The sun had barely touched the misty peaks surrounding the imperial capital when the Training Field roared to life. Waves of energy sliced through the air, and each movement of the soldiers pulsed like the heartbeat of a colossal being. Synchronized with divine precision, hundreds of them marched as if their souls shared a single rhythm. The sound of blades arcing, whistling and slicing the wind echoed like dry thunder through the valleys, rebounding off the ancient walls that protected the city.
This was not just training. It was a sacred celebration of the Dao of war. Here, they did not forge mere soldiers, but titans in the making — men and women prepared to challenge the limits of the physical world, to face immortal specters, void-born abominations, divine entities walking among the living.
The field stretched across vast slabs of polished stone, so smooth they mirrored the sky. Eternal mountains guarded it as natural walls, while pure rivers, brimming with Qi, flowed in serene contrast to the warriors' fervor. Titanic statues, carved in forgotten times, rose around the field. They depicted ancient war gods, petrified at the height of eternal battles. Though unmoving, their auras felt alive, watching and inspiring those who dared train under their gaze.
Among that vast pulsating power, some names stood out like constellations on a clear night.
As the sound of an ancestral drum marked the shift in techniques...
Raekor walked.
The Iron Fist. His presence was announced by the tremor of the ground. His fists, thick and calloused like ancient rocks, threw punches that made the air buzz and the ground quake. Each strike seemed to carry the memory of a thousand battles won. The Qi flowing from him was dense, scorching, almost visible. Those who trained nearby felt their bodies grow heavy, as if gravity itself bent to his will. They said that, day by day, he drew closer to the absolute domain of the Dao of Strength — a living legend on his way to shaping mountains with a single blow.
Not far away, in absolute silence, glided Seren.
The Dancing Blade. Silver hair danced in the wind, and her eyes, serene as deep waters, watched the world with near-divine detachment. Her body flowed with the blade, movements too smooth to be merely mortal. As she spun, her sword drew invisible arcs through the air, as if cutting the very fabric of reality. Wherever she passed, sound vanished. She trained not to kill, but to become perfect — an ethereal gale moving between veils of silence and precision. Each of her strikes seemed to come from nowhere, and yet carried the weight of the inevitable.
Darian stood firm like an unshakable bastion.
The Iron Guardian. His armor was more than protection — it was part of his body, pulsing with life and Qi. The shield he carried was as wide as a castle gate and heavy as a promise. When he planted his feet into the ground, there was an undeniable sense of safety around him. Other warriors felt protected, as if the very earth gained voice and presence under his command. With each step, the ground felt firmer. The Dao of Earth vibrated with him.
While the young ones battled their own limits, experienced eyes watched them.
Veterans, generals, living legends — all were there to shape the new pillars of the empire. Scars crossed their bodies like open books. At the center of the group marched General Thoryan, whose mere presence was enough to silence conversations.
"The strength of a cultivator is not only in his muscles" he said, his voice resonating across the field "but in the Dao he chooses to follow with conviction"
Under his sharp gaze, each training became more than physical: it was a spiritual journey. Each warrior dug deeper within, searching for what would make them worthy of Imperial Missions... or, for the extraordinary ones, a place in the Celestial Army, the immortal Emperor Orion's personal guard.
Meanwhile, in the Imperial Palace...
In the heart of the capital, the Palace rose like a colossus of dreams and discipline. A complex of celestial marble and living silver, where even the winds dared not blow without permission.
At the center, the Hall of Councils. Its ceiling curved like the night sky, where artificial constellations slowly spun — each star representing a province, a story, a fate at stake.
The atmosphere was heavy. There, every word weighed like an eternal decree.
"Your Majesty" said Gaius, in a soft voice and jade robes "the harvests exceeded expectations. The silos are overflowing"
Feroz, trade advisor, bowed low:
"The eastern kingdoms are starving. We can turn grain into alliances... or into submission"
"It's risky" said Lyara, stiffly "exposing ourselves now will attract greed"
Thalor, a military man, raised his voice with force:
"The army is ready. Let us show our abundance with strength. Eryndor must advance"
"The immortals are watching" murmured Vorian, darkly "but they have yet to move. Perhaps we can dominate them without war"
"Let us negotiate behind masks" suggested Cassius, the politician "invisible trade, and the gold will come faceless"
"Distribute to our people as well" said Aurelia, her gaze warm and dangerous "a fed people is a people that doesn't betray"
Then, Orion stood.
Silence. Every counselor stepped back — though their feet never moved. The emperor's mere presence filled the hall.
"An empire that seeks to dominate does not shout. It whispers" he said, in a deep voice and slow rhythm "Distribute the grain. Contact the kingdoms through veils. Fortify the borders. When the world awakens... it will see a new dawn. And that dawn shall be called Eryndor"
And no one dared to disagree.
Far from there, in the Battlefields...
The arenas of Eryndor were not made for entertainment. They were carved from living stone of the firmament and sealed with runes that trapped the very skies. There, geniuses clashed with enough power to bend reality.
The air crackled as Cirius and Rick faced each other at the center. The first, cloaked in golden light, wielded a spear that shone like a solar shard. The second, eyes blazing, spun two swords that left crimson trails in the air.
"Hit harder, Rick" taunted Cirius, lunging with a thrust that tore through the space between them.
"You've turned into a damn monster" replied Rick, spinning in a spiral, forming whirlwinds with his blades.
The arena shook.
Cirius charged. A flaming flash ran down his spear, and when he struck, it was as if a solar dragon emerged, spewing ancient fire. The ground cracked, the temperature soared. Rick leapt over the smoldering debris and answered with an impossible sequence of slashes. His arms became red blurs, each blade a lethal brushstroke.
The air warped. And then, the impossible happened.
From Cirius's body, a roar echoed, and a colossal golden creature emerged behind him, its eyes glowing with ancient wisdom. It was as if an ancestral spirit made of pure energy had been released.
Rick didn't hesitate. The space behind him twisted until it tore open. From within, a demonic silhouette emerged, made entirely of crimson darkness, with twisted claws and horns. The entity pulsed like a heart of war.
When the two collided, the world stopped.
The sky darkened. Time paused. The earth groaned.
The impact tore through the field, and the spectators fell silent, mesmerized by the spectacle of raw power and spiritual mastery.
When the dust settled, the two young men could barely stand. Blood dripped from deep cuts. Breathing ragged. But their eyes... their eyes smiled.
"That... was intense" murmured Rick, spitting blood.
"You haven't beaten me yet" said Cirius, spinning his spear once more, ready for the next clash.
The arena returned to silence as the energies faded.