Sorin paced with purpose, his boots crunching against the gritty dirt floor of the training ground. Before him, his friends stood in a tight circle, each focused, determination sparking in their eyes. With a deep breath, he began his speech anew.
"The Ranking Tournament is our chance to rise above,” Sorin said, his voice steady and commanding. “We will enter as a team, fight as a team, and together, we will crush anyone who stands in our way. We’ll make sure Warbringer Academy remains at the top, not just for ourselves but for everyone who fights alongside us. This isn’t just a tournament; it’s the beginning of our story, our legacy. Together, we can advance in power far beyond the standard and eventually lead the Dark Pantheon to new heights.”
The others nodded, their fists clenched, shoulders squared. Even Vestian joined in, letting out a piercing squawk from his perch on Jackson’s head. Jackson, however, didn’t share in the excitement, mostly because he was bound, gagged, and secured to a wooden chair, looking exasperated but resigned as Vestian’s talons gently scratched his scalp.
Sorin allowed himself a smirk, recalling the earlier attempt at his rallying speech. Jackson had barely made it halfway through Sorin’s opening line before his survival instincts kicked in. He bolted, shouting his protests about the danger and the inevitable doom awaiting him in a combat setting. That was when Torrid had seized him with his brute strength, and the rest had quickly bound Jackson to the chair, ensuring he’d stay for the entire speech, whether he wanted to or not.
With a glance at his friends, Sorin continued, “We’ll make a name for ourselves in that arena, not just as individual fighters but as a unit—the strongest Acolytes this city has ever seen. And that’s only the beginning.” He met each of their gazes, one by one. “Our story begins now, and it’s going to be one they’ll never forget.”
A raucous cheer erupted from everyone except Jackson, whose muffled protests from behind the gag were drowned out by the others’ enthusiasm. Sorin chuckled and clapped a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Come on, Jackson,” he said, leaning close. “We’re all in this together, whether you like it or not.”
With Vestian squawking proudly from atop Jackson’s head and his friends cheering in support, Sorin felt a renewed sense of purpose coursing through him. They were ready—or, if nothing else, they’d become prepared together.
As Sorin stood before his friends, the cheers still ringing in his ears, he felt a different kind of fire ignite within him. The memory of his escape from Silverblade Masters Academy, Celeste’s taunting challenge, and his unexpected encounter with Carcose flashed through his mind. That day had marked something new, something more profound—a stirring ambition that simmered under his skin. It was no longer just about survival or even rivalry with his brother, Quin, who he hoped was somewhere out there pushing his own limits. This ambition was darker, sharper—a resolve never to be anyone’s victim again.
In the Abil Mountains, ambition had been a game, a friendly competition where the stakes were pride and skill. Here, in Cestead, he had tasted the bitterness of being controlled, pushed around, thrown in cells, and beaten down. He thought of Aric’s arrogant face, Ziker’s sneer, Celeste’s coy smirks—all the moments when others had toyed with him, treated him as someone beneath them. The memory fueled something fierce within him, a desire to gain not just strength but dominance, power, and respect. One day, he would hold the reins, and all those who had stood in his way would fall.
He liked the image that emerged in his mind: himself at the top, crushing anyone foolish enough to challenge him. For the first time, Sorin truly felt the legacy of his father, Vesperos, in his blood—the God of Darkness, Fear, and Secrets. The God that stood at the head of the Dark Pantheon. Power over others, the ability to inspire dread in his enemies and loyalty in his allies, the wisdom to pull strings from the shadows—this was his destiny.
The hint of darkness didn’t frighten him. It felt like purpose, like clarity, filling a void he hadn’t realized existed. He allowed himself a faint smile as he pictured the path ahead.
Sorin snapped back to the present, feeling the weight of his newfound ambition settle into something solid—something that fueled him, driving away any lingering hesitation. Turning to his friends, he cleared his throat and gathered their attention.
"Alright, listen up," he said, his voice carrying a sharper edge than before. "If we’re going to win this tournament, we need more than just individual strength. We need to fight as a team, to know each other's strengths and weaknesses, and use them to our advantage."
Torrid nodded with his usual enthusiasm, cracking his knuckles in anticipation, while Diego and Tytus exchanged a look, clearly ready to throw themselves into whatever Sorin had in mind. Jackson, however, squirmed slightly in his chair, his eyes darting toward the exit. Sorin caught the movement and raised an eyebrow.
"Jackson," Sorin said in a tone that brooked no argument, “promise you’ll stay on board with this, or we’ll have to keep you tied to that chair until you’re ready to fight. Believe me, we can keep this up as long as you want.”
Jackson looked around at the others, each nodding thoughtfully, before sighing heavily through the gag and giving a reluctant nod. Sorin smirked and gestured for Torrid to undo the ropes, warning Jackson, “No tricks, no running. You’re part of this team now.”
As soon as Jackson was free, Sorin started instructing the group on tactics. He pointed out each member’s abilities and began planning ways to weave them together into a cohesive strategy.
“Jackson, your illusions can be used to confuse our opponents or draw their attention away. Torrid, you’re our shield—use your brute strength to hold the line and draw attacks, giving the rest of us space to work. Tytus, you’re perfect for disrupting the enemy’s positioning with your storms, so aim to keep them off-balance. And Diego,” he said, turning to the silent scythe-wielder, “you’re our wildcard—when you see an opening, move in for the kill.”
Each friend nodded, focused and determined. For the next few hours, they practiced coordinating their moves, working through mock battles and drills until they could anticipate each other’s actions. Jackson’s illusions played tricks on them, making the training harder but more realistic, and Torrid’s unyielding strength was a reliable anchor for their formation. Tytus summoned controlled bursts of wind to knock them off balance, teaching them to adapt quickly, while Diego darted in and out, practicing timed strikes that would land just as Sorin called for them.
They ran through scenarios again and again until exhausted, but feeling stronger together, they paused for a breather. Sorin watched them with a feeling of satisfaction, knowing this was just the beginning.
The week flew by in a blur of hard work and camaraderie as Sorin and his friends devoted every free moment after classes to training as a team. Each evening, they met on the same training ground, pushing themselves until exhaustion. The relentless cycle quickly turned their ambition into action, and progress came faster than any of them expected.
At the start of each session, Sorin led them through warm-ups before breaking down strategies they would practice for the night. As the weeks wore on, he found himself impressed by Jackson, who, despite his reluctance to fight, was constantly coming up with clever ways to use their abilities in unison. One evening, he devised a strategy where he would use his Phantom Army to create illusions of the team, drawing the enemy's attacks and confusing them while Diego and Tytus maneuvered into position to strike.
“Jackson, that’s actually brilliant,” Sorin admitted, surprised but pleased.
Jackson grinned and shrugged, a rare glint of pride in his eyes. "Just because I don’t like fighting doesn’t mean I don’t know how to win one."
As for Torrid, he struggled with the finer points of coordination. He was accustomed to charging headlong into battle, and adjusting his brute force to a more controlled, tactical role proved difficult. They had to remind him constantly to hold his position and not break formation. Ultimately, they decided on a straightforward solution—Torrid would act as the frontline tank in nearly every strategy, drawing the enemy’s attention and taking the brunt of the attacks. His role was simple but essential: use his Bull Rush to break into the enemy lines, his Impenetrable Guard to block attacks, and keep up an unrelenting offensive with his massive sword.
“Remember, Torrid,” Sorin reminded him on their third day of training, “your job is to stay in the front, take as much fire as possible, and clear a path for the rest of us.”
“Got it!” Torrid grinned, hefting his sword with ease. “I’ll just keep hittin’ ‘em until they can’t hit back!”
As they drilled, Diego perfected his Harvest of Souls to unleash devastating sweeps with his scythe, scattering illusions with every swing. Tytus worked on controlling his magic and limiting his spirit usage, timing his gusts so they could dodge or flank more easily. Sorin himself found his Shroud of Shadows invaluable, using it to slip past imaginary opponents and create openings for the others.
The montage of their training played out like a finely tuned machine: Torrid’s thunderous charge at the start of each strategy; Jackson’s illusions creating layers of deception, throwing off their imaginary enemies; Tytus’s storms knocking back any who came too close and dealing damage with devastating attacks of magic; and Diego’s powerful scythe sweeps, which landed with unerring precision each time. Sorin was everywhere at once, weaving in and out of the shadows, his presence a flickering menace.
Each night, the group left the training grounds more confident than the last. Exhausted but satisfied, they grew into a formidable team, each member settling into their role, their personalities blending and harmonizing in ways none of them had expected. By the end of the month, they weren’t just a group of misfit friends anymore—they were a unit, a force to be reckoned with. And as they stood together in the twilight of their last night’s practice, each of them knew that, for better or worse, they were becoming ready to face the numerous geniuses from the other academies.
Their training expanded well beyond team drills, covering every essential skill they’d need to compete in the tournament. Each evening, they broke their sessions into focused routines, honing their individual strengths while reinforcing their roles within the team.
In the early part of their training, they concentrated on weapons practice. Sorin’s dual swords flashed in precise, fluid movements as he practiced the Warbringer style, refining the techniques Magnus had taught him. Diego’s scythe whistled through the air as he worked on sweeping strikes and controlled spins, every cut fueled by his connection to Grimm. Tytus’s staff crackled with energy as he perfected quick, decisive thrusts, each one pulsing with latent storm magic. Jackson, still hesitant but determined, worked with his knife, his movements tentative yet accurate, focusing on swift, evasive strikes.
When it came to strength training, Torrid led the charge, his sheer power setting the bar impossibly high. "Lift big," he’d say simply, grabbing a massive weight with a single hand. The others pushed to keep up, each lifting what they could manage—if not to match Torrid’s brawn, then at least to hold their own. Under Torrid’s unrelenting standards, Sorin, Diego, Tytus, and even Jackson gradually increased their endurance, pushing their limits to strengthen their bodies and minds.
After the physical grind, they’d finish each session with meditation, a calm yet focused exercise led by Sorin to cultivate clarity and mental resilience while gathering spirit. They’d sit in silence, centering their breathing, letting the day’s training settle in their minds. Jackson would often try to sneak out of these sessions, but Torrid’s blunt, steadying hand kept him in place. Sorin guided the group to concentrate on their goals, visualizing success in the tournament and the strength they’d bring to Warbringer Academy. For a while, each of them would drift into their own thoughts, but eventually, they reached a collective peace, solidifying their unity.
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By the end of each night, the training grounds felt like their second home, and every bruise, strain, and sweat-soaked shirt reminded them of their progress. Each session left them stronger, sharper, and closer to becoming the team they’d envisioned. They were training to conquer. It was time to take their training to the next phase.
Sorin and his team stood on the training grounds; they found themselves facing down another group of students—five Acolytes who had also formed a team for the upcoming tournament. These weren’t complete strangers; Sorin recognized a few faces from his classes, and he’d even exchanged a few words with them between lessons. Their camaraderie with Tytus was evident as he grinned and exchanged a few light-hearted quips with them.
Tytus had recruited the other students he knew for some practice in team combat. They had eagerly agreed under Tytus’s charismatic prodding. Sorin had put Tytus up to the task but had no idea he would find another team willing to fight some sparring matches so readily. The other group, each with unique skills and dark affiliations, would make for an excellent practice session. Tytus turned to his team and began to explain what he knew of the other group.
The first member of their team was Lira Sable, a follower of Eremis, God of Isolation and Loneliness. Lira was silent and somewhat withdrawn, but Sorin knew from their Close-Quarters Combat class that she was agile and efficient in battle. She wielded two thin, serrated knives and excelled at isolating opponents from the group, using quick movements and psychological tactics to separate her target. Lira had a way of making her opponents feel strangely alone on the battlefield, amplifying their sense of vulnerability.
Kalen Blackthorne, a follower of Atra Goddess of the Unknown, was the second member of the group. Kalen was an enigmatic figure Sorin knew from World Lore and History, where he’d often discussed the unknown mysteries of their world with a near-obsessive curiosity. Sorin supposed someone who followed the Goddess of the Unknown and himself who followed the God of Secrets tended to hit it off when it came to curiosity about history. In battle, Kalen wielded an ornate staff and used a strange mixture of shadowy spells to cloak himself, making his attacks unpredictable. Kalen was adept at weaving in and out of the shadows, disorienting his opponents by casting areas of darkness that concealed his next move.
Rowan Voss was a follower of Inferna, Goddess of Fire and Infernal Realms. Rowan was boisterous and fearless, known for her heavy-handed approach in Battlefield Awareness class, where she could usually be found taking charge of group exercises. She wielded a pair of short swords that she could light aflame with her powers, and her mastery of fire magic gave her attacks an explosive quality. Rowan preferred to strike hard and fast, often overwhelming her opponents with powerful bursts of flame.
Darius Fellwind, follower of Thantos, God of Doubt, was the fourth member. Darius had an unnerving presence in War Magic Basics, with a talent for instilling doubt in his enemies. Known for his quiet confidence, he wielded a long spear and used subtle magic to project an aura of doubt around him. His presence made his opponents second-guess their movements and decisions, which allowed him to capitalize on their hesitation with quick, decisive attacks.
The last person in the group was Cora Gray, a follower of Trepidus, God of Corrosion. Cora was a tall, wiry girl with a sarcastic edge. In Combat Tactics and Strategy, she often displayed a knack for corrosive tactics, which involved weakening enemy defenses before striking. She wielded a slender chain whip coated with a corrosive substance, and her power allowed her to eat away at armor and shields, reducing her opponents’ defenses over time. Cora’s corrosive strikes added an insidious quality to the battle, forcing her enemies to defend themselves constantly.
As the two teams squared off, Sorin’s mind raced with strategies for each opponent. His team mirrored his resolve, and he could sense their determination. It was clear that both sides viewed this sparring match as more than practice—it was a test of skill, endurance, and unity, and each team was prepared to give it their all.
The fight began with an explosion of movement, both teams charging forward in a blur of power and intensity, each side fully committed to showcasing their abilities.
"Spread out and take your positions!" Sorin called, raising his swords and slipping into a ready stance. His friends quickly fell into their roles, their months of training blending naturally into the movements.
Rowan from the other team was the first to attack, her flame-wreathed swords slicing through the air as she targeted Torrid, who stood at the front of the formation, shield raised. Her blades clanged against Torrid’s shield, fiery sparks flying as she attempted to overpower him.
“Hold strong, Torrid!” Sorin called.
Torrid grunted, “Big flame girl, not break Torrid!” With a quick shift, Torrid raised his shield and activated Impenetrable Guard, rendering himself immune to Rowan’s attacks, her flames barely making a dent in his iron defense.
Jackson stood to the side, his eyes darting around, picking up details. "Lira’s coming in from the left! She’s trying to get behind us!” he called out, his voice urgent.
“Diego, cover the left flank!” Sorin ordered.
Diego lunged forward to meet Lira, his scythe swinging in an arc, forcing her to sidestep and giving her no chance to slip behind them. Lira was quick, dancing between his strikes with ease, her serrated knives flashing as she aimed a counterattack. Diego unleashed his Grave’s Grasp, spectral hands erupting from the ground and reaching toward Lira, who nimbly evaded them, her agility allowing her to dodge and keep Diego on his toes.
Meanwhile, Kalen used his Veil of the Hidden, shrouding himself in a thick mist of darkness, making it difficult to see where he would strike next. Jackson, spotting the movement, shouted, “Kalen’s gone dark—he’s somewhere near Tytus!”
“Light up the field, Tytus!” Sorin commanded.
Tytus grinned and unleashed Tempestuous Fury, calling forth a tiny storm of swirling winds and flashing lightning around him. The crackling light from the storm illuminated the darkness around Kalen, revealing his position just long enough for Sorin to launch his own attack. Sorin activated Echoes of Fear, sending a mental wave of fear toward Kalen, who stumbled, momentarily hesitating as fear took hold. Tytus took advantage of the opening, unleashing a bolt of Lightning Surge toward him, forcing Kalen to retreat.
"Rowan’s regrouping! She’s got her swords up!" Jackson warned, glancing quickly between the movements of the other team.
“Jackson, distraction now!” Sorin called, his voice unmistakable.
Jackson grinned, flicking his wand and conjuring Phantom Army, casting a field of illusions around the other team, causing duplicate versions of Sorin and the others to appear on the field. Confused, Darius, the follower of Thantos, shifted his stance, using his Aura of Doubt to disrupt the illusions. His power radiated outward, destabilizing Jackson’s phantoms and making them waver, allowing Darius to pick out the actual team members from the fakes. He lunged with his spear at the real Jackson, who barely managed to dodge, scrambling to keep out of Darius’s reach.
“Eyes on the center!” Jackson called out in a hurry, still dodging. “Cora’s aiming for Torrid’s shield!”
Cora whipped her chain toward Torrid’s shield, the metal links coated in a corrosive substance from her power, Trepidus’ Touch. The acid sizzled against the shield’s surface, beginning to eat away at it. Seeing this, Sorin called, “Torrid, break left and get her attention off the shield!”
Torrid grunted, charging Cora with a Bull Rush that forced her to backpedal quickly, her chain snapping uselessly in his direction as he advanced. With each swing of his massive sword, Torrid pushed her back, his blows forcing her to keep her distance while he held the front line.
Meanwhile, Rowan and Lira launched coordinated attacks on Tytus and Diego. Lira darted around Diego’s scythe with quick, precise movements while Rowan’s flames forced Tytus to keep his distance. Sorin, seeing the coordinated attack, called out, “Diego, drop back! Tytus, scatter them with a tremor!”
At Sorin’s command, Tytus grinned and, with a thrust of his staff, activated Tremor’s Might, shaking the ground beneath their opponents. The sudden shift in terrain threw Lira and Rowan off balance, allowing Diego to swing his scythe in a wide arc, forcing them to retreat.
"Nice one, Tytus!" Diego shouted.
Sorin took a moment to regroup, channeling Shroud of Shadows to make himself nearly invisible. He moved swiftly across the battlefield, targeting Kalen, who was still attempting to manipulate the darkness around him. Before Kalen could react, Sorin appeared beside him, delivering a swift strike with his sword that forced Kalen to backpedal.
“Sorin, behind you!” Jackson called as Darius moved in with his spear. Sorin spun just in time, catching Darius’s spear on his blade. The two locked eyes, and Sorin smirked before Darius was pulled back by a gust of wind from Tytus’s Gale Force, giving Sorin room to move.
The fight continued with intense exchanges, each side adapting and reacting, but in the end, Sorin’s tactical direction and the team’s coordination gave them a slight edge. After a final series of strikes and dodges, both teams paused before the fight escalated into something more damaging. Both groups sheathed their weapons and came together, laughing and patting each other on the back and complimenting each other’s abilities.
“Good fight,” Lira said, walking up to him and giving a slight grin to Sorin.
"Yeah," Sorin replied, panting. "Your ability to pick out and isolate foes is always fearsome."
“It doesn’t do any good if I cannot overpower my opponent one-on-one. Your group is just far too strong individually. Except for Jackson, of course,” Lira said while sighing.
“Heyyyyy,” Jackson said, clearly offended. Everyone laughed.
Sorin and the others had many fights like that with the same and different groups. Occasionally, Vestian would accompany Sorin for the day and either watch the fight or occasionally join in, swooping down and clawing at the other team; however, Vestian was still far too weak to join a real battle as a simple sword stroke or power would quickly kill him.
What frustrated Sorin was his training with Zane Warbringer. They had done numerous training sessions with no luck in Sorin learning Shadow Stride. Granted, Sorin would not be able to use the power in the tournament to come without exposing himself so it wouldn’t have been of any help in the upcoming trials, but the lack of progress still irked him. Zane had all but given up on it because he simply did not know what else he could try to teach Sorin Shadow Stride. He had begun instructing Sorin in other techniques, such as battle tactics, optimizing strength training, sparing, and cultivating spirit. This instruction and consistent mediation to draw in spirit had led Sorin to advance a Degree once again. Zane still told Sorin to try learning Shadow Stride in his own time, which Sorin did every second he was awake and not busy.
Sorin was attempting to continue to learn Shadow Stride one night in his room when he was interrupted by a squawk from Vestian. When Sorin opened his eyes, he saw a rat in the corner of the room looking at him.
Sorin blinked, startled by the rat’s unblinking stare from the corner of his room. It sat perfectly still, watching him with an eerie intelligence. Vestian squawked again from his perch on the bedpost, ruffling his feathers in irritation at the intruder.
Sorin sighed, setting aside his frustration over his failed attempts at learning Shadow Strider. “What is it now?” he muttered, half to Vestian and half to the rat.
The rat only continued to stare, twitching its whiskers in response as though it had something it wanted him to understand. Sorin, remembering Carcose and his vast network of rodent messengers, felt a strange pull as though there was more to this visit than a simple animal wandering in. He leaned forward, squinting at the rat, feeling compelled to acknowledge it.
“You’ve come all this way for a reason, haven’t you?” Sorin asked, shaking his head at how absurd he might have looked if someone walked in on him speaking to a rat.
The rat flicked its ears, then turned, scurrying toward the door. Sorin glanced at Vestian, who clicked his beak, clearly as annoyed as Sorin was intrigued. Sorin stood and opened the door before slipping quietly out into the hall, following the rat into the dimly lit corridors of the academy.
The rat led him out of the dorms and across the campus to an older building. He then led Sorin through a series of hallways he barely recognized, winding around areas of the academy’s older quarters. With each step, the air grew colder, shadows pooling along the walls and seeming to deepen as they moved. The rat scurried ahead, and Sorin cared to remain unseen, knowing well enough by now that this path wasn’t typically traveled.
Finally, the rat stopped before an old wooden door deep within the old and dusty building. It scratched at the wood, looking back at Sorin signally for him to open it. Taking a deep breath, Sorin pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The room was silent except for Sorin’s soft footfalls as he entered. Amidst the thick layers of dust coating the abandoned training relics and forgotten shelves, a single desk stood at the room’s center, utterly untouched by the grime of time. On the desk sat a neatly folded letter, sealed with red wax bearing the unmistakable outline of a rat.