The Lower Heaven finally moved.
For days it had been a pristine cage of light and anticipation—white sands unmarked, air tight with suppressed divinity, ambition simmering beneath ritual smiles. Now, at last, the stillness broke.
The tournament began.
Ares stood above it all, seated upon a floating dais of scarlet stone, one armored leg crossed over the other, chin resting on his fist. His presence alone bent the air toward violence. Every heartbeat in the arena seemed to echo louder under his gaze, as if war itself leaned forward to watch.
Below him stretched the battlefield: a vast circular coliseum carved directly into the white sands, its edges reinforced by divine sigils that shimmered like heat haze. The runes drank excess power, preventing the Lower Heaven from cracking under the weight of what was about to unfold.
Because this was no simple contest.
This was a proving ground for gods-in-waiting.
The first match erupted without ceremony.
