True Kürdiala, Black Peaks Region – Day | Year 7002 A.A.
The arena of Kürdiala did not seem a place built for contests of strength, though contests had surely been fought here. It resembled more a forge of the divine—an anvil broad enough to temper nations, a mirror vast enough to hold the sky. Its floor stretched in a perfect circle, not stone nor metal, but pure Mana Crystal shaped into tessellated hexagons. Each pulsed faintly as though remembering the deep heartbeat of the mountain itself. At rest, the floor was a mirror of heaven: blue and cloud, a tranquil illusion that made those who stood upon it feel both grounded and untethered. But every breath carried the promise of transformation. For the floor did not merely receive—it responded. With will, with word, it would become what was required: a desert, a sea, a battlefield.
Towers of crystal stood like sentinels around the edge, tall and gleaming, their tips humming softly with stored power. They were less like architecture and more like trees rooted in eternity—pillars in some unseen temple. The stands, curved and spacious, were mostly empty. Only a scattering of Kaplan guards lined the perimeter—cheetahs with tense shoulders, leopards with narrowed eyes, wildcats with silver spears crossed upon their backs. They said nothing. Their silence was the silence of those who stand upon holy ground and dare not breathe too loudly.
The air itself carried weight. Not oppressive, but heavy—like the pause before a storm breaks, or the moment a truth is about to be spoken. The scent of ozone laced it, mingling with stone and crystal dust. It was as if the very city, veiled and eternal, was waiting.
And at the heart of that waiting stood the Lords.
Darius was the most still. The ox carried his hammer-axe, Baltacek, with the reverence of a priest bearing a relic. His broad frame, sun-touched fur like golden wheat, stood steady as the earth itself. Yet beneath his calm was a quiet tremor of memory. The lemon-green light that flickered faintly at his hooves betrayed it—a life of wars, walls fallen, people lost. He stared into the crystalline floor, and in its mirrored surface he saw not his face, but a thousand faces that had once looked to him for protection. His grip tightened on the weapon, not in anger, but in reminder: he must not fail again.
Trevor was his opposite. The monkey swayed lightly upon his feet, spinning his gold-banded staff, Gözkıran across his shoulders with the lazy grace of one who had long since learned to turn rest into readiness. His brown-furred arms moved as though conducting some private rhythm only he could hear. Sparks danced at his fingertips—amber flashes of lightning aura playing like mischievous sprites. Yet beneath the casual air was curiosity, a relentless itch of questions that would not leave him. He glanced at the crystal towers, at the etched hexagons, at the guards in their silence. What was this place meant to reveal? And why did his heart, usually so restless and quick, feel strangely hushed—as though the very air was waiting to teach him something?
Adam stood without motion. He was the quiet center, not by choice but by some unseen appointment. His blue fur caught the fractured light, but it was his Crescent Moon pendant that drew every reflection. It glimmered against his chest like an eye half-lidded, half-awake, aware of mysteries not yet spoken. His aura, a soft cerulean veil, remained hidden, as though conserving its strength for something beyond strength. Yet within Adam there churned a sea. This was not merely an arena to him. It was a crucible. A place where questions long buried in silence might at last demand answers. He drew breath slowly, willing his racing thoughts into stillness, yet knowing that stillness would not last.
Kon, ever the blade among them, cracked his neck with the precision of a man testing steel. His paws rested lightly on his twin swords, Yırtıcı, but the gesture was not readiness for battle—it was reverence. His single eye gleamed yellow as the aura already bled faintly from his fur. For Kon, battle was the truest mirror of a soul. And yet, here, in this crystalline amphitheater that reflected sky and self, he felt something even greater. Not battle, but judgment. He wondered what truths this place would cut from them. And if he himself would be found lacking when the cut was made.
Jeth, hat tipped low, chewed absently on a stalk. His coat was tattered, his posture slouched, his body as unremarkable as an old fencepost in a forgotten field. Yet those who knew him understood: Jeth's stillness was its own kind of danger. His body was not at rest—it was waiting, coiled, like a bowstring slack but not unstrung. He might have looked the least impressed of them all, but it was he who listened most keenly to the silence, who felt most sharply the tension that lay beneath the calm. For Jeth had lived long enough to know that silence was never empty—it was promise, or warning, or both.
At the edge of the arena stood Kopa. The stag did not step into the circle. He remained instead as sentinel, his antlers catching the fractured light and breaking it into a thousand fragments, casting patterns like runes across the ground. His breath was steady, his posture straight, yet his eyes were watchful. Kopa had lived through ages. He had seen kings crowned and buried, cities rise and collapse. He had learned to read the quiet before revelation. And in this place, he felt it again: something was about to be unveiled that no oath, no pact, no memory could fully prepare them for.
Johan Fare stood beside him. The raccoon's paw rested near the hilt of his blade, though his eyes were not sharpened for battle—they were widened in awe. He had been many things—warrior, wanderer, witness—but here, he felt like a child again, caught between fear and wonder. His tail flicked unconsciously, betraying nerves he would not confess. For Johan sensed it: the arena was not meant only for battle. It was meant to reveal truth. And truth, he knew, was more dangerous than steel.
From the far gate, the sound of footsteps broke the stillness.
King Azubuike Toran entered.
The robe he wore was midnight blue, flowing like the night sky poured into fabric. His fur, black and white in perfect contradiction, gave him the aspect of both shadow and light made flesh. Yet it was not his clothing nor his stature that arrested them—it was his presence. Each step he took landed with the weight of decision, as though even the earth acknowledged his tread. His violet eyes swept over the gathered Lords, not hastily, not passively, but with the gaze of one who saw deeper than appearance. It was a look that measured, and weighed, and remembered.
The air seemed to bow as he came.
The silence stretched like a taut bowstring after Toran's entrance. His violet gaze lingered, and then at last, he spoke.
"I called you here," he said, and though his voice was not raised, it filled the crystalline amphitheater as thunder fills a storm. Deep, resonant, but sheathed in silk. "To assess Narn's true strength. And by that strength—" he paused, eyes sharp as the blade of a judgment— "I mean yours."
The words did not echo. The crystal floor seemed to swallow them whole, and yet each Lord felt the sentence reverberate in the hollows of their chest. Strength. Not armies, not banners, not history. Themselves.
The King raised his hand and, with a gesture deliberate as ritual, pointed to each in turn.
"Darius Boga…" His tone was solemn, weight laid like a seal upon the ox's name. "Hazël One."
A pulse stirred in the crystal floor, faint but undeniable, as though the mountain itself affirmed the naming.
Darius bowed his head once, but inside, the words fell upon him like a mantle heavy and cold.
"Trevor Maymum…" Toran's hand turned, palm like the sweep of a tide. "Hazël Two."
The monkey's eyes widened for just a flicker, then narrowed in amusement. His lips twitched into something that was half grin, half grimace.
"Adam Kurt…" Toran's gaze lingered longer now, indigo eyes piercing as if they could peel back the layers of his soul. "Hazël Three."
Adam's breath caught. He only clenched his paws once, the crystal cool against his pads, and fixed his eyes on Toran's steady figure.
"Kon Kaplan…" The King's voice dropped, low as the growl of a great beast. "Hazël Four."
The single eye of the swordsman narrowed. Kon did not flinch, did not shift, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. His aura, faint yellow, flared subtly at the naming. Fourth.
"And Jeth Fare…" Toran's gaze, finally, turned upon the ragged figure beneath the brim of his hat. "Hazël Five."
The pulse came again from beneath the crystal floor, like a heartbeat that did not belong to any of them.
Jeth chewed his stalk once, slow, and tilted his head just slightly, as though Toran had merely told him the weather. His hat shadowed his face, and his shoulders sagged with practiced indifference.
Toran inclined his head, as though a priest concluding a rite. Then, with calm finality, he turned toward the figure at his side.
"First match," he declared, his voice both command and promise, "Ekene Çelik—my Hand—versus Lord Jeth."
The words struck the arena like a bell.
On the far side, Ekene stepped forward. The leopard's golden eyes gleamed beneath the sunlight, his stance calm, balanced, inevitable. He carried no visible weapon, yet the air about him hummed faintly, like strings drawn taut across an unseen harp. His presence was not ostentatious, not even threatening—but certain. The certainty of a blade hidden in shadow.
Jeth did not move at once. His jaw shifted, the stalk between his teeth turning lazily. Beneath his hat, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, watching the leopard's gait, the quiet readiness of him. And though his posture remained loose, something unseen coiled within.
The first match had been chosen.
And all around them, the silent Kaplan guards tightened their grips on their spears, not because they feared what would come—but because they knew what it meant.
The arena was no longer waiting. It was beginning.
_____________________________________
Jeth stepped forward at last. His boots made hardly a sound on the crystalline floor, though the air itself seemed to tighten around the motion. His coat, tattered from journeys and storms long past, swayed faintly in the artificial wind of the chamber, and the stalk of grass between his teeth tilted as he spoke.
"Ain't gonna lie," he drawled, tilting his battered hat back with a single claw so that one eye gleamed beneath the brim, "you're hard to read, cat. No aura, no sweat. Either you're bluffin', or I'm 'bout to get schooled. What's your Rank?"
Across the span of the arena, Ekene Çelik stood as though carved from obsidian. Tall, straight, golden eyes that did not flicker even as the question hung in the air. He did not posture, nor summon aura, nor attempt intimidation. He simply existed there, with a stillness that was not emptiness but a fullness too vast to measure.
When he spoke, his words were calm, and yet they struck like stones falling into a still pond.
"I have no Rank, my Lord."
The silence that followed was heavier than steel. It pressed down upon the circle of Lords, upon the very air itself.
Trevor was the first to break it—though even he, ever irreverent, could not lace the moment with humor. His mouth fell open, amber eyes widening. "No Rank?" The words were almost a whisper, as though saying them too loud might shatter the fragile truth of them.
Kon's single eye narrowed to a slit, his tail flicking sharp against the grasslike crystal. His voice, when it came, was edged like a blade being drawn. "Impossible. That's either deception… or…" He did not finish the thought, but all who heard him felt the weight of what he left unsaid. Or he stands outside the Order entirely.
Before speculation could spiral, Toran's voice cut through the tension like a commandment etched upon stone.
"The trial is simple," he said. His words reverberated not only through the air but through the crystalline arena itself, each syllable humming as though the very ground recognized his authority. "Form a Mana Sphere and maintain structural integrity. No holds barred. Terrain: Standard Grassland."
At once, the arena stirred.
The crystalline floor beneath them quivered as though breathing, then cracked—not with violence, but with an elegant unfolding. From each fissure blossomed color, life, form. Tall grasses sprouted in a wave, rolling outward in concentric circles until the battlefield was no longer cold crystal but a living meadow swaying in phantom breezes. The hum of mana was replaced with the whisper of leaves, the brush of stems against one another.
Overhead, the air thickened. The towers of translucent crystal at the edges of the arena released thin, curling streams of vapor, weaving them skyward. Clouds, pale and soft, took shape in the dome of the arena, shading the grassland with a faint veil of shadow. An artificial sun, pale gold, glowed above, casting warmth that felt startlingly real.
The transformation was not mere illusion. It was creation—a bending of matter and mana, of science and sorcery entwined. The arena was alive, not with mimicry but with truth drawn from another plane.
Kopa, standing on the sidelines, leaned slightly forward, his antlers catching the refracted sunlight. His breath was slow, deliberate, but his thoughts raced. 'This place… this arena… it does not simply imitate life. It is life, bound and unbound at once. Toran has made of stone and crystal what only Asalan could shape from void.'
The grass bent under the conjured wind. The ground hummed faintly with mana, waiting.
Jeth let the stalk roll across his teeth, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. He lifted his hat just enough to let both eyes catch the light.
"Grassland, huh?" he muttered, low but not inaudible. "Looks pretty enough. Shame we're about to ruin it."
Ekene did not answer. He merely raised a paw.
There was no strain, no breath drawn, no tremor of exertion. From his palm blossomed a sphere of pure pink mana, glowing softly like the heart of a star. It was perfect. No ripple, no warping, no sign of instability. Its edges did not blur into the air around it, nor did its light spill needlessly into the grass. It existed as though it had always been there—an eternal shape, smooth and whole, flawless in proportion.
The air did not shudder around it. The earth did not quake. Yet every watching heart felt it. This was power contained in gentleness; fire sheathed in silk.
Across from him, Jeth exhaled through his nose, the stalk of grass twitching between his teeth. He lifted one paw, calloused from a hundred battles, and with a faint grunt, summoned his own sphere.
It was green-yellow, a color somewhere between firelight and storm. It came into being not like Ekene's—born still—but like a wild animal being chained into place. The air bent toward it at once, blades of grass tugged downward as though caught in a tide. The sphere flickered, pulsed, then settled into something heavier than its size could justify. Its presence bent light, warped shadow, and pulled faint ripples across the ground like a moon dragging tide.
Trevor's mouth opened. His amber eyes widened, reflecting both spheres. "Are they… generating gravity?" His voice cracked in a way it rarely did.
Kopa's antlers shimmered with refracted light as he leaned slightly forward, ears pricked. "They're warping local density," he murmured, voice hushed as though speaking too loud might collapse the balance. "These aren't just mana spheres—they're atmospheric anchors. They're… rewriting the rules around themselves."
Kon's lone eye narrowed, the golden iris burning like a forge. His tail lashed once, cutting the air. "That trick," he muttered. "He learned it from Lord Thrax… and perfected it beyond him."
The name lingered, heavy with memory.
Kon's jaw tightened. His voice lowered, a reluctant admission. "Lord Jeth is the best Mana Manipulator in a very long line of Tracients. What you're looking at isn't just control. It's mastery of collapse. He's containing near black hole–level pressure within a sphere. No one else alive should be able to match it."
The words settled like stones in the stomachs of the onlookers. Even Trevor, normally quick to jest, had nothing to offer. He shifted his staff from one shoulder to the other, almost nervously, though he disguised it with a grin.
But Adam… Adam felt something else. His breath quickened—not only with awe, but with something nearer to unease. If Jeth is unmatched… then what is Ekene? For Ekene had not strained. Had not flickered. Had not warped the air or bent the grass. He simply held his perfect, steady sphere, quiet as a star at dawn.
The arena itself began to feel the strain.
The tall grasses bent under two conflicting laws—pulled inward toward Jeth's sphere, yet gently buoyed outward by the calm radiance of Ekene's. The artificial sun above shimmered, its rays distorting faintly where Jeth's sphere bent them, while Ekene's sphere remained constant, refusing even the sun's touch.
The air grew heavier. The Lords on the sidelines shifted unconsciously, as though standing upon a slope unseen. A pressure pressed at their fur, tugged faintly at their armor. It was not enough to harm them, but enough to remind them that Jeth's creation was no illusion.
Trevor muttered, almost reverently now, "Black hole pressure… in the palm of his hand." His usual swagger dimmed beneath something truer: awe.
Jeth chewed the stalk once, rolling it between his teeth. His eyes, half-shadowed by the brim of his hat, flickered toward Ekene. The pink sphere glowed serenely, undisturbed, as though mocking him by its very simplicity.
"You sure you're even tryin' over there?" Jeth drawled, though the edge in his tone was sharper than usual. "'Cause I don't mind a bit of competition, but it's startin' to feel like you're holdin' back for my sake."
Ekene's golden eyes lifted, calm as still water. He said nothing.
And in that silence, Jeth felt the tiniest curl of unease. Is he waitin' me out? Or is this what it means to have no Rank?
Jeth's eye twitched beneath the brim of his hat. His stalk of grass tilted from one corner of his mouth to the other as though trying to mask the tension etched into his jaw. The blades of grass around him, however, betrayed the truth: every stalk bent unnaturally inward, bowing toward the pressure he contained. The air itself seemed to struggle against his grip, shimmering with heat as though his green-yellow sphere pulled at every particle of existence.
Across from him, Ekene's sphere remained flawless. No strain. No ripple. No distortion in the air. Just a single perfect orb of pink, glowing with a quiet majesty that made the chaos of Jeth's power feel almost… noisy.
Trevor exhaled through his teeth, staff tapping faintly against his shoulder. "I don't like this. Feels like standin' too close to a storm that ain't decided which way to blow."
Kopa didn't answer. His antlers gleamed with scattered light, but his amber eyes were locked unblinking on the spheres. It was as though he feared blinking might mean missing the instant when balance tipped and worlds shattered.
Then it happened.
They released.
Not a clash. Not an explosion.
But a merging.
The spheres moved toward each other not with the violence of rival titans, but with the grace of dancers mid-spin, spiraling into one another. Gravity bent inward, serenity folded outward, and for one breathless moment the two extremes touched.
Where they met, the world yielded. The crystalline floor sank inward as though soft as clay, hexagonal tiles bending beneath the weight of new law. The tall grass that had moments ago swayed with conjured wind burst into vapor, vanishing in pale wisps.
The Lords staggered back a step as pressure rippled through the arena. It wasn't sound that struck them, nor flame, nor lightning—it was simply weight. A weight that pressed not on their bodies, but on their very sense of what should be possible.
The earth did not shatter. The sky did not fall. And yet a crater ten meters wide now scarred the arena floor, as though reality itself had bowed and retreated from their combined truth.
Jeth let out a sharp breath, sweat prickling beneath his hat. He wiped his brow with the back of his paw, muttering under his breath, though the curve of his smirk betrayed that he felt more alive than strained.
Ekene simply lowered his paw. No movement wasted. No sound made. A silence that roared louder than any battle.
But Toran's voice cut across the quiet before the moment could slip into jest. It was low, reverent, yet carrying the weight of judgment.
"Good work Lord Jeth, You are closer to mana's true nature than the others."
The words hung in the air, more potent than the pressure of either sphere.
Adam's ears twitched. He felt something stir in his chest, a pang of realization. 'Mana's true nature?' He thought of every lesson he had learned, every battle fought. To wield mana had always been to conquer—to pierce, to burn, to shield. But here, before his eyes, Ekene and Jeth had not destroyed. They had revealed.
Kopa exhaled, shoulders easing slowly, though his eyes never left the crater. Johan's tail flicked once, betraying nerves he had otherwise locked away. Even Kon, steady as steel, frowned in a way that suggested he was not entirely comfortable.
Toran stepped forward, the robe of midnight blue swaying with his measured stride. His violet gaze lingered on Ekene, then shifted toward Jeth. In both, he saw something worthy.
But in Ekene, he saw truth.
The King's words pressed deeper than command. They were revelation. "Mana is not rage. It is not weapon. It is not conquest. It is balance. To wield it is not to shatter, but to hold. To preserve even in force. That is why this trial matters—not for victory, but for revelation."
Jeth tipped his hat again, smirk shadowed but unmistakable. His drawl was softer now, almost begrudgingly respectful. "Well… reckon I'll be thinkin' on that for a while."
________________________________________
Toran's gaze lingered on each of them, one by one, as if weighing not merely their strength but the marrow of their souls. His violet eyes gleamed, unyielding, serene, and deadly certain. Then, he raised a single finger.
"Next. All four of you—against me."
The words rang through the arena like the toll of a celestial bell.
Trevor was the first to move, his grin spreading wide, though it was not the grin of a fool but of a fighter who had waited long for this invitation. "Finally," he muttered, rolling his shoulders as lightning already tickled the air.
Kon cracked his neck, the motion sharp and deliberate. "Don't hold back," he growled, though his eye flicked once toward Toran's single raised finger — a reminder that the king's restraint was not mercy, but statement.
Adam's brow furrowed. He could see it. The seriousness in Toran's stance, the quiet weight in the gesture. "He's serious," Adam whispered, voice low, almost reverent.
And then Darius, towering, immovable, nodded once to the others. His voice rumbled like tectonic plates grinding in harmony. "Go Grand."
It began.
The arena did not merely see their transformation; it felt it. The crystalline floor quivered beneath the pulse of power, refracting light into storms of color as each Lord shed their mortal husks and clothed themselves in their truest forms.
First came Darius.
A blaze of lemon-green mana erupted from his core, sweeping outward like wildfire, but where fire devours, his aura nourished — rich, fertile, indomitable. His Boga bloodline roared through him like an ancient hymn.
His chest, bare and scarred, seemed etched not with wounds but with scripture, each line of torn flesh a testimony of battles survived, of burdens borne without complaint. Scars as scripture. Pain as covenant.
Golden pauldrons curved across his shoulders, heavy not with vanity but with solemn majesty, as though they had been crafted by the earth itself to protect its favored child. His battle-trousers, woven with green threads of forgotten craft, shimmered like moss kissed by dew. His reversed knees bent into golden guards that gleamed as though polished by a thousand dawns.
And his horns. His horns shone like marble kissed by starlight, radiant, untouchable — the unbroken covenant of his people, proud and undying. In his hands, Baltacek pulsed with emerald fire, not merely a weapon but the very heartbeat of earth given steel.
Darius stood not like a warrior. He stood like a monument.
Where Darius was earth, Trevor was storm.
His aura flared molten gold, lightning spiraling around him with a rhythm that was both furious and playful, as if even the storm itself couldn't decide whether to laugh or destroy.
The dusty traveler was gone. In his place stood a figure clothed in reverence. A body wrapped in brown-and-gold armor tight as a second skin, its surface glinting like embers clinging to bark. His red headband shimmered, transfigured into a golden circlet upon his brow, its trailing ends streaming behind him like the banners of a forgotten king.
In his hands he gripped his black staff, banded in radiant gold, every inch humming with the promise of thunder, Gözkıran.
Trevor's grin remained, but behind it flickered something else: the weight of his clan's lost pride, the stubborn need to prove not only himself but the worth of those who bore his blood. Lightning flickered in his eyes, and for once it did not jest.
Then Adam.
The shift was quiet, inevitable. Not explosive, but certain — like the slow folding of night over day.
His cerulean aura sharpened, no longer a gentle river but a blade of ice. Yellow specks danced in his eyes, cold stars awakening in a midnight sea.
The rags of his journey dissolved into a sleeveless battlesuit woven of liquid blue, shimmering like flowing ice caught between worlds. Golden armguards locked into place with audible clicks, embracing his arms and reversed knees with the strength of ancient smiths.
From his shoulders unfurled a mane of frost-tipped fur, rippling with a life of its own, whispering of his lineage, of the blood he bore that was both curse and crown. His tail lashed once, girded in bands of gold, cracking the crystalline ground beneath him with thunderous force.
The Crescent Moon at his neck glowed, and for a moment Adam felt not like himself, but like an echo of every ancestor who had carried its light.
Last, Kon.
Crimson aura bled outward, sharp as a blade unsheathed, burning with controlled ferocity. The ring upon his paw dissolved into living mana, unfurling ribbons of red and black that wrapped around him like oaths given form.
His armor emerged as though it had always lain beneath his skin — spandex-like cloth tight as a second soul, threaded with tiger stripes that moved like living fire. One arm, the arm that had borne the ring, remained sleeveless, golden fur glowing beneath as though his very body carried a weapon's edge.
And in his hands, his swords appeared. They did not flash into existence; they were revealed, unveiled like prophecy long hidden. Their blades shimmered yellow and red, vibrating with a hum that was not heard but felt, like the memory of a song older than words.
Kon's single eye blazed. He did not grin, he did not laugh — he only stood ready, as though he had been preparing for this single moment since birth.
The arena quaked, not from violence, but from recognition.
The air thickened, crystal walls singing with refracted color. Kürdiala itself bore witness, as though the hidden city whispered: These are the Hazëls. These are the chosen pillars of Narn.
On the sidelines, Kopa's breath caught in his throat, antlers blazing with light refracted from the four. Johan's paw clenched against his sword hilt, tail stiffened, but he could not bring himself to blink. Even Ekene, the calm Leopard Hand, tilted his head slightly, golden eyes narrowing in what might have been respect.
And at the center, standing unshaken, was Toran.
Unmoved by their fury. Unshaken by their grandeur.
The king of Kürdiala raised his single finger again. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it carried with it the weight of eternity.
"I won't use more than this."
They struck as one.
No hesitation. No delay. The moment Toran raised that single finger — that insult wrapped in serenity — the four Hazëls answered in harmony, their power braided into a single, wordless oath.
Kon moved first, as he always did, the sharp edge to cut the silence before it grew heavy. His body was blur, his crimson aura streaking like a comet across the grass. Twin blades Yırtıcı sang as they arced toward Toran's spine.
'I'll draw blood first. One cut is enough. One cut proves he bleeds.'
But Toran did not even twitch. His footwork shifted, subtle as a breath, a dancer's pivot that drew no attention save to those who already knew the cost of such grace.
Trevor fell from above, lightning wreathing his staff, Gozkiran spinning like a golden sun. His grin was gone, his teeth bared with raw ferocity.
'He won't dodge both. Not sky and ground. I'll pin him — force him to commit!'
The air split with a crack, thunder rolling as the staff descended.
And behind Trevor came Darius, hammer-axe Baltacek already mid-swing, its emerald fire flaring like a furnace dragged into battle. He did not leap or rush — he descended with inevitability, a falling mountain clothed in scars.
'If he stops me, the others will strike. If he stops the others, I will crush him. He cannot hold against all of us.'
The ground trembled beneath the weight of his blow.
Adam wove his way through the chaos, calm, precise. His staff, Canvari, split into three segments, each link spinning in a perfect spiral. With a snap of will, chains of mana threaded through them, binding staff and aura into a serpent-like whip.
Three batons became one chain — spinning, weaving, seeking. His eyes, flecked with golden stars, fixed on Toran's arms, his legs, his movement.
'I'll bind him. Just for a breath. That's all the others need.'
And the chain closed from the front.
Together, they formed a perfect quadrant: Kon from behind, Trevor from above, Darius from the rear, Adam from the front. Coordination. Power. Precision.
The air roared with aura, wind spiraling outward as four Hazëls — beings counted among the pinnacle of Tracients — converged upon a single man.
The earth quaked. The crystal arena shimmered. The grass bent low in reverence.
It should have been a blow to rattle heavens.
Instead, it struck nothing.
Toran was gone.
No sound. No blur of speed. No displacement of air. No afterimage.
Just… absence.
The four weapons and their wielders cut through ghosts. Their strikes landed in silence, the grass swaying back into place as though mocking them.
A voice purred, soft and close, too close. "Nice teamwork."
Kon spun, instinct before thought, Yırtıcı whirling in a desperate defense. Too late.
He did not see the movement. He only saw the result — his twin blades scattering across the grass, their weight suddenly gone from his hands.
Trevor's staff clattered next, sliding across the floor to rest humbly at Toran's feet. His lightning sputtered, confused, as though even the storm itself recoiled in shame.
Darius blinked, Baltacek no longer clenched in his grasp but floating gently downward, as though Toran had asked the weapon to rest and it had obeyed.
Adam gasped, feeling Canvari slacken, the chains unwinding as if cut from existence, the segments dangling like broken limbs.
All of it had happened without sound. Without blur. Without resistance.
They stood disarmed.
The air grew heavy, oppressive, yet hollow, as though the arena itself did not know how to process what had occurred. Even the crystals dimmed, their humming faltering.
Kon clenched his fists, his single eye blazing. "What—what did he—?"
Trevor's lips trembled, his grin lost. "I didn't even see him move. Not once."
On the sidelines, Johan's paw slid reflexively toward his blade, his raccoon tail stiffening, every hair bristled. For a heartbeat, he felt not awe but fear — the kind that whispered of predators older than memory.
Kopa, usually stoic as carved stone, exhaled slowly, his antlers trembling with fractured light. .
Even Ekene, golden-eyed and ever-composed, tilted his head, his silence not indifference but acknowledgment. He had seen his king do this before, yet the sight still demanded reverence.
And Jeth — Jeth who rarely let awe reach his voice — muttered under his breath, the stalk dropping from his mouth.
"That… ain't physical."
Toran stood with his hands folded neatly behind his back, posture unbent, voice measured — yet carrying the gravity of mountains.
"You wield mana," he said, each word weighed and deliberate, "as if it were a sword. A storm. A wall. All wrong."
His violet gaze swept across the four Hazëls, lingering on each long enough for discomfort to settle in their chests.
"Mana is not your tool. It is not apart from you. It is you."
"You command it," Toran continued, his tone neither condemning nor kind, "because you think yourself separate from it. That is your failure."
The air trembled faintly around him, not with pressure, but with presence — as though the atmosphere itself leaned closer to listen.
"Mana is the Layline of All. It is All. It is One, and at the same time, it is Many. It is, and it is not. The Beginning of All, and the Beyond at the End of All."
His words rang like scripture.
"Mana is unquantifiable, indescribable. The Source of All — and, at once, the Source of None."
Even Johan, standing at the fringe, felt his tail stiffen. His heart pounded, and for the first time he could not tell if it beat in his chest or in the air itself.
Kon muttered under his breath, almost a prayer, "Unquantifiable… indescribable…"
Toran lifted one hand slightly, not yet summoning anything, but letting the silence deepen.
"To wield mana properly," he said, "you must not grasp at it. You must not command it. You must become it. It is not an energy to channel. It is essence. Being."
His voice softened, almost intimate now.
"And once you grasp this — once you surrender to this truth — your entire mind, soul, and body adjust themselves. Not to strain, not to fight, but to answer. To dim and to rise as need demands. Then, and only then, will there be little you cannot do, or achieve."
His hand rose higher, palm outward, fingers loose.
"And for combat purposes…"
The pause was deliberate, long enough that the Hazëls leaned unconsciously forward.
"…with the most minimal movement… with the most minimal amplification… the most minimal manipulation…"
A flicker sparked in his palm.
"…achieve the most maximum effect."
A small sphere came into being.
Not brilliant. Not fierce. Not burning.
It hovered in Toran's hand, silent, colorless, unanchored.
No hum of aura. No heat. No glow.
Just emptiness.
For a moment, the Hazëls thought it was nothing at all — a mirage, a trick of the crystalline light. But the air around it bent, faintly, subtly, as though existence itself was leaning to accommodate its presence.
Kopa's antlers tilted, his breath slow, reverent. His lips parted in awe.
"Is that…?"
Toran's voice was the answer. Calm. Absolute.
"Perfect Sphere. Ten percent output."
Silence fell.
Not the silence of stillness, but the silence of erasure.
The birds that circled high above the peaks stilled their cries. The wind in the grass seemed to forget its movement. Even the humming crystals dimmed, uncertain whether they ought to sing in the presence of something so absolute.
The Hazëls did not breathe.
Trevor's amber lightning guttered out around his shoulders, retreating as if ashamed. Darius's green aura pulsed weakly, dimming like a furnace deprived of air. Kon's crimson light flickered in agitation, rebelling against the realization that it was inadequate. Adam's cerulean glow narrowed into nothing, like a tide pulling away from the shore.
They stared at the sphere.
Not a weapon. Not a flare of energy. But absence made visible.
Jeth's hat dipped lower, but for once, his tone carried no humor. His voice cracked.
"That… ain't real."
His usual lazy drawl was gone, replaced with something taut and raw.
"That's a theory. A damned physics theory. Mana folded into itself so tightly it erases its own signature. The Manifestation of a perfect circle."
He spat the words as if saying them aloud might undo them, as if naming the impossible could force it back into the realm of speculation.
Yet there it was — plain, undeniable, floating in Toran's palm.
Toran raised the sphere slightly, and for a moment, the world seemed to sway with it.
"Mana is existence," he said simply.
Not a proclamation. Not a boast. Just truth spoken as naturally as one might name the sky or the sea.
"Not energy. Not weapon. Not servant. To shape it purely, you must surrender your form. You must surrender your will to control."
His eyes shone indigo in the still air, piercing, almost sorrowful.
"To wield it truly… is not to wield it at all. It is to become indistinguishable from it. To cease being a hand upon it, and instead to be the current itself."
Toran opened his palm.
The sphere dropped.
Time stopped.
It was not fire that came. Not thunder, nor lightning, nor any sound the ear could recognize.
The explosion was gravity.
The air bent. The earth groaned. The crystalline flooring warped inward, like glass caught in an unseen tide. Color shattered, breaking apart like brittle porcelain. The grassland terrain flickered, died, and the arena's crafted sky buckled and fell away like canvas in a storm.
The Lords were caught in the recoil. Their bodies were flung backward — not hurled through space, but pulled into it, stretched against it. They felt themselves dragged toward the center, not with brute force but with the command of existence itself.
The Perfect Sphere, now unleashed, demanded reality reorient around it.
Trevor was first to recover. The grin was gone; only his instinct remained.
"Kargaşa!"
The staff blazed. Amber-gold lightning bled into molten chaos, storming into the sphere's field. His aura roared like a sun unwilling to collapse. He knew he couldn't destroy it, couldn't overpower it — but he could unravel it. His lightning splintered reality into fragments, destabilizing the very fabric that the sphere had pulled taut.
His every nerve screamed. Blood slipped from his nostrils, trailing down his chin. His legs quaked as though the marrow itself were crumbling. Still, Trevor stood. 'If I can just break its rhythm—if I can just give the others a second—'
Then came Adam.
His Doğuş ignited, a cerulean blaze spiraling from within him, but this was no mere shield. His light did not resist the sphere. It changed it. The cerulean flame reached into the impossible fold of the sphere's existence, not shattering but transmuting. He did not fight against its command of reality — he rewrote the command.
Yellow streaks flashed in his eyes. The cerulean deepened, crystallized, until his gaze shone with a hue no mortal should carry.
And Toran, master of Kürdiala, breaker of armies, gasped.
His voice, usually impenetrable steel, faltered.
"It can't be…"
Because when he looked into Adam's eyes, he did not see defiance. He did not see fear. He saw a face he knew — or had once known. A familiarity that pierced deeper than time, deeper than title.
For a single heartbeat, Toran forgot himself.
All of them bled now.
Trevor's laughter cracked under the weight of his coughing.
Darius's horns split the air with light as he dug Baltacek into the ground, anchoring himself against the inward drag. His hooves cracked the crystal beneath him.
Kon, on one knee, braced with both blades, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached like breaking stone.
Jeth stood a little forward, hat shadowing his eyes, breath ragged. He whispered into the storm: "Well, Lord Thrax… you'd better be watchin' this."
Blood dripped from all their noses, their ears. Their bones creaked like ships in stormwater. Yet they did not yield.
The Perfect Sphere shuddered once — then folded inward.
It shrank, impossibly fast, collapsing into itself until it was no larger than a pearl. A single crystalline bead.
Clatter!
It struck the arena floor with the faintest sound, bouncing once, twice, before rolling to stillness.
The shockwave stopped.
The air returned.
Time resumed.
For a long moment, none of them moved.
Trevor fell first. His laughter, half-cough and half-victory, broke the silence. "Hey, Adam…"
Adam's head turned weakly, vision swimming. His cerulean light flickered, his crystal eyes dimming.
Trevor's tail twitched once. "I'm… glad you're… okay…"
Then he crumpled.
Adam staggered a step, reached for him — and fell beside him.
The silence that followed was heavier than thunder.
Above, the Mana Crystals that formed Kürdiala's canopy pulsed again, faint and steady, as though their rhythm had never faltered. The artificial wind stirred once more across the grass, bending blades gently, carrying the scent of ozone and stone.
Kon braced on his blades, chest heaving. Darius stood with arms slack, hammer dragging against the crystal ground.
And Toran… Toran stared.
"They… stopped it."
The words seemed impossible to him even as he said them.
Stopped the Perfect Sphere.
Stopped what no other living being had endured.
"They are not ready yet…" His voice broke into the air, carried on the soft return of wind. "…but they are capable."
Capable of what, he did not say. But the meaning sank into all who heard it.