Day 9.
A day that hung thick with expectancy.
The sacred-level experts were arriving.
All duties were suspended. No drills echoed, no commands barked—just a taut silence as if the base itself was holding its breath. Every soldier, officer, and trainee had been ordered to assemble. The launchpad—normally a zone of logistics and brief exchanges—had transformed into a ceremonial field, the polished metal beneath their boots reflecting a pale morning sun. Banners fluttered, insignias gleamed. Each uniform was a blade—crisp, perfect, unyielding.
Dan stood in formation, posture straight, but his gaze wandered.
Something was off. Rosie and the others were missing—conspicuously so. The entire formation seemed carved from stone: row after row of men, eyes ahead, breath shallow.
Then it appeared. A glint high above.
At first a dot, shimmering against the blue-gold sky like a misplaced star. But it grew—no, descended—with poise, not speed, its very approach regal. A low hum resonated through the earth beneath them, like a sacred bell vibrating through the bones.
Dan's eyes widened as its form clarified: sleek, seamless, majestic.
The Pegasus S-Class.
Few outside of elite command even believed it existed. Yet here it was—its hull a living sculpture of alien alloys, its engines whispering secrets of gravity's defeat. It didn't land so much as settle, as if the very air had parted in reverence.
The bay doors sighed open.
Three figures emerged, clad in attire that glowed faintly with woven enchantments. The air around them shimmered with aura—contained, yet unmistakable.
Then, a fourth.
He stepped forward, and the world stilled.
Not one word had been spoken, yet silence deepened. The very light bent slightly around him. Gravity thickened. Sound shrank.
This was not simply a sacred-level expert.
This was something beyond.
His presence pressed against reality itself, a quiet, cosmic weight. The aura he exuded wasn't loud—it was ancient. Primeval. As if the universe had wrapped centuries of war, knowledge, and power into flesh and now let it walk among them. Veterans flinched under his glance. Even the base leader's eyes sharpened, lips thinning beneath his polished helm.
Dan's breath hitched.
This… this was proof. That beyond sacred, there were realms unnamed. Levels hinted at only in forbidden scrolls and hushed campfire theories.
The delegation didn't speak. They moved, almost gliding, toward the terraced mountain nearby. There, nestled within stone and shadow, a natural amphitheater awaited—crafted long ago for moments like this. A throne of the earth itself, ringed by carved steps and ceremonial pyres, now cold and dormant.
The crowd followed. No murmurs, only footfalls and the faint hiss of breath.
As the congregation settled around the summit, one of the sacred-level experts stepped forth. His voice was power wrapped in civility—loud, calm, resolute.
"Today marks the annual summit of the Leiam Warneck Base under the banner of the Dukedom. There will be changes in authority and structure, to be disclosed at the end of this session. But first, we begin with the Challenges."
The effect was electric.
What had been reverence transformed into fervor.
Cheers erupted—sudden, wild, unrestrained. A ritual had begun.
Dan blinked, stunned. This wasn't a ceremony—it was a battlefield dressed in garlands. A rite. A sacred arena for ambition to bare its fangs.
The Challenges.
A proving ground forged in tradition—where bloodshed became currency, and power the only language.
He turned to a nearby group of seasoned watchers. Their expressions were eager, almost gleeful. They explained: once a year, warriors from the base could challenge for advancement, even authority. If a High Warnack dared, he could step into the ring against the base leader—and seize command.
No riches. No artifacts.
Just a crown of dominion forged by combat.
Dan's eyes narrowed, the fire of understanding sparking within.
"Oh? A High Warnack is challenging the base leader this year?" someone murmured.
Heads turned. Gasps scattered like falling leaves.
Dan followed their gaze—and felt a jolt.
Jordan.
He stood—silent, poised, calm. A declaration in stillness.
Dan's mind raced. Does he have a plan? A counter to the base leader's binding technique?
It was one of the deadliest in the entire command hierarchy—fast, absolute, inescapable. But if Jordan had even the barest resistance to it, he might just… draw the fight.
Then again—what if this was deception? Dan remembered Jordan had yet to reveal his Thousandfold Grabs, a technique spoken of in whispers. Nor had he taken to the skies—his true battleground.
He's holding back, Dan realized. This entire time, he's been calculating.
His pulse quickened. He leaned forward, eyes locked on Jordan.
Then, from the stone throne at the amphitheater's apex, the Warnack Lord raised a hand.
The signal.
Battle erupted.
Like a match to dry leaves, the arena ignited with duels—swords flashed, aura flared, feet tore across stone. Spells crackled in the air, tracing patterns of violet and gold. Sacred experts watched with detached precision, stepping in only when death loomed too close.
Two High Warnacks joined the chaos to help oversee.
Dozens of bouts danced across the field—energy blossomed and crashed like tidal waves, metal clanged with righteous fury, and chants in ancient tongues called down tempests and firestorms.
But Dan remained still, his gaze fixed ahead.
He wasn't here for the preliminary spectacle.
He was waiting for the match.
While waiting, he struck up hushed conversation with a few other watchers. They spoke of the Demonic—a name whispered with mixed awe and dread. Orphans turned weapons. Children stripped of innocence, rebuilt with pain, and taught forbidden ways. Where others trained, they endured. Where others mastered arts, they were etched with them.
And among them stood Jordan.
The base leader was named Bluemount—a man whose battlefield title was Blue Mount, given not by rank, but by fear. A High Warnack forged from relentless warfare. To rise higher, he'd need to challenge fate itself and seek Nobility.
Dan listened, absorbing more of the hierarchy: Warnack. High Warnack. Noble. Then Shadow Reaper. Then, perhaps, one day… a Lord.
Beyond that?
Only whispers.
An hour passed in fury and fire. Then, the horn blew.
The side bouts ended. Results announced. Two warriors had risen.
But all eyes now turned.
Because the final match—the storm beneath the calm—was about to begin.
Now, at last, the moment had come.
The battle everyone had awaited with held breath and tightened fists:
High Warnack Jordan versus Base Leader Bluemount.
The two warriors stepped forward onto the ancient stone arena, their feet echoing faintly over the vast silence. Above them, the crimson banners of the Leiam Dukedom fluttered in the whispering wind, and below, the crowd held its breath as if afraid to disturb fate itself.
The air thickened. A hush fell over the stands. Even the Sacred Experts had withdrawn to the upper terraces, their expressions solemn. They, more than any, understood what was about to be unleashed.
This would not be a duel. This would be a reckoning.
Bluemount struck first, his voice booming across the arena. "I will show you the difference between an Esoteric Expert and a Sacret Expert!"
With a sharp twist of his hand, a spear tore into existence—its shaft dark as voidwood, its blade glowing with a volatile, violet aura that hummed with restrained rage. He soared upward, a streak of fury silhouetted against the cloud-streaked sky. His descent came like judgment—a blazing spearhead screaming downward like a meteor sent to cleave the earth itself.
But Jordan didn't flinch.
He launched upward, his body wrapped in a pale golden glow that sparked like lightning trapped beneath his skin. No weapons—only his fist. The two forces met with a sound like mountains cracking. A shockwave burst outward, distorting the air, sending sand and stone flying in a wide arc. The earth groaned beneath their might. Even the arena's wards shimmered from the strain.
As the dust cleared, spectators leaned forward, breaths held.
Bluemount lay sprawled, bruised and gasping, his spear flung several paces away. Hovering above him, Jordan drifted mid-air, eyes fierce, his aura crackling around him like a caged tempest.
And then—impossibly—Bluemount's wounds vanished.
Not healed. Erased. The blood, the bruises—gone as if they had never existed. His chest rose steadily, too steadily for someone who had just been struck down.
Dan leaned over the railing, eyes wide. "What kind of sacred art is that?"
Bluemount sprang to his feet and launched blazing projectiles skyward. Fire blossomed, scattering into infernal trails. Yet Jordan glided between them, an effortless dance of precision and power. To Dan, it looked as though the very skies had acknowledged him—the wind parting for his path, the heavens bending to his will.
But the ground was still Bluemount's domain.
With a growl, he slammed both fists into the ground. A wave of glyphs lit the arena floor, crawling outward like molten veins. He invoked a forbidden technique—the Binding Seal. A ghostly, serpentine script writhed toward Jordan, its aura heavy with suppression. The atmosphere darkened. A low pressure bore down on all who watched.
Jordan's movements slowed. His aura flickered.
The seal was working.
Then Jordan did the unthinkable.
With a guttural cry, he clenched his own fist—and shattered it. The sound of breaking bones echoed across the arena, raw and brutal. Blood spattered the air, but the Binding Seal cracked apart like glass under a hammer. The oppressive aura lifted instantly.
Dan staggered back. "He broke a sacred art... with his own fist?"
Jordan landed hard, his injured hand dangling, fingers mangled. But his eyes burned brighter than ever.
And Bluemount was still whole.
Jordan surged forward, the ground cracking beneath his feet with every step. Bluemount raised his arms—and they clashed again. Fist against spear. Force against force. Another eruption rocked the arena. Dust spiraled skyward. Even from the distant rows, spectators gripped their seats as the aftershock rattled their bones.
When the dust thinned, both stood. Neither had fallen.
But Jordan didn't hesitate.
His fists became a storm—rapid, relentless, precise. Thunderclaps echoed with every strike. Bluemount was driven back, forced to defend with everything he had. Fireballs shot from his palms but fizzled on contact with Jordan's charged aura. Like raindrops on a sun-forged shield.
The battle shifted into a brutal grind—a trial of stamina and spirit.
Bluemount's secret became clear: his body possessed an unnatural regeneration. No matter the wound, it disappeared in seconds. Skin, flesh, bone—restored. Each slash undone. Each impact undone.
But Jordan? Jordan bled.
Small gashes opened across his skin. His breath grew ragged. Frost gathered around his forearms—side effects of his own forbidden arts. He was burning energy at a rate that could kill lesser men. Yet his strikes never wavered.
Dan understood: Jordan's greatest techniques belonged to the skies. But to fly now would burn him out. So he remained grounded, switching into Thousandfold Grasp, a ruthless, compact martial style designed for crushing opponents at close range.
Whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire.
Jordan looked like he was losing.
Then it happened.
Bluemount faltered. His knees buckled. He collapsed—soundlessly, without a blow landing.
He wasn't wounded. There was no impact. No final strike.
But his aura had faded. His spirit had withdrawn. Consciousness—gone.
He had fallen.
Jordan stood, swaying, blood trickling down his arm. But his gaze was unbroken. Still alive. Still burning.
The silence shattered.
Applause erupted like thunder, rolling across the stands. Cheers burst from every direction. The name "Jordan" was shouted with pride and awe. His raised fist—still trembling, still bloodied—was met with reverence.
Atop the central dais, the Warnack Lord rose, the golden tip of his staff glinting in the light.
"Today," he declared, his voice vast and resonant, "I grant you the title of Warnack Noble, and with it, the position of Base Leader of the Leiam Dukedom."
Jordan stepped forward and knelt. The arena quieted again.
His voice rang out, calm but unwavering.
"I, Jordan Altas, refuse the position of base leader. I wish to serve the True Warnack. As a candidate for Shadow Reaper, I ask for your authority to proceed."
Gasps. Shock. A warrior refusing honor? Choosing the most dangerous path instead?
All eyes turned to the Warnack Lord.
He regarded Jordan for a long, silent moment.
Then, with a nod, he raised his staff again.
"Very well," he said. "I shall allow it. Tomorrow, you shall leave for the War Planet."