The Exiled Hero
The rain that soaked the alleys of Aetherion didn't cleanse the shame; it just turned the slums into a slick, muddy purgatory. Haru Cyrius, eighteen years old but carrying the weight of a century, sat low under a crumbling stone arch, the only shelter from the relentless downpour.
He gripped the handle of a salvaged dagger, its cheap metal reflecting the despair in his eyes. Five years. Five years since the moment his destiny was ripped away. He was born with the Hero's Crest, a symbol meant for the kingdom's greatest protector. But when the time came for his awakening, the power was gone. Someone had stolen it, and Haru, branded a fake, was exiled.
Failure. The word was a poison in his mind, but he fought it daily. In the solitude of the slums, he had honed his body and spirit, focusing what little raw energy he possessed into the brutal discipline of Martial Arts. His Celestial Breaker style was technically impeccable, but it lacked the overwhelming divine spark it was supposed to have. It was a hero's technique wielded by a forgotten boy.
He was polishing the dagger when the world ceased to be normal.
A phantom brand, white-hot and absolute, erupted on his chest. Haru cried out, arching his back as an invisible force seized his soul, trying to tear him from his own skin. It wasn't just pain; it was the chilling, metallic sensation of ancient magic forcing itself into his existence.
Images slammed into his mind: a sky tearing itself to shreds, mountains of shattered marble, and a monstrous, black coliseum floating above an endless wasteland.
A voice, deeper than thunder but colder than space, boomed inside the hollow where his heart should be.
«HARU CYRIUS. EXILE. THE ARENA CALLS.»
The spiritual pressure was crushing, pinning him to the ground. Haru fought against the blackness threatening to consume his consciousness. This place... this energy... it was monstrous, yet it held a promise.
«YOUR FATE WAS TAKEN. DO YOU WANT IT BACK?»
The question was the only clarity in the storm. Haru gritted his teeth, scraping his defiance from the deepest pit of his being.
"Yes," he whispered, the sound swallowed by the summoning force. "I want it back."
The world snapped. The rain, the cold, the smell of the slums—all gone.
The Assembly of Sacrifices
Haru landed hard on what felt like volcanic ash, staggering as his senses tried to process the impossible environment.
The sky was a swirling, diseased purple and gold vortex. The ground was scorched, littered with the broken geometry of a civilization that had been annihilated centuries ago. Towering above everything was the colossal, black-iron structure of the Eternal Arena.
He was surrounded by thousands of figures. They weren't just people; they were the legendary, the cursed, the forgotten. Swordsmen whose blades hummed with ancient curses, mages whose skin glowed with raw energy, beasts cloaked in shadow, and figures in gleaming armor that spoke of lost royalty.
The sheer volume of desperate, terrified, and murderous intent was suffocating. Haru realized this wasn't a gathering; it was a meat market of souls.
A small, metallic emblem materialized and branded itself over his heart—the Arena Crest. It pulsed with a faint blue light, tracking his life force and sealing away any forbidden powers.
The spectral voice boomed again, devoid of emotion.
«WELCOME, CHAMPIONS. WELCOME TO THE GOD-SLAYERS' GAME.»
High above, floating on the massive black archway, stood the Spectral Referees. They shimmered, impossible to look at directly, their eyes seeing through to the very Soul intent of the warriors below.
"Before the blood flows," the Referee announced, "there must be the Soul Verification Ritual."
A wave of crystalline energy washed over the crowd. Haru felt a sickening violation as his soul was checked. The Arena must prevent infiltration by demons or illusions.
A few meters away, a hulking warrior, his body covered in protective wards, suddenly froze. His face twisted in silent horror as the blue light of his Crest turned black.
«FALSE IDENTITY. SOUL IMPERFECTION. INSTANT DISQUALIFICATION.»
The warrior didn't drop; he was erased. He dissolved into a wisp of smoke and a soundless scream that only the soul could hear. Permanent. Utterly terrifying. The crowd, thousands strong, shrank by that singular, final act. The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of death.
The Rivals
As the Ritual concluded, Haru scanned the surviving figures, his survival instincts screaming at him. He recognized two of the most dangerous, purely by their aura.
Gliding through the ranks of the female fighters was a vision of dark elegance. Xyphira, the Fallen Goddess. Her silver-white hair cascaded down her intricate, revealing black robes. Her eyes were sharp, seductive, and cruel. She exuded power, not just physical, but pure enchantment. Haru watched her smirk as a high-ranking sorceress nervously backed away. Xyphira was here for revenge, seeking to kill the Divine Judge who had exiled her. She was not an ally. She was a beautiful, lethal predator.
Then came the cold. A palpable drop in temperature heralded the arrival of Yura Zahdavel, the Silent Executioner. He was cloaked, his dark attire blending with the shadows of the ruins, his expression locked in a state of icy analysis. He was the last survivor of a clan annihilated by the gods and trained in forbidden shadow techniques for one purpose: Kill the gods of the Arena. His dual daggers, barely visible at his waist, promised a swift, brutal death through Voidstep Decapitation. Yura was pure anti-hero, ruthless and efficient.
Finally, Haru spotted a figure radiating sheer, controlled fury. Prince Wildane, the Fallen Heir. His royal attire was functional but damaged, and his proud posture was rigid with the weight of his destroyed kingdom, Wilderfall. Wildane was armed with a magnificent sword, ready to unleash the wind-infused terror of his Tempest King's Wrath. He was here to restore his kingdom at any cost, meaning he would be reckless, noble, and desperately dangerous.
The Ascension Trials
«CHAMPIONS! LISTEN! STAGE ONE COMMENCES NOW!» the Referee's voice echoed, crackling with energy. «THE ASCENSION TRIALS! 5,000 FIGHTERS ENTER. YOU MUST SURVIVE THE NEXT 24 HOURS. YOUR TARGET: THE THOUSAND ESCAPE POINTS.»
The ground underneath the remaining warriors shifted violently. Fissures erupted, spitting heat and smoke. The battlefield began to rearrange itself, dissolving the single staging area into a massive, maze-like hunting ground.
«ELIMINATION IS SIMPLE: UNCONSCIOUSNESS FOR TEN SECONDS, OR BETRAYAL. THE ARENA BEASTS ARE HUNGRY. THE FIGHTERS ARE MORE SO.»
A massive, six-legged reptilian beast—an Arena Beast—erupted from a collapsing section of ruins barely thirty yards from Haru, its roar a physical shockwave. Panic turned immediately into chaos.
A cloaked figure near Haru screamed and charged the Beast, only to be instantly vaporized by a blast of glowing blue magic fired from a distance—a strategic kill by an unseen mage. Survival meant killing the competition as much as the beasts.
Haru sidestepped a wild slash from a panicking warrior and responded instantly with a precisely aimed, low kick—a clean Martial Arts move. The warrior collapsed, knocked out. His Crest flashed red, then vanished. Eliminated.
Haru was alone, facing a world that wanted him dead. He took a deep, steadying breath, his heart finally calm. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp resolve. He was in the Arena now. The game was simple: survival meant proving he was worthy of the destiny that had been stolen.
The Ascension Trials had started.