The fevered excitement of a crowd awaiting sport, but a subdued, almost reverent hush. As though the heavens themselves had paused to watch.
The Moonlight Festival had reached its final act.
The skies were clear, save for thin wisps of clouds drifting lazily past the twin moons above.
On the floating arena suspended over the Heartlake Amphitheatre, the barrier dome shimmered to life once again.
This was not the same tranquil glow from before, it pulsed now, resonating with the weight of power soon to be unleashed.
The final match.
From opposite ends of the stage, two figures stepped into the light.
One, clad in flowing azure robes traced with silvery runes, her long moonlit hair trailing like a banner in the wind, Selyra Elowen, Moonlight Sect's peerless prodigy and the youngest apprentice elder in three centuries.
The other, graceful as a blade unsheathed, her hair catching the morning sun, Ilyra Vel'arien, core disciple and daughter of two elven legends.
The one the inner disciples whispered about when they thought no one could hear.
Even now, high above in the crystalline balcony reserved for Moonlight City's highest dignitaries, the elven dignitary Solien Vel'arien, Lord of the Aetherwood Court, stood up, tears already streaming down his face.
"My Ilyra!" he roared with shaking pride, his deep voice echoing across the open skies.
His wife, serene as ever, simply smiled.
The other guests chuckled, their expressions varying from fond amusement to quiet resignation. None dared mock Solien, not when the very stars once bent to his command.
And on the outer terrace overlooking the arena below, Adrien Cortez watched silently, his heart pounding in his chest.
'This is what real suppression feels like…'
Selyra had trained him. Had fought him in the quiet hours of dawn, hand clutched around his throat without ever truly hurting him. Her power always just a step beyond his reach.
But now, watching her stand against Ilyra, he understood something profound:
'She had never been serious with me.'
Because now, now, she was serious.
The pressure the two women exuded crackled across the air, warping the arena tiles beneath their feet. Dream Aether energy bled from both of them, thick and tangible as mist.
Their cores, both tier four, perhaps beyond, their presence alone shimmered like constellations behind their eyes.
And then, the gong struck.
A single, resonant chime.
The final duel began.
The moment the gong struck, the world shifted.
Wind snapped into stillness.
Sound died.
Even the heartbeat of the crowd seemed to still.
Then they moved.
Selyra's form vanished.
Not blurred.
Vanished.
A shockwave cracked the air as her disappearance left a pressure vacuum behind.
The tiles where she had stood exploded inwards, imploding as though the world itself folded to make room for her movement.
Ilyra didn't flinch.
Her body shimmered in response, wrapped in translucent, crystalline armour forged from dream essence itself.
Her feet slid half a step back, and her right hand flicked upward in a graceful arc.
A wall of fractal mirrors bloomed to life in front of her like a blooming lotus.
And then, impact.
Selyra struck the mirror-wall from the side, her palm crashing into the reflective barrier at an angle that should have caught Ilyra's ribs.
Instead, the mirror flashed, redirected.
Selyra's own momentum twisted, her strike deflected downward, and she landed on one knee, sliding across the stage.
But she was already moving again.
Ilyra smiled faintly, stepping sideways, her fingers weaving through the air like a conductor painting with energy.
Each gesture summoned shapes: crescent moons, silver chains of force, and shimmering arrows of condensed dream light.
Selyra darted forward again, weaving through the volley with movements honed through decades of real-world slaughter.
A spinning backflip through a spiral of arrows.
A single palm strike that shattered a binding moon-ring mid-formation.
Then a slip, barely perceptible, but Ilyra saw it.
She reached out, a single finger stabbing forward, too slow to be a proper attack, but too precise to ignore.
It connected.
Selyra's shoulder jerked back violently, her entire frame crashing into a vertical mirror that hadn't been there a moment before.
Boom!
Cracks spread across the mirror as Selyra slid down it. Her lips twisted into a grin.
"Elegant," she said, voice steady, "but not nearly enough."
Without warning, the ground beneath Ilyra shattered.
A wave of gravitic force surged upward.
Ilyra reacted instantly, but her footing broke. Her entire stance twisted, and that was all the opening Selyra needed.
She blinked in.
Palm met chest.
Ilyra staggered.
A lesser cultivator would have had their ribcage liquified.
But she spun with it, converting kinetic energy into movement. Her dreamcore pulsed, Tier 4, but saturated. Overcharged. Nearing overload.
She flicked her wrist and sent out three glowing spheres of concentrated nightmare essence.
Selyra's brow rose.
The crowd gasped as the arena exploded into streaks of violet-black smoke and white light.
The mirror dome shimmered violently. Attendants at the control stations along the arena's perimeter scrambled to stabilize the formation.
Sparks flew from the control orbs. Some cultivators in the audience leaned forward instinctively, shielding the weaker ones behind them.
Then
A flash of silver.
Selyra emerged from the cloud, cloak tattered at the edges, face calm, her right arm glowing with runes.
Ilyra was already in the air, descending with a crescent blade of dreamforce in hand, her wings of light unfurled.
The two collided again.
And the world shattered.
Adrien's breath caught.
This wasn't a duel.
This was war.
He couldn't even see their movements now, only afterimages and cascading blasts of aether. Even the array's protective barrier was groaning under the weight.
This is what it feels like to be strong. And Ilyra is supposed to be younger than me?
He knew it wasn't literal, but that was the terrifying part. These two were already leagues above the other core disciples, and they were still climbing.
'One day,' Adrien thought, 'I have to stand here too.'
He clenched his fists.
And somewhere deep inside him, his Dreamcore pulsed.
Just once.
Back inside the arena, the duel entered its final stage.
The two combatants now circled each other slowly. Breathing had become audible, if only because the entire arena was dead silent.
Ilyra had cuts now, small ones, but they bled. Her pale golden eyes glimmered with exhilaration.
Selyra was bleeding too, though less obviously. Her left leg trembled just slightly.
They stood within the ruins of the floating arena, most of the tiles reduced to rubble. Half of the mirrors had shattered, and the barrier dome shimmered weakly.
Selyra finally spoke.
"You've grown strong, Ilyra."
Ilyra nodded. "You too, Selyra. But it's time."
Her tone changed, quiet, resolute.
"Moonlight Phantasm, Eighth Invocation."
The runes along her back flared, and six mirrored wings of light spread outward from her silhouette.
Selyra's eyes narrowed. "Then I won't hold back either."
She crossed her arms in front of her, breathing deeply.
"Lotus Execution: Final Bloom."
The runes along her arm glowed, and the shattered moonlight beneath their feet began to rise, each fragment coalescing into a spinning flower of blades and light.
The crowd was breathless.
Even the elders and envoys above stood up.
They clashed one last time.
A scream of light. A roar of pressure.
And then
Silence.
When the smoke cleared, two figures stood across from each other.
Both were on their knees.
Blood dripped freely from their wounds. The arena was obliterated, only the skeletal framework of the stage remaining. Even the protective dome had shattered.
But Selyra was still upright.
Ilyra... had collapsed.
Just barely.
The announcer didn't even speak. He simply lifted a shaking hand.
"Victor, Selyra Elowen!"
Wowwww!!!
The crowd erupted in a thunderous roar.
But Selyra didn't rise.
She simply smiled, her gaze distant, her breathing shallow. "She made me use the Final Bloom…"
And then, she too collapsed.
Above, in the crystalline balcony, Lord Solien was crying again.
"My Ilyra! She pushed the monster herself to her limit!"
His wife smiled, eyes closed.
"She did well."
And beside them, the Sect Master of the Moonlight Sect simply sat in silence, his expression unreadable.
But his eyes… burned.
The arena lay in ruins.
Only silence reigned now, solemn, weighty silence. Not even the raucous cheers of the crowd could truly break it.
It was the kind of quiet that followed calamity, the stillness after thunder, the breath held in the aftermath of a storm.
Selyra and Ilyra had both been carried off the battlefield by silver-robed healers whose faces remained tight with tension, despite the practiced calm they wore.
Neither woman had awoken yet.
Despite that, neither had lost their light.
If anything, their auras still lingered on the field, echoes, Adrien realized. He felt them even now, rippling in the energy of the shattered arena, carved into the dust and stone as if refusing to be forgotten.
He stood among the core disciples seated in a private skybox reserved for promising disciples.
Beside him sat others who had fought that day, bruised, battered, yet somehow brighter for it.
Even they looked humbled.
Selyra and Ilyra had fought on an entirely different plane.
"Tier four dreamcores," Adrien murmured under his breath, eyes locked on the devastated arena below. 'They're already dancing in realms the others can't even reach.' His own core stirred uneasily, like a seed yearning for sunlight.
And yet, he didn't feel defeated.
He felt hungry.
...
Down below, near the healer's sanctum, the two unconscious prodigies lay on parallel beds, their vital signs stable but their bodies demanding deep rest.
Healers moved between them quickly. Vials of condensed moonlight essence were dripped into their veins, rune-laced salves applied to wounds that cut deeper than flesh.
No one dared speak too loudly.
They were afraid to break the quiet, the sacred quiet, of two titans who had touched the border of Ascension and returned.
Even the high elders, who had watched with veiled expressions from above, said nothing. They had long since left their balconies.
Except for one.
High above the city, the Sect Master stood at the edge of a wide veranda, robes rustling in the wind.
He had not spoken a word since the battle ended.
Not to his advisors.
Not to his personal guards.
Not even to Lord Solien, who had nearly fallen over the balcony in grief and pride all at once.
The Sect Master simply stared down at the battlefield.
His thoughts, however, burned.
'Selyra has stepped beyond the threshold. She's holding back less and less… she's nearly ready to attempt her breakthrough. But Ilyra—'
He exhaled.
'That girl is a storm in slow bloom. No… a tempest wrapped in silk.'
He looked toward the east, toward the Forbidden Valley, where ancient ruins stirred.
'When the gates open again, we will need them both.'
He turned, robes swirling.
And in that moment, the Sect Master's gaze landed on Adrien.
For a second, just a heartbeat, he watched him.
Measured him.
Then disappeared in a ripple of spatial energy.
Elsewhere, in a more secluded wing of the Moonlight Sect, Adrien sat alone in his quarters, legs crossed on a mat of silk.
The status window hovered in front of him, soft blue and silver, almost translucent in the dim light of his meditation lantern.
But unlike before… this time it had changed.