the crowd.
They were waiting.
They were waiting for the true battle to begin.
Midday
Adrien leaned against a sun-warmed railing in the outer observation circle, flanked by a few disciples who shared his uncertain awe.
His eyes tracked the fights below but his thoughts were elsewhere, flashes of steel, bursts of magic, the bone-jarring speed of cultivators barely older than him.
"They're all monsters," muttered someone nearby.
Adrien didn't disagree. Even some of the so-called 'remarkable' inner sect disciples moved with a flow he couldn't match, not yet.
His segmented blade rested on his back, humming softly in resonance with his soul.
But today wasn't about him.
Today was about them. The bouts ended, and the core disciples made their entrance...
He thought of his sparring sessions with Selyra, moments where time blurred and all he could do was survive her effortless pressure.
She'd hold back, of course, but even then she moved like water infused with lightning. Untouchable. Unrelenting.
And now he was about to watch thirty-one others like her.
His chest tightened.
He looked down at his own hand, calloused, slightly trembling. The runes etched faintly into his skin from his recent crafting still shimmered.
His dream core had awakened, yes, but it was still Tier 2. He was late in the game. They were born in a more advanced world than his, yes, compared to what the Core Disciples possessed...
...he was an ember in a storm of stars.
Announcement – The Core Disciple Tournament
A sudden hush fell.
Not because of a fight.
Not because of an explosion or a scream.
But because of presence.
A booming voice echoed from the arena's core. Elder Hualin.
"Disciples of the Moonlight Sect," he called, "The opening rounds have concluded. You have watched fire burn bright, and many rise and fall. But now... the true demonstration begins."
He raised his hand, and a glowing lotus of moonlight unfolded in the centre platform. Thirty-two names bloomed from its petals, each etched in celestial script.
Gasps. Cheers. Cries of adoration.
The Core Disciples.
They appeared one by one as glowing gates formed around the edge of the central platform, each gate releasing a pillar of aura as its champion emerged.
One after another, they strode forward.
A young man wreathed in Sunfire, eyes blazing with golden rays.
A tall woman with jade serpents coiled around her arms, eyes glowing with toxic promise.
A twin pair from the Snowfang Clan, blades gleaming with mirrored precision.
Thirty-one names stepped into the ring.
And then,
A final gate opened, and Selyra emerged, her silver hair trailing like comet silk, her robes edged glowing lace, her expression unreadable. Her presence alone caused a tremor across the viewing stands.
Adrien inhaled sharply. Her Dream Core pulsed outward for a brief moment, a serene, glowing structure of crystalline moons and cascading light.
Five cores exploded out wide, only a visual explosion, a representation of her core level.
Tier Four, easily. Likely higher.
But he wasn't the only one who felt it.
All around him, disciples stared in reverence or terror. Even instructors nodded in quiet acknowledgment.
And then came the name that sent the crowd into a fresh uproar.
Ilyra.
She strode forward in silence, dressed in twilight blue, her moonstone bow glinting across her back. Her Dream Core shimmered like a mirror to the sky, endless, cold, perfect.
Four cores!!! At her Age!!! Outrageous!!!
...
Within the most exalted balcony, surrounded by glass panes that glittered with protective runes, a pair of elves stood at the fore.
Lady Vivian of Moonveil, serene, graceful, her gown woven from starlight thread, her eyes soft with emotion.
And beside her, Lord Varrien of Moonveil.
A force of nature in elven flesh.
His silver hair fell in thick braids down his back, his cloak embroidered with spirit beast hides and ancient script. The moment his daughter appeared on the stage, he erupted.
"MY ILYRA!!!"
His voice boomed across the balcony, loud enough to startle several junior nobles. One clumsy official dropped his wine.
Laughter echoed from the other glass booths.
"Here we go again," someone muttered.
Another voice, older, drier, sighed, "You'd think after the fifth tournament he'd calm down."
"Don't be ridiculous," came a chuckle. "It's Lord Varrien. Who could make him calm down?"
Varrien beamed with open tears running down his face. "LOOK AT HER! SHE'S STANDING LIKE A GODDESS! THE MOON HERSELF IS EMBARRASSED BY HER SHINE!"
Lady Vivian gave a small, amused smile and dabbed at her husband's eyes with a silk handkerchief. "Compose yourself, dear. You're frightening the other spectators."
"I WILL NOT!" Varrien declared proudly. "LET THESE IGNORANT PEASANTS BE AFRAID OF HER BEAUTY!"
More laughter. More helpless shrugs. No one dared mock him seriously. Varrien Moonveil was a legend among kings, older than most sects, and strong enough that not even the Sect Master himself dared joke too far.