[You have read the objectives.]
[If one side fails, the other race will be erased, and so will you.]
[Begin?]
"Yes," Raziel replied.
The moment the word left his lips, the world shifted.
The endless platform vanished.The angel dissolved into light.Even the weight of the Tower's presence receded.
The forest that surrounded them was not merely green—it was consecrated.
Soft, luminous grass carpeted the land, each blade faintly glowing with emerald light, as though nourished by something older than sunlight. When stepped upon, it bent gently without breaking, springing back as if acknowledging those who walked across it.
The trees were immense.
Their trunks rose impossibly high, thick and twisted, bark layered in natural spirals etched with faint runic patterns—symbols worn smooth by time. Moss clung to their roots like velvet, glowing faintly in hues of jade and gold. Their branches spread wide, weaving together to form a vaulted canopy that filtered the orange sun into warm, dappled rays.
This light did not burn.
It blessed.
Sunbeams descended like slow-moving halos, illuminating patches of forest floor where small stone totems stood—weathered markers carved with goblin script and symbols of protection, fertility, and memory. Tiny crystal growths emerged from the earth near these markers, humming softly, resonating with the heartbeat of the land itself.
The air was alive with sound—but not noise.
Leaves whispered in layered harmonies. Insects with translucent wings drifted lazily through the air, their bodies casting prismatic reflections. Somewhere deep within the forest, distant chimes rang—wind passing through hollowed bark or crystal-veined branches shaped deliberately by goblin hands long ago.
Despite its beauty, the forest felt watched.
Not with hostility—but with awareness.
Roots intertwined beneath the soil like a vast nervous system, carrying information, emotion, and intent. The forest remembered footsteps. It remembered blood spilled and prayers whispered.
There were signs of goblin craftsmanship everywhere, subtle and intelligent.
Pathways were not cut, but guided—stones placed to encourage direction, branches bent just enough to mark safe routes. Homes were grown rather than built: tree-hollows expanded naturally, reinforced with living wood shaped through patient cultivation. Lantern-fruits hung from branches, glowing softly at dusk, providing gentle illumination without flame.
This was not a savage wilderness.
It was a sanctuary.
A divine forest shaped not by conquest, but by coexistence.
One by one, the others appeared.
They materialized in flashes of distortion, each Transcender instinctively surveying their surroundings, gauging threats, searching for advantage.
But inevitably—
Their gazes shifted.
All of them looked at Raziel.
His presence drew attention effortlessly. Not through force, not through intimidation—but through an impossible, quiet gravity. Their eyes lingered, scanning him, attempting to understand what they were seeing.
After a moment of tense silence, introductions began.
A girl stepped forward first.
Sarah was the kind of beauty that demanded attention the moment she entered a room.
Her long blonde hair fell in soft, carefully maintained waves down her back, catching the light like spun gold. Her blue eyes were bright and sharp, always alert—constantly measuring how others looked at her, how they reacted. Her features were symmetrical and refined, her lips naturally curved into a confident smile that she had practiced countless times.
Her body was flawless in the way magazines and advertisements glorified—slim waist, long legs, elegant posture. Every movement she made felt intentional, designed to be noticed. She carried herself with pride bordering on arrogance, chin slightly lifted, shoulders back, as though the world owed her admiration.
"Hello everyone," she said brightly. "My name is Sarah. I'm from the Zenith Academy."
Her smile was proud, polished.
The others responded warmly, some nodding, some smiling back. Zenith Academy—ranked third among the three great institutions—was nothing to scoff at.
Sarah already felt superior.
In the Academy system, ordinary students required six months of training before even being considered for the Tower. Elites needed only one month.
She wasn't an elite.
She was ordinary—lucky.
Raziel did not respond.
He did not look at her.Did not acknowledge her existence in the slightest.
A flicker of irritation passed through her eyes, quickly masked by politeness.
'What's his problem? she thought bitterly. Can't even look me in the eye? What—am I too beautiful for him?'
Another stepped forward.
"Hello," he said calmly. "My name is Jacob. I'm also from the Zenith Academy."
Jacob's appearance was calm, balanced, and quietly striking.
He had short black hair, neatly kept but not obsessively styled, and deep purple eyes that seemed thoughtful rather than aggressive. His face was handsome without being sharp—strong jaw, steady gaze, the kind of features that inspired trust rather than intimidation.
Standing a little over six feet, his build was athletic but not excessive. He looked like someone who trained consistently—not to show off, but to survive. His posture was relaxed, hands often resting casually at his sides
Then another voice followed, louder.
"Name's John," he said with a smirk. "Zenith Academy."
John's presence was impossible to miss—if only because he forced it upon others.
He was massive, standing nearly six-foot-eight, with broad shoulders and thick arms built through brute training rather than refinement. His dark hair was cropped short, his brown eyes sharp with aggression and entitlement.
His face was average at best, but he carried it with exaggerated confidence, smirking often, eyes roaming as if daring someone to challenge him. He leaned forward when he spoke, invading personal space, using his size as intimidation.
There was power in him—but it was crude.
The kind of strength that relied on bullying weaker opponents, not surviving stronger ones.
He glanced at Raziel briefly."Watch your behaviour. You're standing in front of a princess."
No one laughed.No one agreed.
They ignored him. He was clearly one of those—a wanna be bully, all posture and no substance.
Then—
A different presence stepped forward.
"My name is Easu," he said evenly. "I'm from the Black Ring."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Eyes widened.Breaths hitched.
The Black Ring Academy—the second greatest institution in this universe.
Even Sarah's gaze softened, admiration flashing across her face.
Esau was striking in a way that felt effortless.
His blonde hair was short and clean, framing a sharp, handsome face defined by calm confidence. His blue eyes were colder than Sarah's—clear, focused, and calculating. When he looked at someone, it felt deliberate, as though he was measuring their worth in a single glance.
Standing at six-foot-two, his build was balanced and disciplined. Not overly muscular, not lean—perfectly optimized. Every movement he made was precise, controlled, economical.
Unlike John, Esau did not need to assert dominance.
He effortlessly silenced John with a single look.
Raziel glanced at him—and smiled.
It was brief.
But it surprised everyone.
Esau was useful.
Very useful.
Raziel had already decided: this one would rule beside me.
Another girl spoke next.
"My name is Mary," she said softly. "I'm from Zenith Academy as well."
Mary's beauty was quieter—but far more profound.
Her brown hair fell naturally past her shoulders, unstyled yet flawless, framing a gentle face with soft features and calm expressions. Her most striking trait, however, was her yellow eyes—warm, luminous, and strangely deep, like sunlight filtered through amber.
She was more beautiful than Sarah, though she never tried to be.
Her figure was graceful rather than provocative, her posture relaxed, her presence soothing. She didn't seek attention, didn't compete for it. She simply existed—observing, listening, absorbing.
There was kindness in her gaze.
But Raziel did not look at her.
Finally—
It was Raziel's turn.
A crown rested upon his head, a delicate circlet just above his brows, radiating quiet sovereignty. His face was otherworldly—flawless, perfectly balanced between divine elegance and restrained authority.
His skin was pale and luminous, untouched by time. Long silver-white hair flowed weightlessly around him like liquid moonlight. His eyes were crimson red, layered with infinite rings and scattered lights—entire universes compressed into a single gaze.
To look at him was to feel drawn… and silenced.
Behind the scenes, his [Great Nature of the Unknown] stirred.
No pressure was released.
Yet something ancient and instinctive whispered in their souls.
Kneel.
It felt natural.Normal.As normal as kneeling before a god.
"My name is Raziel ÆLNOÛS," he said calmly."And I am from THE ACADEMY."
Silence.
Then—
Shock.
"The Academy…?""You mean THE Academy?""For real?"
Even Sarah.Even John.Even Easu.
All of them realized it at once.
They weren't lucky.
They were insignificant.
Before them stood someone beautiful beyond reason—pretty, handsome, divine—and unimaginably powerful.
The One Above All.
And this was only the first floor.
No sooner had the introductions faded into uneasy silence than the air itself shifted.
From the emerald haze of the forest ahead, a figure stepped forward—silent, deliberate, undeniable.
His skin was a deep, earthen green, textured like old bark polished by time. Brown eyes, ancient and watchful, sat beneath a heavy brow, carrying neither fear nor reverence—only expectation. His head was completely hairless, elongated slightly, and his ears were long and sharply pointed, unmistakably goblin.
He wore robes layered in moss-dark greens and ash-browns, woven with crude yet deliberate runes. Bone charms and wooden talismans hung from his sleeves and neck, each etched with symbols of binding, protection, and sacrifice.
This was no common goblin.
This was a priest—and not a weak one.
A powerful conduit between faith, land, and blood.
The group instinctively tensed, eyes narrowing as they scanned him. Even John, loud as ever, remained silent for once.
I guess Their spiritual pillar, they thought.
The goblin inclined his head—not in submission, but in formality.
"Greetings, Transcenders of the Tower,"his voice rasped, layered with something deeper, as if multiple echoes spoke behind it."We thank you for answering our call."
John scoffed inwardly.
Tch. Answering your call?More like dragged here.If it were my choice, I'd have sided with the Orcs. Bastards of a lesser race.
The priest gestured with one long, clawed hand, the air bending subtly around his motion.
"Please, follow me. I will lead you to the village.""You stand now upon the outskirts—dangerously close to Orc territory."
The goblin turned and began walking without waiting for agreement.
One by one, the others followed instinctively—some out of caution, some out of fear, others because the presence behind them was far more terrifying than the unknown ahead.
Raziel walked in silence.
The forest seemed to part for him, the grass bowing slightly under his steps, the air tightening whenever he passed. The others felt it—an unspoken pressure that made their spines straighten and their breaths shallow.
Sarah moved closer.
Too close.
She clung to his arm with practiced familiarity, smiling brightly.
"So… your name's Raziel, right?" she said sweetly.
Raziel did not look at her.
His crimson eyes remained forward.
"What's your rank?" he asked flatly.
Sarah blinked, surprised—but pleased.
"Rank S. Why?"
Raziel stopped walking.
The forest seemed to pause with him.
Then—
"Weak."
Sarah's smile faltered.
Raziel finally turned his gaze toward her—cold, dissecting, absolute.
"What do you mea-" She said, but she was cut off.
"Too weak.""A six-month student from the top-three academy.""Even the lowest Transcender from Black Ring stands at SSS."
His voice sharpened.
"And you?""An S?"
The air grew heavy.
"The weakest in THE ACADEMY stands at Level 10—Planetary Rank.""So don't cling to me, weakling."
His eyes burned.
"Fuck off."
Sarah froze.
Her face drained of color as laughter—quiet, restrained—rippled through the group.
Jacob looked away, amused. Laughing out loud in his mind. 'That's what you get for being a Bitch.' He mused. Mary lowered her head, amused.Esau's lips curved slightly. 'Good, we do not have a simp with us today, Thank GOD.'
But John's face darkened.
He stopped walking.
And then he stepped forward.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" John snapped."She was being nice. Who do you think you are?"
Raziel didn't answer.
He walked past him.
That—more than the insult—it was unforgivable.
John turned sharply, fury flaring.
"Are you ignoring me?""HOW DARE—"
He lunged.
A punch—fast, powerful, full force.
It stopped in midair.
Inches from Raziel's face.
An invisible barrier shimmered faintly, space itself folding into a dense, impossible shell.
[GREAT INFINITE AEGIS: SINGULARITY OF ABSOLUTE EXISTENCE AND LONGEVITY]
John struck again.
And again.
Each blow halted, swallowed, erased.
Confusion replaced rage.
Fear followed.
Raziel sighed.
Then he looked at John.
Just once.
[ALL CUT]
Reality obeyed.
John's arm vanished—cleanly severed, erased as if it had never existed.
No blood spilled.
No wound formed.
But the pain—
It detonated.
"AAAAAAHHHH—!"
John collapsed, screaming, clutching at nothing, his body writhing as his mind screamed at the absence of what should have been there.
The priest did not intervene.
The forest did not react.
This was judgment.
Then the tower system flashed
[You are teammates, you are not allowed to harm your comrade]
[Reversing....]
[Cannot reverse]
[ERROR]
[ERROR]
[Reporting issue to the W.T.A]
[Reporting issue to the A.T.O.U.R]
[Requesting for more authority..]
[authority DENIED]
[Asking why?...]
[I understand]
And the chim stopped it left immediately, and the pain continued.
But Raziel didn't care
"Be grateful," Raziel said calmly."That I spared your head."
The goblin priest finally spoke again, voice steady, reverent.
"You have crossed the boundary."
The air shifted.
and the forest deepened.
[Great One, you have entered Goblin Territory][Location: The Goblin Village][Realm: Goblin Domain]
Ahead, the trees twisted into ancient shapes, roots forming bridges and walls, glowing runes carved into bark and stone.
This was no savage camp.
This was a kingdom waiting to rise.
And Raziel had arrived at its center.
And Raziel had arrived at the heart of the Goblin lands.
They had traversed through winding dens, the kind of homes carved from the twisted trunks of ancient oaks, their walls etched with crude yet intricate runes. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of roasted roots and iron. Tiny goblin children scurried between legs, their bright eyes wide with curiosity, while elders hobbled with the weight of years yet moved with an alertness that spoke of a race perpetually on guard. Gold coins, far more than one would expect from a people bound in servitude, clinked softly in the hands of nimble fingers, and Raziel noted it with a faint arch of his brow—unusual, considering the oppression they endured.
At last, they reached the Warriors' Palace. It was not the king who awaited them, but the commander of the Goblin Race—a towering figure for a goblin, armoured in blackened steel that gleamed even in the dim light, a crimson sash draped across his chest. A broad carpet, woven from dark reds and browns, stretched across the hall's centre. On either side, Goblin nobles, attendants, and servants lined up with practised precision, their faces etched with loyalty and a hint of fear. The room vibrated with the subtle hum of anticipation, the quiet murmurs fading as the commander's voice boomed.
"Welcome, Transcenders of the Tower! It is an honour to receive you!" His words carried across the hall like a drumbeat, silencing the scattered bickering among the goblins.
"We greet His Majesty," the Transcenders responded in unison—Raziel aside, his expression a mask of icy contempt.
"I am sure you have read our objectives," the commander continued, his eyes locking onto Esau with a desperate intensity. "Please, aid us. The Goblin Race teeters on the brink; only your strength can guide us through the storm."
Esau's voice was calm but resolute. "We will do our best to aid you."
With that, the group was led into the Strategy Room.
[Room: Strategy]
A delicate chime echoed softly as they entered, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of the hall. The room itself was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of ink, wax, and polished wood. Centred in the room was a vast wooden board, its surface etched with the contours of the surrounding lands. Tiny carved figurines—goblins, orcs, towers, and beasts—stood like frozen warriors on the board, each piece poised in silent readiness. The wood seemed to pulse faintly, the grain shifting as if alive, giving the impression that the board was less a map and more a miniature cosmos, a battlefield suspended in time.
Every movement on the board seemed to echo like the dying heartbeat of a star; a faint light glimmered where battles were predicted, flickering like embers about to ignite. Raziel's eyes, sharp and discerning, took in every detail—the placement of troops, the folds in the terrain, the unseen gaps that could become traps. It was not merely a map—it was a story, a web of strategy and fate woven by those desperate to survive.
"This is Orc territory," the commander said, his clawed finger pressing firmly into the map. "Tomorrow, we strike here."
The land beyond the marked boundary was a scar across the world. Jagged red earth stretched outward like flayed flesh, cracked and blackened by countless marches and war-fires. The sky above the territory was perpetually choked with ash, stained a dull copper by forge-smoke and sacrificial pyres that never cooled. Massive iron spikes rose from the ground, impaled with banners of flayed hide—warnings to all who dared approach.
The Orc stronghold sat at the centre like a beast squatting in its own filth. Crude stone walls reinforced with iron plates circled the settlement, each layer stacked without elegance, only brutal efficiency. Watchtowers loomed at irregular intervals, packed with sentries whose silhouettes were thick, hunched, and ever-moving. Their drums beat at all hours, a low, warlike pulse that travelled through the ground itself.
This territory was not built for beauty—it was shaped for domination. Slave roads cut through the land like veins, leading to quarries, breeding pits, and weapon forges. The scent of blood and hot metal hung permanently in the air. Patrols moved in packs, unpredictable but relentless, their routes designed to confuse intruders rather than defend clean lines.
"At dawn, we will exploit their arrogance. They believe this land unassailable, their numbers infinite. Tomorrow, we will prove them wrong. We strike fast, hard, and without mercy—before the drums can call the horde to war."
And with that, THE WAR BEGAN.