News of the gods’ decree spread like wildfire.

At first, it was nothing more than a whisper. A fleeting rumor exchanged between merchants at the docks, hushed words traded over tankards of ale in dimly lit taverns. But soon, it became impossible to ignore. By the end of the week, it was the only thing anyone could talk about.

A grand colosseum. A divine challenge. A test where only the strongest would endure.

The constellations themselves sought a champion, a warrior worthy of an S-rank skill, personally bestowed by the gods.

It was an opportunity unlike anything before it.

For centuries, dungeons had been the ultimate proving grounds, but this—this was different. This was a chance to stand before the heavens themselves and demand their acknowledgment.

And the world erupted in response.

Draconia—the land of warriors and conquest—was the first to act.

The royal courts were in an uproar. Nobles debated over which of their own would represent them, while battle-hardened knights and renowned mercenaries sharpened their blades in anticipation.

The strongest among them saw this as their birthright.

Draconia had always been the kingdom that produced legends, and this was merely another stage for them to prove that no other kingdom could rival their might.

The arena would belong to them.

Alinthor, the kingdom of elves, reacted with curious intrigue.

Scholars debated the meaning behind the gods’ decision. Why now? Why this method? Were they truly seeking a champion, or was this merely a distraction for something greater?

Still, despite their caution, Alinthor’s warriors could not ignore the pull of ambition.

The royal guards, the enchanted archers of the Silverwood, and the most gifted spellcasters began their preparations. They may not have been as openly aggressive as Draconia, but they had no intention of standing idly by while power was being handed out.

Sintara, the kingdom of humans, responded with sheer determination.

Unlike Draconia, whose warriors were forged in battle, or Alinthor, whose magic users commanded the elements, Sintara was a kingdom of adaptation.

Merchants saw opportunity—selling weapons, armor, enchanted potions, anything that could turn the tide in someone’s favor.

Sellswords and adventurers saw a challenge—a way to finally carve their names into history.

And the common people?

They saw hope.

Hope that someone—anyone from Sintara—would rise to the occasion and prove that mortals could stand on equal footing with legends.

Across all three kingdoms, preparations were underway.

Training halls were filled to the brim. Blacksmiths worked tirelessly to forge weapons fit for a champion. Magic users studied relentlessly, hoping to gain an edge.

But where there is ambition, there is also fear.

What happens to those who fail?

Would the gods truly allow the weak to simply walk away? Or was there a hidden cost to this game?

Still, the hunger for power outweighed the fear of consequence.

And so, the world braced itself for the inevitable battles to come.

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Because once the colosseum opened its gates, nothing would ever be the same again.

The grand chamber of the Celestial Concord was illuminated by flickering torches, their flames casting long shadows against the polished marble walls. Banners of the three great kingdoms—Draconia, Alinthor, and Sintara—hung high above, their colors rippling with every shift in the air. The scent of aged parchment and burning incense thickened the atmosphere, mingling with the unspoken weight of opportunity.

Three thrones stood at the center of the room, each occupied by a ruler whose presence alone could command armies.

King Leonard of Sintara, ruler of the human kingdom, sat with his hands clasped, his calculating eyes sweeping over the chamber. He understood the significance of this meeting—recognition. A chance to elevate Sintara beyond trade and diplomacy. If his kingdom could claim victory in this divine challenge, they would rise beyond their current standing, securing power among gods and mortals alike.

To his left, Queen Vaelith of Alinthor, the elven ruler, radiated an aura of grace and quiet authority. Her piercing emerald eyes gleamed with intrigue as she considered what this meant for her people—prosperity. This was more than a contest; it was a means to forge new alliances, gain the favor of the constellations, and secure Alinthor’s place in the ever-changing world.

And then there was King Draxon of Draconia, his molten-gold gaze unwavering, exuding the confidence of a man who had never known defeat. Draconia was already the most powerful kingdom—this challenge would simply solidify their dominance. Where the others saw an opportunity, he saw inevitability.

“The gods have made their move,” Leonard said, his voice steady. “A colosseum to find the strongest warriors among us.”

“A test of champions,” Vaelith mused, fingers grazing the intricate carvings on her throne’s armrest. “The constellations desire a spectacle… and the world will provide it.”

Draxon smirked, his posture relaxed yet his words edged with certainty. “Only one kingdom will stand above the rest. And we all know which that will be.”

Leonard’s expression remained unreadable. “Perhaps. But this is more than just a contest of strength. This is a shift in power. Whoever emerges victorious earns the favor of the gods.”

“And an S-rank skill,” Vaelith added, her tone even. “A prize beyond value. Many will die for the chance to claim it.”

A heavy silence settled over the chamber. Each ruler knew that this was not just an event—it was a battle for legacy.

And only one kingdom would reign supreme.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blades met with a violent clang, the sharp sound echoing through the empty training grounds. Sparks flickered in the dim light as metal scraped against metal.

Suno’s breaths came fast and heavy, his chest rising and falling in ragged motions. His arms burned, his grip on the hilt of his sword faltering. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes, but he refused to blink—he couldn’t afford to.

Across from him, Jun stood firm, barely breaking a sweat. His stance was solid, movements precise. Suno could feel the difference between them like the gap between the sky and the earth.

Stay calm. Look ahead. Don’t take your eyes off your opponent.

Jun’s voice was steady, controlled—like he wasn’t even trying. Suno clenched his teeth and tightened his grip. He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to stand beside his brother as an equal, not a burden.

“Aim for their weaknesses,” Jun instructed, sidestepping another one of Suno’s clumsy strikes with ease.

Suno adjusted his footing, trying to anticipate Jun’s next move, but he was too slow. His brother’s blade was already there, pressing against his defenses, forcing him back, step by step. His arms trembled from the effort.

He couldn’t keep up.

Not with Jun.

Not with an S-rank hunter.

The realization made his stomach sink. The difference between them felt impossible to close.

His legs wobbled. His lungs burned. His sword felt heavier with every second.

“I—” he gasped, sweat dripping from his chin. His body refused to move.

“I yield.”

Jun halted instantly, lowering his blade. His golden eyes softened, but there was no triumph in them—only something worse.

Pity.

Suno looked away, his jaw tightening.

Jun exhaled, stepping forward to clap a hand on Suno’s shoulder. “We’ll stop here for today.”

Suno heard the news.

Well, everyone in the kingdom knew by now. The gods had already begun building the colosseum, and anticipation crackled through the streets like a storm ready to break.

But to him, it was just another reminder. Another impossible standard he had to reach.

He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, watching as Draconia’s elite warriors trained in the castle courtyard. Each strike, each perfectly executed movement, reminded him of how far he still had to go.

Will I ever be able to keep up with them?

With him?

He turned his gaze to his brother.

Jun stood at the center, his movements precise and effortless as he sparred against three opponents at once. His sword cut through the air, a blur of fire and steel. The ground beneath him was scorched from the sheer heat of his skill, Inferno. A title worthy of the future king.

Suno felt his stomach tighten. He didn’t want the crown—that belonged to Jun. But to stand beside him as an equal, to have his father’s approval, to be more than just the second-born prince…

That was all he wanted.

A sharp voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“You’re gripping that sword wrong.”

Suno flinched, realizing his father, King Draxon was watching him from the balcony above. The weight of his gaze was crushing, disapproving.

His fingers flexed around the hilt, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He already knew the expression his father was wearing.

Disappointment.

It’s not enough. I’m not enough.

He inhaled sharply. Fine. He would keep training. Keep fighting.

He didn’t need the throne. The guild was enough.

And if he had to bleed and break for that, then so be it.