The wind still carried ash. It drifted through the dawn like dying embers that refused to fade, the last whispers of a crimson sky that had burned all night above the Temple of Hainn. The world had not slept.
From the mountain's shoulder, a solitary monk trudged through a river of mist. His gray robes were torn by thorn and wind, and his eyes—white and unfocused—saw only through faith. The others at the temple had fallen silent after the fall of the Adonis Blades, kneeling as the old priest whispered, "The time has come… Hainn's calling."
Now the message had to reach the living world.
The monk's name was Aruhn, one of the temple's last Voiceless Servants—a sworn messenger of the god of war and destruction. The path before him, the Veil Road, wound from the sacred peaks down into the kingdom of men. And at the end of it, beyond the forests still trembling from divine light, lay the Vehns Empire—seat of kings and cradle of vanity.
He traveled without horse or escort, clutching a black rod engraved with Hainn's seal. Those who saw him along the way fled indoors, for his eyes glowed faintly with crimson hue; an omen, the old believed, that the heavens had spoken through him.
By the time Aruhn reached the gates of Vehns, night had fallen again. The sky was bruised purple and orange, lightning crawling along its skin. Soldiers at the gate crossed their halberds.
"State your purpose, monk."
Aruhn's lips were dry, his voice like wind over bone. "The god calls his champions."
That single line was enough. The guards exchanged frightened glances, then one ran to alert the inner court.
Within an hour, the monk stood before King Bhen Monshur, ruler of Vehns, a man whose presence could quiet storms. He sat upon his throne of polished onyx, a crown of gold hanging heavy over stern, gray eyes. The hall flickered with torchlight; courtiers, knights, and advisors lined its marble ribs.
"You claim to bring a message from Hainn," the king said. "Speak, before I order your tongue silenced."
Aruhn fell to one knee and raised the black rod. "From the Temple of Blades, where the sky wept fire. The Adonis Blades have returned. The Flame, the Frost, the Air, the Venom, the Gate, the Infinite—they have descended once more to the sacred altar. The old priest saw the sign and said, 'The Tournament of Worth shall begin anew.' The god of war calls his chosen from among men."
The court erupted in whispers. Even the king's face cracked for a heartbeat.
"The Tournament?" he murmured, more to himself. "After three generations?"
Aruhn nodded, lowering his head. "It begins at the next red moon. The worthy shall gather where steel was first blessed. And among them, the new bearers of the Adonis Blades shall rise."
From behind the curtains of silk, a presence stirred—Princess Rialle Monshur, the king's only daughter. Barefoot, her hair still unbound from sleep, she had heard every word. Her heart raced like a wild drum.
The Tournament of Worth.
A trial where mortals risked blood, pride, and soul for a blade that could pierce destiny itself.
For years, she had begged her father to let her train openly as a swordswoman, and for years he refused. "A blade is not a toy for a princess," he'd said. "Your hands are meant for crowns, not hilts."
But now, destiny had given her a door—and she intended to walk through it.
In the hall, King Bhen rose. His eyes softened as they found his daughter peering from the shadows. "Rialle," he said quietly, beckoning her forward. "You heard."
She bowed, her white nightgown catching the torchlight like frost. "I did, Father. And I understand what it means."
He frowned. "You will forget what you heard. The Tournament is not for you."
"With respect, Father," she said, straightening. "The call of Hainn is not yours to silence. If even peasants are allowed to prove their worth, why not the daughter of a king?"
The court fell silent. The monk's blind gaze lifted slightly, a faint smile touching his cracked lips.
King Bhen sighed, the weight of kingship pressing down on his shoulders. "You speak with a brave tongue, child. But bravery alone feeds no grave."
Rialle's answer was soft but unshaken. "Then I shall die for something greater than silk and feasts."
The silence that followed was a mountain.
Finally, the king waved his hand. "Leave us."
She turned, eyes bright as the moon, and slipped out of the hall. Behind her, the monk's voice echoed one last time:
"The blades await their bearers. The world turns toward its reckoning."
The monk's words didn't stay in the marble hall. They escaped like smoke.
Before dawn, merchants on the palace road were already shouting rumors. By midday, every fortress, tavern, and farmstead of the Vehns Empire buzzed with the same story: the blades have returned. Some laughed it off as priestly madness; others sharpened their swords.
Far from the capital, in the highlands of Varrens Keep, Sage Vin Damme III sat in his war-tent surrounded by his officers.covered the tables, but none of them could stop the silence creeping in.
"The god of war calls again," muttered one captain. "Does he mean to take our sons as tribute?"
Vin Damme's eyes—gray like tempered iron—lifted from the map. "Hainn takes only those who step forward willingly," he said. "If the call is real, we'll see who among us hungers for glory more than peace."
From outside the tent came the metallic rhythm of practice blades. Among those training was Kayl Vin Damme, the warlord's youngest son. Sweat darkened his tunic; his strikes came fast, perfect, almost too perfect. He was fighting an invisible enemy, not the soldier in front of him.Enough!" barked the instructor. "You're not in the tournament yet, boy."
Kayl sheathed the wooden sword, wiping his brow. Not yet, he thought. He had never cared to please his father—but this call stirred something deeper than rebellion. Maybe destiny itself demanded a blade in his hand.
South, where the forests thickened into wild marsh, the soldier-woman Yu Olkin marched with her unit. She was small, severe, eyes sharp as the daggers at her belt. When the news reached them from the capital, laughter rippled through the ranks.
"A god's tournament?" one man snorted. "I'd rather fight hunger."
Yu didn't laugh. "You'd rather die ordinary," she said, voice quiet but cutting. "I've trained too long to die that way."
That night, as the campfires dwindled, she held a dagger to the flame, watching its edge glow. "If women are not called," she whispered to the dark, "then I will answer anyway."
In the far northern plains, under skies still tinted faintly red, a lone traveler rested beside a ruined shrine. His name was Jarred Terr—a swordsman without a flag. He had heard the same whispers in a tavern hours ago: a tournament that promised legend or death.
He smiled to himself. "Maybe hardship is the only home left," he murmured, slinging his worncloak tighter. Somewhere, destiny waited—and he walked toward it.
Across the sea, in a fishing town forgotten by kings, Piotr Monshur stood beside his ailing mother's bed. The candlelight shivered on her face as she slept, skin pale and thin. When a rider from Vehns arrived shouting the divine news, Piotr felt something in his chest ignite—a cruel, steady flame.
The same king who cast her out now calls for champions.
He looked down at his calloused hands. "Then I'll answer," he said quietly. "And I'll carry your pain in my blade."
And in a quiet valley far from all the noise, the boy who would change everything was still working the fields.
Artric Gionne's hands were rough with soil, his shirt damp with sweat. The wheat was almost ready for harvest; his parents were smiling for the first time in months. Then came the distant cry of a horse and the sound of a bell ringing through the village square.
"Messenger from Vehns!" someone shouted. "The Tournament of Worth is real!"
Artric froze, scythe half-raised. He turned toward the sound, heart suddenly heavy and light at once.
The villagers gathered as the rider spoke: tales of fire falling from the heavens, of swords that chose their bearers, of glory beyond imagination. Most only half-believed. Artric believed too much.
He looked down at his calloused hands again—hands that had never held more than a farmer's sickle. Yet somewhere inside, something burned.
If the gods are watching, let them see me.
That night, under a sky still stained faintly red, he sat outside his home and stared at the stars. "I'll go," he whispered. "Not just for coin… but to see if I can be more than dirt and dreams."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of ash from distant mountains.The world of men had begun to move.
The next seven days moved like thunder rolling over the world.
Everywhere, banners were raised and smiths burned through the nights.
The air itself seemed to hum with the memory of divine steel.
Vehns Empire
King Bhen stood on the palace balcony, gazing toward the horizon where the temple peaks were hidden behind storm. He had not slept. Below him, courtyards filled with knights preparing for departure. Beside him, Rialle appeared in light armor, a practice blade at her hip.
"You mean to defy me openly?" he asked without turning.
"I mean to honor what you taught me," she answered. "That duty and courage are the same sword."
He looked at her for a long time. In her eyes he saw the same wild fire that once lived in his own youth. At last he sighed. "Then ride with the convoy. But when the drums sound, remember—you are not a princess there. You are a blade."
Rialle bowed deeply. "Then let me cut as one."
Varrens Keep
Kayl Vin Damme packed in silence while his brothers argued around him. His father watched, saying nothing.
Finally the warlord spoke. "You hate the battlefield, yet you march toward the god of war?"
Kayl slung his cloak over his shoulder. "Maybe I hate pretending I'm not meant for it."
He picked up a long sword, not yet the Infinity Blade but sharp enough to mirror his reflection. "If Hainn chooses me, he'll know why."
The warlord's stern mouth twitched. "Then bring my banner back alive."
Southern Reeves
Yu Olkin walked away from her regiment at dawn. No one tried to stop her.
She left her armor behind but kept her twin daggers. Each step away from camp was a promise—one no commander could erase.
She whispered to the wind, "Olma fonte." The phrase meant nothing yet, but she liked the way it bit the air.
Nomthonshire
Jarred Terr met travelers heading the same direction: mercenaries, wanderers, dreamers. He smiled at them all but kept his pace ahead. "If fate wants a spectacle," he muttered, "let it start early."
Coastal Slums
Piotr Monshur buried his mother that morning. He placed her shawl in the earth beside her and turned toward the horizon.
"I'll make him see you again," he said—to the ground, to the sky, to Hainn himself.
Artric's Village
The harvest lay half-cut when Artric told his parents he was leaving.
His mother wept quietly; his father stared at the floor. When the boy slung his satchel and picked up the dull sword he'd forged from scrap, neither tried to stop him.
"You'll come back?" his mother asked.
He smiled. "When I can lift you from the soil you break every year."
He walked until the fields ended and the road opened wide. In the distance, riders and pilgrims filled the path like a living river, all flowing toward the same crimson horizon.
The temple of Hainn
The blind priest stood before the six empty pedestals where the Adonis Blades had landed. He heard the footsteps of countless mortals echoing in the valley below.
"Come then," he whispered. "Let the god weigh your worth."
A single ember drifted from the brazier, spiraling upward. In its light, six blades glimmered faintly—waiting, whispering, remembering.
Night fell again, and the world of men turned toward its reckoning.
The next sunrise would mark the beginning of the Tournament of Worth.
And among the thousands who would gather, six souls were already burning brighter than the rest.