The sky above the academy pulsed with shades of deep athyst and bruised lilac, painted in colors that whispered of Aether storms long faded. Beneath that purple canopy, the coliseum stirred with life.
A broad circular field of pale crystal stretched at the center—flawless, gleaming, and cold. Intricate lines etched into its surface pulsed faintly with Aether, reacting to the tension that always preceded a duel. The platform was surrounded by sleek, soft seats arranged in high tiers, each one cushioned and enchanted for comfort, embedded in the crystal walls with impossible grace.
Nearly the entire academy had gathered.
They lounged in floating rows of gold and silver, gossiping behind hands, pointing down at the arena, making silent bets with gleaming coin slips that represented the academy credits. So laughed. Others whispered. Everyone watched.
From one end of the arena, a boy stood motionless beneath the purple sky.
His hair was red—not the dull copper of rust, but the sharp, vibrant hue of burning embers—and it curled slightly at the edges like a fla losing patience. His eyes were the sa shade, blood-red and glowing faintly, but void of passion. His expression was bored, as if he’d been dragged out of bed for this and hadn’t quite forgiven anyone yet.
Earl Demios.
One of the child of the crownkin of Demios, the audience’s favorite to win.
He flexed one hand, lazy, absent. The other stayed at his side, fingers drumming against his hip like he was keeping rhythm with a song no one else could hear.
Off to the side, lounging across two seats she had clearly claid as her own, sat a girl with murky yellow hair that clung to her shoulders in untad strands. She held a thin stick in one hand, lazily picking at her fingernails with its tip. Every so often, she’d glance at the field with a crooked smirk, then go back to grooming herself like a bored cat.
Vida Vermilion.
Her presence radiated mischief and malice both, but her posture suggested she couldn’t care less about the duel—unless, perhaps, blood was spilled creatively.
On the far side, seated directly upon the immaculate floor instead of the lavish chairs behind her, sat a girl in stillness.
Her long purple hair was tucked behind one ear, falling like a silk waterfall across her shoulder. Eyes closed, breathing even, she didn’t move as the crowd muttered or the winds stirred. Her hands were folded in her lap like she was praying—or ditating—or waiting for sothing no one else could see.
Selene Solmyr. Of the Royal Bloodline, of silence, discipline, and unseen depth.
The area around her was unnaturally clear. The crystal beneath her reflected the sky above in perfect symtry, and no dust dared to land near her. Those seated nearby had instinctively leaned away, giving her a respectful buffer.
A chi rang across the arena.
The dueling field shimred, activating. The central sigil of the school—an infinity loop carved in light—flared briefly between the combatants’ positions.
And Earl, without looking up, finally moved.
For the first ti, an emotion other than boredom found its way to his face.
Joy.
How could he not be happy?
Finally—finally—he had a chance to fight the opponent he had always longed to face.
Six months ago, when he first heard the na Zephyr announced as the winner of the Phoenix Wing tournant, he had gone electric with excitent. Zephyr. The sa Zephyr he had once mocked as "Aetherless trash," like everyone else. But that mockery hadn’t lasted.
Not after the Pit.
Back then, at just twelve years old, Earl had been sent to survive the Demios Pit. He lasted three months.
Barely.
But Zephyr had been there for eight years. And was still sane.
The thought gnawed at him. Tornted him. Robbed him of sleep.
Why could an Aetherless runt endure the Pit for thirteen years when I nearly lost my mind in three months?
The sha and awe brewed into obsession. From that mont, Earl began training—not to win against random rivals, not to uphold family pride, but to surpass that one impossible standard— Zephyr.
When Zephyr’s na was called six months ago, Earl threw himself into overdrive. He pushed his cultivation to Elpison Grade 3—an impossible feat for a new student. He burned, bled, and broke himself to reach a level he wasn’t ready for. But it wasn’t enough.
The black fla wouldn’t answer him. He couldn’t manipulate it yet, manipulation was different from summoning.
His soul was still bruised from his previous advancent and now he had forced another one on it, that was why he could only benefit its dull physical benefits. His instructor—an elite brought from the Demios Clan—berated him with fury. But Earl hadn’t cared.
Because it was worth it.
Until Zephyr didn’t show up, and in his place... Lunethra.
That day, Earl fought halfheartedly. His anticipation had rotted into bitter disappointnt. His drive vanished. He lost to Lunethra without resistance, and watched her ascend to the Red Sphinx District while his obsession collapsed.
Months passed. Another tournant. He won it—barely. Still disillusioned. Still hollow.
Until the na returned.
Zephyr Demios.
This ti, it was official. He would be participating. Earl could hardly contain his glee. The obsession returned with fire. He trained again—this ti smarter. Sharper. Not just with obsession, but with control.
And now, standing beneath the purple sky, on crystal that humd with power, surrounded by rivals and spectators alike—
He dared to hope.
’Please’. He thought, heart beginning to race.
’Don’t deny again’.
"The second phase of the Tournant of Power will begin in three minutes," ca Elden’s familiar voice, calm and unshaken.
"As your nas are called, step to the podium."
"Earl Demios."
Earl stepped forward, body trembling—not from fear, but the barely-contained thrill of what was to co.
"Vida Vermilion."
She flicked the stick aside and rose with a yawn, sauntering forward without urgency.
"Selene Solmyr."
No movent. Only her afterimage, shimring like vapor, marked her shift in position.
And then—
The na he had prayed for.
"Zephyr Demios."
Earl’s eyes snapped to the hallway carved into the crystal wall. He clenched his fingers, twisting one around the next in a superstitious prayer.
’Please. Let it be real’.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of footsteps echoed—clear, resonant. Not from the coliseum’s acoustics alone, but because the entire arena had fallen silent.
All eyes turned. And for a mont, they hesitated. Blinking. Confused.
They had almost forgotten him.
They hadn’t seen him since the last tournant—until two days ago, when his na returned. Only then had anyone rembered soone like him still existed.
A figure erged from the shadows.
Wrapped in thick, white bandages filled with black markings. One eye hidden behind a winding strip of bandage that looped from his forehead across his face, leaving just enough space to see from his other eye. His arms, wrists, chest—layered in gauze, like wounds not yet healed.
Unusual bright red hair caught the wind, swaying like a slow fla. His single exposed eye— scarlet red and calm— gazed forward, with an uncomfortable expression on his face.
In his hand was a weapon. A scythe— its staff forged from what looked like midnight crystal, black as the void, gleaming with fractures like trapped stars. The blade curved in gleaming crimson, as if carved from a single slab of ruby—beautiful, brutal, and wholly out of place in a tournant ant for students.
But no one spoke, because sothing else had begun to spread. His aura, it poured off him like a living storm—raw, untad, flaying wildly in every direction. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t restrained. It was feral.
The crowd reacted instantly. Faces stiffened. Jaws clenched. Several nobles instinctively assessed themselves. Even instructors narrowed their eyes.
They could feel him, that was the shock. Aura shouldn’t be readable like this. Not unless soone had just broken through to a new grade— and even then, it usually flickered once and vanished. But Zephyr’s presence was undeniable, his grade laid bare for all to see— Elpison Grade 2. Pushing hard against Grade 3.
The realization hit them all at once.
It wasn’t the fact that he was Grade 2 now that stunned them, it was the implication—He’d been Grade 1 during the last tournant.
When he fought Lunethra. When he tried to rape the third princess.
He was that powerful at Grade 1?
A cold, heavy silence fell over the arena as a single thought passed through thousands of minds at once— He’s dangerous. Too dangerous.
’Yes!. Yes!!. Yes!!!. Yes!!!!". Earl felt his heart beat so loud it sounded as if it was coming from right besides his ear.
He clenched his fist tight, so tight that for a mont his fingernails threatened to Peirce his palm.
’Finally the mont has co! The ultimate mont". He looked at Zephyr, he could see the uncomfortable expression on his face, as if he wasn’t comfortable with the nurous eye staring at him.
And then he looked eyes with him. He could see that disinterested red eyes.
’Not for long. Not for long’.
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