Pag stood alone in the training grounds of Valcrest Estate, the chill of dawn clinging to the air. The estate’s vast courtyard, lined with stone pillars and flickering sconces, was eerily quiet. It was an emptiness he welcomed. Here, he could push himself without prying eyes, without the weight of expectation beyond his own. The upcoming tournament loomed on the horizon, and though he had survived trials in the Whisperwood and the Patala Tunnels, this was something different. This was not survival—this was mastery.
He inhaled deeply, feeling the ember of power coil within his core, waiting to be called upon. He had chosen the path of the Doomflame Sentinel, a path that others had warned him against. Lord Adrien’s words echoed in his mind.
“The deeper you tread into fire and ruin, the thinner the veil between you and Umbralysis.”
Pag clenched his fists, shaking off the doubt. He had endured, had fought through horrors that would have unraveled lesser men. The notion that he would succumb to his own magic felt absurd. And yet…
He focused on training, throwing himself into relentless drills. His strikes grew sharper, his movements more refined. With each hour, he pushed himself further, testing his limits against enchanted dummies that fought back with precision. Sweat slicked his skin as he dodged, countered, and retaliated, his attacks becoming more fluid, more controlled.
He increased the intensity, summoning his flame to weave into his strikes, forcing his body and magic to synchronize. He fought until exhaustion threatened to overtake him, then forced himself to continue. Each battle, each exertion, brought him closer to his goal.
His stamina burned, but he ignored it. He pushed past his body’s protests, running through advanced footwork drills while conjuring fire in controlled bursts. He trained through midday, through sunset, through the quiet hours of the night, honing himself like tempered steel.
His breathing was ragged, his muscles screamed for reprieve, but he welcomed the ache. It meant progress. The air around him shimmered with heat as his flames grew stronger, more lethal, his control honed to a razor’s edge. He gathered his remaining strength and unleashed a final surge of power, a devastating barrage of fire that reduced the last of the training dummies to embers.
He exhaled heavily, hands trembling, the energy coursing through him more refined than ever before. And then, the real reward came.
Pag raised a hand, and black fire coiled around his fingers, licking at his skin without burning. It was not just flame—it was a force of entropy, a power that devoured and distorted. This was the essence of the Infernal Vanguard. Strength in destruction, resilience in suffering.
A sudden pulse of heat spread through his veins as he activated his new skill—Hellmarch. The very air around him warped as the ground beneath his feet charred, leaving a path of smoldering footprints in his wake. His body felt lighter, faster, infused with a searing energy that carried him forward like a specter of war. He pivoted, testing his newfound agility, reveling in the blistering speed that turned his footwork into something fluid and relentless.
Pag turned, flexing his fingers as another surge of power coursed through his limbs. He drew upon his second new ability—Abyssal Requiem. Black fire flared from his palms, expanding outward in tendrils that coiled like serpents before striking the practice dummies with precision. The enchanted wood hissed as it cracked and burned, their forms crumbling into smoldering remnants.
The sensation was intoxicating.
Pag exhaled sharply, dismissing the lingering flames with a flick of his wrist. He could feel the pull, the whispering hunger beneath the surface of his power. Was this the first sign of Umbralysis? Or was it merely his own pride urging him forward, telling him that he was immune? He had faced worse. He had emerged stronger. But the symptoms…
Headaches. Mood swings. Lack of appetite.
Pag exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He could write off the first two—stress, training, fatigue. But the last? He had been eating less without realizing it. Even now, the thought of food felt distant, irrelevant. Was it the magic, or was it simply his mind playing tricks on him?
He shook his head and focused. Doubt had no place here. He would push forward. He would control it. He had to.
With a deep breath, he activated another skill—Infernal Ascendancy. Power flooded his limbs, amplifying his movements as he launched into the air, flipping mid-flight before coming down in a blaze of black fire. The impact sent a wave of heat radiating outward, the ground beneath him splintering.
He landed in a crouch, heart hammering, the scent of scorched earth filling his lungs. If this was the cost of power, he would pay it. The tournament would not wait for him to question his path.
Straightening, Pag dusted off his charred gloves and turned toward the training grounds once more. He wasn’t finished yet.
He pushed himself harder, testing the endurance of Hellmarch by running laps around the training grounds, layering fire trails with each pass. The smoldering pathways crisscrossed the courtyard, creating a web of burning lines. His steps grew faster, his movement more seamless, until he felt as though he were gliding on the fire itself.
At the same time, he experimented with Abyssal Requiem, trying to shape the tendrils into forms beyond their natural chaotic reach. He willed them to curl, to ensnare, to strike in patterns. The dark fire lashed in arcs, spiraling toward distant targets. With a surge of focus, he tried to call them back toward himself, looping them like whips—control was difficult, but he was improving.
Pag grinned, his body humming with power. But he wasn’t satisfied yet. He pushed harder, refining his reaction time, chaining his movements into fluid assaults. Every strike was faster, every burst of flame more controlled. He was no longer just training—he was crafting himself into something more.
The tournament was coming.
And he would be ready.
The sound of footsteps echoed across the courtyard, interrupting his concentration. Pag turned, brow furrowing as he saw Eryk approaching, carrying a wrapped bundle in one hand. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafted toward him, and his stomach twisted in unexpected protest.
“You've been at this since dawn,” Eryk said, tossing the bundle to him. “Figured you’d forgotten that people need to eat.”
Pag caught the food but hesitated. “I was focused.”
Eryk crossed his arms. “Too focused to prepare for the tournament properly? Power’s one thing, strategy’s another. We need to talk.”
Pag sighed, unwrapping the meal, his appetite slowly catching up to him. “Fine. Let’s talk.”
Eryk pulled a folded parchment from his belt and spread it on a nearby bench. It was filled with neatly written notes, symbols, and diagrams. “I’ve been looking into the contestants from the other houses,” he said. “There are some serious threats this year.”
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Pag leaned in, scanning the list. “Who stands out?”
“For starters, House Veyne’s got a prodigy—Orlin the Stormfist. Lightning affinity, fast as hell, and nearly impossible to predict. Then there’s Celis from House Ravos—rumored to have mastered blood magic, which means endurance won’t be on our side against him.”
Pag frowned. “Anyone else?”
Eryk nodded grimly. “House Sormund has a berserker, Thrain the Unyielding. The man’s built like a fortress, and he only gets stronger the longer he fights. And worst of all, House Delmira’s sending Lyara, the Phantom Blade. No one’s even sure what her full capabilities are, but she’s undefeated.”
Pag exhaled, setting the food aside. “So we’re up against power, speed, and unpredictability.”
“Exactly, and that is just the known figures, each house has two or three unknowns theyre sponsoring as well” Eryk said. “Add to that the fact that we are two weeks out from the tournament and expect the information on the trials of the first round any day. Though historically theyre to test strategic thinking and teamwork. We need a plan.”
Pag nodded slowly, scanning the parchment again. “Then let’s get started. I take it that you have ideas?”.
Eryk grinned, a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes. “Always,” he said, tapping the parchment with a calloused finger. “First, we need to understand our strengths, and more importantly, our weaknesses. We know what the others are capable of, but we don’t know how they’ll adapt”.
Pag frowned, his reptilian gaze intense. “Adaptation is key, and we are prepared. What do you propose?”.
Eryk leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The first round is all about teamwork and strategy, which is what we are good at. But our opponents will know that too. I propose we begin some intensive training exercises, focusing on scenarios that force us to think on our feet.”.
Pag arched a brow, intrigued. “Such as?”
“We simulate the trials,” Eryk said, his grin widening. “The historical data from the previous tournaments is available in the library, detailing the kinds of challenges we can expect. Puzzle solving, obstacle courses, combat scenarios requiring coordination and communication. We recreate them, and we run them until we can do them blindfolded.”.
Pag stroked his chin thoughtfully, considering the proposal. It was a sound strategy, one that would hone their skills and force them to work together seamlessly. But it would also require time, resources, and a significant amount of effort.
“And what about Darleyn?” Pag asked, glancing towards their absent companion. “Where does she fit into all of this?”.
Eryk chuckled. “Darleyn’s already on it,” he said, tapping a different section of the parchment. “She’s been studying geomancy and is planning to use the environment to our advantage, whatever that environment may be. The best offense is a good defense. Plus, it sounds like she is working on expanding her offensive reach, just in case.”.
Pag nodded, impressed by Darleyn’s initiative. The woman was a force to be reckoned with, and her ability to adapt and improvise was a valuable asset.
“Alright,” Pag said, his voice firm. “Let’s do it. We’ll start with the historical data and identify the most common types of trials. Then we’ll design our training exercises accordingly.”
Eryk pumped a fist in the air, his excitement palpable. “Excellent. I’ll gather the materials and start setting things up. We’ll begin tomorrow, bright and early.”
As Eryk gathered his notes and headed off to begin preparations, Pag remained behind, his gaze fixed on the list of contestants. He knew that the tournament would be a challenge, a test of their skills, their courage, and their ability to work together. But he also knew that they were not alone. They had each other, and they had a powerful ally in Lord Adrien Valcrest.
But Pag couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss, that there was more to this tournament than met the eye. The sabotage, the hidden agendas, the subtle power plays—it all suggested that they were pawns in a larger game, a game with stakes far higher than they could possibly imagine.
Pag sighed and leaned against a nearby tree, the rough bark a stark contrast to the heat that simmered beneath his skin. He stood on the Valcrest training grounds, the scent of pine and damp earth filling his lungs as Eryk detailed the upcoming tournament. He was so far away from being able to help those that needed it.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "I found something," Darleyn announced, approaching them, her silver eyes gleaming in the dimly lit area of the training grounds. She carried a stack of thick tomes, their leather bindings worn and cracked with age. "Something you need to see".
Pag straightened, weariness momentarily forgotten. "What is it?".
Darleyn approached Eryk and Pag, carefully placing the tomes near the list of contestants. "I've been researching the historical data, as we discussed," she explained, "and I stumbled upon something… unexpected. It seems the tournament trials aren't always what they seem".
Pag arched a brow, his reptilian gaze sharpening. "What do you mean?".
Darleyn opened one of the tomes, its pages filled with intricate diagrams and cryptic symbols. "According to these records, there have been instances where the trials were altered," she said, "changed at the last minute, sometimes even mid-competition".
Pag arched a brow, his reptilian gaze sharpening. "Altered by whom?".
Darleyn shrugged, her expression troubled. "The records aren't clear. But they suggest interference from outside forces, powerful figures with a vested interest in the outcome of the tournament". She paused, her gaze meeting Pag's. "It seems we're not the only ones playing this game, Pag. And some of the other players are playing dirty".
Pag felt a chill run down his spine. He knew that the tournament was more than just a competition, that there were hidden agendas and subtle power plays at work. But the idea that the trials themselves could be manipulated, that their carefully laid plans could be overturned at any moment, was deeply unsettling.
"This changes everything," Pag muttered, his mind racing. "If the trials are subject to change, then we can't rely solely on historical data. We need to be prepared for anything".
Darleyn nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Which is why I've been focusing on developing our adaptability," she said, tapping a different tome. "I've been studying geomancy, learning how to use the environment to our advantage, no matter what form it takes".
Pag was impressed by her foresight. "And what about Eryk?" he asked. "Is he aware of this possibility?"
"Not yet," Darleyn admitted. "I wanted to confirm my suspicions before alarming him. He's already so focused on the training exercises".
Pag nodded slowly, considering their options. They couldn't afford to underestimate their opponents, or the forces that might be working against them. They needed to be prepared for anything, to be ready to adapt and improvise at a moment's notice.
"Alright," Pag said, his voice firm. "Here's what we're going to do. We'll continue with the training exercises, but we'll also incorporate elements of unpredictability. We'll throw curveballs at each other, force each other to think on our feet".
Darleyn grinned, her silver eyes sparkling with excitement. "I like the way you think, Pag".
Pag paused then shared something that had been weighing on his mind. “I have made a pact with Dedisco for power, and I am uncertain if that is a good thing”.
Darleyn frowned and reached out to place her hand on top of Pag's, and asked "What does your gut tell you?".
Pag paused again. "My gut tells me that the only person I can truly trust is myself".
Darleyn then smiled slightly as she began to gather up her tomes. "Then let's get to work".
As Darleyn turned to leave, Pag glanced back at the list of contestants, his gaze hardening with resolve. He would not let anyone, god or mortal, manipulate him or his friends. He would fight for their freedom, for their survival, and for the chance to reclaim the world they had lost.
The tournament was coming, and he would be ready, no matter what challenges awaited them.
Pag felt a shiver run down his spine then a sudden slew of system notifications flashed before his eyes:
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Pag stared at the messages, a cold dread gripping his heart. The Lazarus Pods, experimental technology that had already claimed lives, were now being pushed on all players. Something was terribly wrong.
"What's going on?" Eryk asked, noticing Pag's stunned expression. "What do those messages mean?"
Pag shook his head, trying to process the information. "I don't know, but it can't be good," he muttered, his gaze shifting to Darleyn. "I thought Beta testing was put on hold".
Pag’s reptilian gaze hardened with resolve. "We need to find out what's happening, and fast” As quickly as it had arrived, the system announcement vanished from his HUD. Pag knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was only the beginning.
He glanced at the icon of Dedisco’s power pulsing steadily on his character sheet, the god’s influence intertwined with his very being.
"It is worth investigating," Pag stated flatly.