The road behind him was quiet.
The farewell had been warm—perhaps too warm. Stella's cheerful smile lingered in Ryn's memory like the afterglow of a fading flame. The villagers had waved until he vanished into the morning fog. But that was days ago.
Now, his boots met unfamiliar soil.
Before him stood a modest settlement nestled within twisted hills and crowned trees. Small shops lined the central road, and a market buzzed with soft chatter. He wandered forward, tired but curious.
An old man sat by a fruit stall, peeling something yellow and round.
Ryn approached, "How much for these?"
The old man looked up, eyes narrowing at the mask covering half of Ryn's face. Without a word, he tossed him a fruit.
"Eat first," he said. "Then ask."
Ryn caught it and sat beside the stall. He took a bite—sweet, cool, and slightly spiced.
"So… what's the name of this village, sir?"
The old man chuckled. "I figured you came for the tournament. Surprising you don't even know where you are."
"I'm just passing through. Needed some rest mid-journey."
"Ah… my mistake then," the man said, waving a hand. "You're in Solmere."
"Solmere…" Ryn echoed, gazing down the quiet street.
"You asked about the tournament, didn't you?" the old man leaned closer. "They're calling it the Solmere Trials. Adventurers from across the world are gathering. They say the prize is something beyond legend."
Ryn raised an eyebrow. "Sounds interesting."
"More than that. It's dangerous."
A smirk tugged at Ryn's lips. "Where's it being held?"
The old man simply pointed toward a wide open plain where a massive crowd gathered like moths to a flame.
As Ryn arrived at the arena's edge, the atmosphere shifted. Energies clashed in the air—high-ranked warriors, some cloaked in shimmering auras, others hiding blades behind calm smiles.
A sudden chill swept over the crowd. Ryn stiffened.
This presence…
He wasn't the only one who noticed. Two other adventurers turned their heads subtly, their instincts sharpened by years of battle.
Then, a man in a sleek black robe stepped onto the grand stage, his face hidden behind a white mask.
"Hello, hello, brave adventurers!" the voice echoed. "Welcome to the Solmere Trials! I'm delighted to host warriors from every corner of our world."
The crowd rumbled with anticipation.
"As a welcome gift, let me reveal your grand prize…"
He snapped his fingers.
A screen materialized mid-air, glowing with radiant energy. Then—it rippled across the world. Villages, cities, mountaintops—everyone saw it.
The masked man grinned.
"People of the world… behold. The treasure of Solmere—Ashen Blaze: The Sword of Light!"
From the pedestal rose a blade—not large, not flashy. Plain at first glance. Silent. Still.
Laughter erupted.
"That's it?! Just a sword?"
"Looks like junk!"
"Hah! What a joke!"
But in distant cities, a few older warriors froze. Their hands trembled.
"No… it can't be. Why is that sword… still here?"
The masked host smiled. A calm, knowing smile.
He saw Ryn in the crowd—still, watching. Then turned to the rest.
"The rules are simple. I created a dungeon—a world beneath worlds. Whoever finds the sword first, claims it. No combat required. Only the worthy may claim Ashen Blaze."
A silence fell.
"You made the dungeon yourself?" someone barked.
"When I speak, listen," the masked man said sharply.
The arena froze.
"Now… prepare yourselves."
And with a gesture, a glowing vortex opened behind him. Light swallowed the sky as the adventurers vanished—transported in a blink.
All across the world, people watched in awe.
A mountainous warrior stood at the dungeon's threshold, arms crossed.
"You insects should go home. I'll win this."
A lean figure in a tattered cloak walked forward silently.
"Didn't you hear me?" the brute roared. "Leave!"
In one swift motion, the cloaked man sliced him cleanly in half.
The crowd gasped. Even the high-rankers stopped breathing.
The man stepped forward and removed his cloak. Gasps spread like wildfire.
An Ethereal Deity.
A warrior so rare, they were said to live between realms.
"In the world of Vyranthia," a quiet voice narrated across the crowd, "there are three types of Rankers:
Elite Rankers – Grade A+
Mythic Rankers – Grade SS+
Ethereal Deities – Grade SSSS+ … The rarest."
One of the rankers stammered, "Why… why are you here, sir Kaven?!"
Kaven tilted his head.
"None of your business, moron. I'm just here to play."
Then, his eyes locked onto Ryn's.
He smiled. "Let's play, little Ranker."
And he stepped into the dungeon.
The others hesitated, dread creeping into their veins.
One man dropped his weapon. "I'm out. No reward is worth this."
But Ryn stepped forward, unfazed.
"You fool!" someone shouted. "He'll kill you! You know nothing of Kaven!"
Ryn turned his head slightly. His voice calm but firm.
"If you don't know what's coming… then shut your mouth."
And he entered the dungeon.
Silence.
One by one, others followed—ashamed, inspired, or simply refusing to be left behind.
The world watched.
The masked host smiled.
The dungeon wasn't what anyone expected.
It was… alive.
A vast landscape that twisted like a riddle. Shadows stretched wrong. Time moved in ripples. The very ground pulsed like a heartbeat.
Ryn stood still.
"This… this isn't just a dungeon."
A whisper echoed, not in the air—but in his bones.
"This is the forge of the self. If you wish to wield me… burn."
The ground lit beneath him.
Not with fire—but with memory. Pain. Glory. A history not his own.
Wars beneath crimson moons.
And at the center of it all… a sword.
Silent. Waiting.
Ryn smiled, stepping forward.
"Let's enjoy the Hunt ."