The sun barely kissed the misty peaks surrounding the imperial capital when the Training Grounds awakened with a roar.
Waves of energy sliced through the air, the movement of each soldier pulsing like the heartbeat of a colossal beast. Hundreds marched in perfect harmony, their souls beating to a single rhythm. The sound of blades cutting the wind—whistling, tearing—echoed like dry thunder through the valleys, ricocheting off the city's protective walls.
The field stretched across vast slabs of polished stone, smooth enough to reflect the sky. Mountains rose like natural ramparts, while pure rivers, overflowing with Qi, flowed serenely—a stark contrast to the warriors' fervor.
Amid this vast, throbbing expanse of power, a few names stood out like stars.
Just as the beat of an ancient drum signaled a shift in technique…
Raekor Iron Fist advanced.
His presence was announced by tremors in the earth. Thick, calloused fists, like ancient rocks, delivered punches that made the air hum and the ground quake. The Qi radiating from him was dense, scorching—almost visible. Those training nearby felt their bodies grow heavy, as if gravity itself bent to his will. It was said Raekor spent every day refining his mastery of the Dao of Strength.
Not far away, in absolute silence, Seren floated.
Silver hair danced with the wind, serene eyes like deep waters watching 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 if slicing through the very fabric of reality. She trained not to kill, but to embody perfection—a swirling ethereal tempest moving through veils of silence and precision. Each strike seemed to emerge from nowhere, yet carried an air of inevitability.
Meanwhile, Darian stood as an unshakable bastion.
His armor was more than protection—it lived, pulsing with Qi. The shield he carried stretched like a castle gate and weighed like a solemn vow. Planting his feet, an undeniable sense of security enveloped those nearby. Fellow warriors felt guarded, as if the very earth found voice and presence under his command. With every step, the ground grew firmer.
As these young warriors fought against their limits, experienced eyes watched.
Veterans, generals—all gathered to shape the empire's new pillars.
At the center of this group marched General Thoryan, whose mere presence silenced all whispers.
"The strength of a cultivator lies not in muscle alone", his voice rang across the field, "but in the Tao he chooses to follow with conviction."
Under his watchful gaze, every warrior dove deeper, striving to prove their worthiness for Imperial Missions… or, for the exceptional few, a place in the Celestial Army—the immortal Emperor Orion's personal guard.
Meanwhile, inside the Council Hall, another silent battle unfolded.
"Your Majesty", said Gaius, jade-green robes fluttering slightly, voice soft, "the harvests have surpassed projections. Our granaries overflow."
The commercial advisor bowed. "The eastern kingdoms starve. We could turn grains into alliances… or submission."
"Risky", Lyara commented stiffly, "to flaunt abundance invites envy."
The military advisor's voice sharpened. "The army is ready. Let Eryndor advance with resolve."
"The immortals watch", Vorian murmured, "but remain motionless. Perhaps we can dominate without war."
"Negotiate behind masks", suggested the political advisor, "invisible trade. Gold will come without a face."
"Distribute to our people as well", Aurélia added, warm but dangerous gaze fixed. "A satisfied people betray no one."
Then, Orion appeared.
Each councilor stepped back without moving their feet. The emperor's presence alone filled the hall.
"An empire determined to dominate does not shout", he declared, voice deep and measured.
"Distribute the grains. Contact kingdoms behind veils. Strengthen the borders. When the world awakens… it will witness a new dawn. And that dawn shall be called Eryndor."
No one dared to disagree.
Far away, on the battlefield, the air crackled as Cirius and Rick faced each other in the arena's center.
The first, wrapped in golden light, wielded a spear shining like a sunbeam.
The second, eyes ablaze, spun twin swords, leaving streaks of red slicing the air.
"Hit harder, Rick", Cirius taunted, charging with a strike that erased the distance between them.
"You've become a damned monster", Rick replied, spinning in a whirlwind of blades.
A scorching flash raced along Cirius's spear. Upon impact, a solar dragon seemed to erupt, spewing ancient flames. The ground shattered. Heat surged. Rick leapt over the blazing debris, retaliating with an impossible sequence of strikes. His arms blurred crimson—each blade a lethal brushstroke.
The air distorted.
Then, from Cirius's body, a roar echoed.
A colossal golden creature materialized behind him—eyes glowing with millennia of wisdom. A pure energy ancestral spirit had been unleashed.
Seeing this, Rick didn't hesitate.
The space behind him twisted until it tore.
From within emerged a demonic silhouette with crimson shadows—twisted claws and horns pulsing like a heart at war.
When they collided, the sky darkened.
Time faltered.
The earth groaned.
The shockwave tore through the field.
Spectators fell silent, hypnotized by raw power and spiritual mastery.
As the dust settled, the two youths struggled to rise.
Blood trickled from deep cuts.
Breath was ragged.
But their eyes… they smiled.
"That… was intense", Rick said harshly, spitting blood.
"You haven't beaten me yet", Cirius replied, spinning his spear once more, ready for the next clash.
The arena held its breath as energies faded.