The sky arena floated above the endless ocean of clouds — a colossal structure woven of luminous stone and celestial metal, veined with runic light. Thousands of combatants from the three Nasarik branches, along with representatives of the great allied families, filled the lower platforms. Around the arena's heart, transparent viewing rings hovered — a space reserved for the patriarchs, elders, and chosen observers.
Within the highest ring sat Zephyr Nasarik, patriarch of the main branch — silent, regal, and inscrutable. To his right, Aldric Vaelith, head of the second branch and Eryndor's father, rested his chin on one hand, his sharp eyes following the holographic screen that projected the battlefield below. Beside them stood Lazarus, the patriarch of the third branch — his presence cold and oppressive, his gaze unreadable behind a half-smile.
Below them, on the floating training grounds, Eryndor Nasarik adjusted his gloves. The wind curled faintly around him as though it recognized its master.
He looked up once, locking eyes with Aldric through the spectral projection. Aldric's stern façade cracked just slightly — the faintest smile, one that said don't die showing off.
Zephyr, meanwhile, merely glanced sideways at Aldric.
"You've raised quite the troublemaker," he murmured.
Aldric exhaled softly, his tone somewhere between pride and exhaustion. "Trouble follows him. I just stopped trying to stop it."
When the elder overseeing the trial lifted his hand, his voice thundered through the arena:
"First Trial — The Hunt of Cores!"
The runic platforms shifted. In an instant, the participants were transported into vast simulated zones — forests, deserts, ruins, frozen tundras — each brimming with monsters of every rank.
A holographic interface displayed at the side of each participant:
Objective: Collect as many monster cores as possible within two hours.
Ranking: Determined by both quantity and quality.
Eryndor materialized within a dense, fog-drenched forest. Lightning faintly danced across his eyes.
"This place…" he muttered, cracking his neck. "Feels like home."
The air distorted behind him — monstrous roars echoed through the mist. A pack of Voidborn Drakes, at least six of them, each radiating mid–King-class energy. But something was wrong. Their movements were erratic — driven, desperate. Their eyes locked onto Eryndor the instant he stepped forward.
"…They're tracking me."
He frowned.
"That shouldn't be possible."
Aldric leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Those aren't normal spawns. Someone tweaked the core matrix."
Zephyr's tone remained flat, though his gaze glinted with interest.
"The third branch's hand, perhaps?"
Lazarus smiled faintly, folding his arms.
"Accidents happen. Perhaps the boy is just unlucky."
Aldric didn't answer — but a low hum of energy emanated from his seat, suppressed fury cloaked behind calm.
The ground cracked as Eryndor slammed his foot down.
Blue-white arcs burst from his body, slicing through the mist. His lightning merged with the wind, forming a storm dome that vaporized the fog entirely.
He vanished.
The first Drake never even saw him move. A heel kick shattered its jaw, sending its massive body crashing into two others. The second's tail lashed toward him — he caught it mid-swing, spun once, and hurled the creature through a line of trees.
"Nice trick," he muttered, pulling the air tight around his arm, lightning swirling through his veins.
"Now let me show you something better."
He struck once — a spiral palm, born of his Eightfold Flow and Wind Compression techniques. The hit didn't explode; it imploded — the air collapsed inward, crushing the Drake before releasing a silent burst of light.
Core extracted. One down.
Up above, several patriarchs murmured amongst themselves.
"He's… using condensed flow? At that speed?"
"That's not possible at his level."
Zephyr only smiled faintly. "He's never been one to obey rules."
Aldric didn't speak, but his hand tightened into a fist beneath the table. That's my son.
Unbeknownst to them, deep within the control nexus where the trial's data was handled, cloaked figures moved — emissaries of the third branch.
"He's still alive?" one of them hissed. "Increase the modifier — target scent lock. Deploy the high-class variants."
The forest trembled. Dozens more roars filled the air — now accompanied by the ground-quaking steps of a Leviathan-class behemoth.
Eryndor looked up slowly, his breath steady.
"Oh, so that's how we're playing it."
He smiled — the same confident, slightly arrogant grin that drove Aldric half-mad.
"Fine. Let's make this fun."
He kicked off the ground — lightning, wind, and martial form spiraling together.
From the viewing platform, Aldric sighed audibly.
"I told him not to show off…"
Zephyr's smirk widened.
"And yet, here we are."
Lazarus's eyes narrowed just slightly, a ripple of unease behind his calm expression.
Eryndor blurred forward — fists, knees, and feet striking in perfect rhythm. Every hit looked like an art form — Wing Chun fluidity merged with Eightfold Flow precision, his movements accompanied by silent lightning flashes. The Leviathan fell to its knees, core exposed — and with one open-palm strike, he shattered its chest plate and ripped it free.
The arena's broadcast board flared:
Participant: Eryndor Nasarik — Rank 1
Cores: 48 — Leviathan-Class Confirmed.
A stunned silence rippled through the viewing rings.
Aldric exhaled deeply.
"…He's going to give me a heart attack before I even retire."
Zephyr chuckled under his breath. "And yet, you're proud."
Aldric didn't answer — but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
High above, Lazarus's expression remained unreadable. But his hand twitched, just once, against his armrest.
So… you've truly awakened, Eryndor Nasarik.