The sun had barely touched the mist-shrouded peaks encircling the imperial capital when the Training Grounds roared to life.
Waves of energy sliced through the air, each soldier's movement vibrating like the pulse of a colossal heart. Hundreds marched in synchronized precision, their souls bound to a single rhythm.
The sound of blades cutting through the wind—hissing, tearing—echoed like dry thunder through the valleys, rebounding off the city's protective walls.
The field stretched across wide slabs of polished stone, smooth enough to reflect the sky. Mountains guarded it like natural ramparts, while pure rivers brimming with Qi flowed serenely, a stark contrast to the warriors' fervor.
Amid this vast, pulsing expanse of power, a few names shone like constellations in a clear night sky.
As the beat of an ancestral drum signaled a shift in techniques...
Iron Fist Raekor advanced.
His presence announced itself through tremors in the ground. Fists thick and calloused as ancient rocks unleashed punches that made the air hum and earth shudder. The Qi radiating from him was dense, scorching—nearly visible.
Those training nearby felt their bodies grow heavy, as if gravity itself bent to his will.
It was said Raekor spent each day honing his mastery of the Dao of Strength.
Not far away, in absolute silence, Seren glided.
Silver hair danced in the wind, and eyes serene as deep waters observed the world with near-divine detachment. Her body flowed with movements too graceful for mortality. As she spun, her sword traced invisible arcs in the air, as though slicing the fabric of reality itself.
She trained not to kill, but to embody perfection—an ethereal whirlwind moving through veils of silence and precision. Every strike seemed born of nothingness yet weighted with inevitability.
Meanwhile, Darian stood as an unshakable bastion.
His armor was more than protection—it lived, pulsing with Qi. The shield he carried stretched wide as a castle gate and heavy as an oath. When he planted his feet, an undeniable sense of safety enveloped those nearby. Fellow warriors felt shielded, as if the earth itself gained voice and presence under his command. With each step, the ground grew firmer.
As these youths warred against their limits, experienced eyes watched.
Veterans, generals—all gathered to shape the empire's new pillars.
At this group's center marched General Thoryan, whose mere presence silenced all whispers.
"The strength of a cultivator lies not just in muscle" his voice resonated across the field "but in the Dao he chooses to follow with conviction"
Under his watchful gaze, each warrior dug deeper, striving to prove worthy of Imperial Missions... or, for the extraordinary, a place in the Celestial Army—personal guard of the immortal Emperor Orion.
Meanwhile, in the Council Hall
"Majesty" said Gaius, robes jade-green and voice soft "the harvests exceeded projections. Our granaries overflow"
The trade adviser bowed. "The eastern kingdoms starve. We could turn grain into alliances... or submission"
"Risky" Lyara remarked stiffly "flaunting abundance invites envy"
The military adviser's voice sharpened. "The army stands ready. Let Eryndor advance with firmness"
"The immortals watch" Vorian murmured "yet remain still. Perhaps we can dominate without war"
"Negotiate behind masks" suggested the political adviser "invisible trade. Gold will come faceless"
"Distribute to our people too" Aurelia added, gaze warm yet dangerous "a sated populace betrays no one"
Then, Orion rose.
Every adviser recoiled a step without moving their feet. The emperor's presence alone filled the hall.
"An empire set on dominion does not shout" he declared, voice grave and deliberate "Distribute the grain. Contact the kingdoms under veils. Fortify the borders. When the world awakens... it will witness a new dawn. And that dawn shall be named Eryndor"
None dared dissent.
Far Away, on the Battlefield
The air crackled as Cirius and Rick faced each other in the arena's center.
The first, wreathed in golden light, wielded a spear shining like a sliver of the sun.
The second, eyes aflame, spun twin swords trailing crimson streaks through the air.
"Hit harder, Rick" Cirius taunted, lunging with a thrust that erased the distance between them.
"You've become a damned monster" Rick shot back, spiraling into whirlwinds of blades.
A searing flare raced down Cirius' spear. When it struck, a solar dragon seemed to erupt—spitting ancestral flames. The ground shattered. Heat spiked.
Rick vaulted over incandescent debris, retaliating with an impossible sequence of slashes. His arms blurred red, each blade a lethal brushstroke.
The air warped. Then, from Cirius' body, a roar echoed. A colossal golden creature materialized at his back—eyes gleaming with millennial wisdom. An ancestral spirit of pure energy unleashed.
Seeing this, Rick didn't hesitate. Space behind him twisted until it ruptured. From within emerged a carmine-shadowed demonic silhouette—claws and twisted horns pulsing like a heart of war.
When they collided, the sky darkened. Time hesitated. The earth groaned.
The shockwave tore through the field. Spectators fell silent, hypnotized by raw power and spiritual mastery.
As dust settled, both youths struggled to stand. Blood dripped from deep gashes. Breaths came ragged.
But their eyes... smiled.
"That... was intense" Rick rasped, spitting blood.
"You still haven't beaten me" Cirius retorted, spinning his spear once more—ready for the next clash.
The arena held its breath as energies dissipated.