Location – ArchenLand Plains, Southern Edge of the Golden Plateau | Year – 6999 NY, Midday
The field was no longer a place of peace. What had once been soft, sun-warmed grass was now a chaotic canvas of torn earth and scorched patches, where the clash of energy had uprooted the quiet. Deep gashes marked the soil where Darius' hammer had struck, and the air was thick with the fading traces of raw Mana—like the scent of ozone after a storm.
Adam and Trevor stood side by side, their chests heaving, clothes streaked with dirt and sweat. Every breath they drew was sharp, as though the very air had been sharpened by the weight of their opponent's presence. Across the clearing, Darius stood unmoved—his green eyes calm, almost distant, as though he hadn't moved at all, despite being the one to hurl destruction like thunder.
"Remember," came his voice—low, but ringing clear through the tension in the air,
"you must manifest your weapons. If you don't, you won't survive."
The words were not a threat. Nor were they encouragement. They were simply truth.
Trevor glanced at Adam, trying as always to break the rising fear with levity. But even his voice was tired.
"No pressure, huh?" he muttered, offering a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His usual confidence—bold and brimming—now sat laced with the first traces of doubt.
Adam didn't answer. He couldn't—not with words. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, calculations, memories. His hand went unconsciously to the crescent-shaped Arya hanging from his neck. The metal was warm against his skin, almost as if responding to the storm inside him.
'Come on... focus.'
'You've seen what it can do. That staff is a part of you now. You just have to reach it.'
But how?
His knuckles tightened. The 3 segment staff—his weapon, his birthright—had only ever appeared the first time when the transformation of the Grand Kurt Form took over. But Darius had made it clear: no transformation. No shortcuts. They had to summon their weapons through pure Mana control, by calling it forward from the core of their being.
But Mana, for Adam, still felt like some invisible tide—present, yes, but uncontrollable. Elusive. Like chasing smoke in the wind.
He drew in a slow breath, the world narrowing to the pulsing of the Arya around his neck and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The noise of the battlefield faded. Even Trevor's presence became distant.
There was only the silence—and the expectation.
And within it, Adam began to search.
Darius did not breathe like a man mid-battle. He stood as if war was his natural state—as though his body, carved like an iron statue, drew its energy from the very Mana that shimmered faintly around him in waves of emerald.
His aura shimmered with quiet ferocity. Power rolled off him in steady, unseen pulses that brushed against the skin like pressure from an incoming storm. His eyes, sharp and predatory, never blinked.
Then he moved.
The air whistled as Baltaçek sliced downward, the hammer end of the weapon descending like a falling tower. The grass, the earth, and even the very soundscape of the field were all silenced in that one terrifying moment.
BOOOOOOM!!!
The hammer struck the ground where they had been standing only a breath ago.
The soil split like it had been cleaved open by thunder itself, great spider-webbed cracks tearing through the earth, radiating outward in every direction. Dust shot skyward, and even the nearby stones jumped from the shockwave.
Trevor stumbled as he landed, the tremor still ringing through his bones. "Saints of Narn..." he whispered between pants. But there was no time to think.
Darius surged forward again—impossibly fast for a man his size. One heartbeat, and he was at their flank.
Adam just barely turned in time, a blur of movement catching his eye—the shining green edge of Baltaçek sweeping for his midsection. He dropped low and rolled, the wind of the swing parting his hair.
Trevor leapt backward in the same instant, landing on all fours before springing up again. He was pale now, the grin from earlier long forgotten.
Just as Trevor regained his footing, the silence cracked open.
He looked up—only to freeze.
In Darius' outstretched hand, a sphere of swirling green Mana had formed—dense, volatile, alive. It pulsed like a living star, radiating an energy that made Trevor's skin prickle and his breath catch. The air itself seemed to recoil from the concentrated power.
"50% output: Mana Blast."
The words were spoken like a sentence—not a boast, not a warning. Just fact.
Trevor's eyes widened.
'Fifty percent?! I—'
The blast was already coming.
There was no time for panic. No chance to leap, or brace, or even scream. The sphere shot toward him, tearing the air as it moved—like a bolt fired from the hand of a god. The shrieking wind that followed it felt like the roar of death.
And then it struck.
The explosion ripped through the plains with cataclysmic force. The ground was shredded, peeled upward like parchment in a storm. Grass and soil exploded in every direction, forming a dark cloud that rose high into the sky. A shockwave burst outward, flattening the surrounding area, the sheer pressure thundering into Adam like a wall.
Adam staggered back, shielding his face from the rush of wind and flying debris. His lungs burned.
And then, through the chaos, he heard himself scream—raw and involuntary.
"Trevor!"
His voice cracked under the weight of the moment.
A thousand thoughts raced through his mind—
'Was he hit head-on? Did he dodge? Could anyone have survived that?'
Adam's eyes scanned the whirlwind of dust, desperate for a sign, his chest tightening with every passing second of silence.
Darius stood calmly amidst the destruction, Baltaçek resting on his shoulder. His composure was unnerving. His voice, calm and almost casual, drifted through the haze.
"Now the fun begins."
Adam's hands curled into fists, his jaw locked. 'What does he mean by that?'
And then—something moved.
A flicker of light shimmered deep within the smoke. It was faint at first, barely noticeable. But then it grew—stronger, steadier. Not wild or unstable like Darius' blast… but centered. Controlled.
Adam's breath hitched.
The dust cleared.
And there, standing amidst the ruined earth, was Trevor.
His body was bruised, his clothes torn, but his posture—his presence—was different now. Still. Balanced. And in his hands…
The Grand Maymum Staff.
It glowed with a warm amber hue, its twin ends wrapped in golden rings that pulsed with rhythmic energy. The black stem gleamed as if newly forged. It did not look summoned. It looked earned.
Trevor's eyes glowed faintly with power, but behind that light was something deeper—conviction. He was breathing hard, but he wasn't staggering.
He wasn't just standing.
He had awakened.
Adam could barely speak. A stunned smile crept across his face as awe filled his chest. 'He did it... He actually did it.'
Trevor looked down at the staff in his hands, eyes wide. His voice was quiet, but there was a tremble in it—half disbelief, half joy.
"...I did it."
Darius gave a small, satisfied nod. "Good," he said, his tone unreadable. "Now you're ready to begin."