They called it the Void Rifts War.
No one remembered the exact moment the sky split open, but everyone remembered the screams that followed. Rifts—jagged, violet-black tears in the fabric of reality—tore through the heavens and spilled horrors into the world. Out of them poured demonic entities: beasts of teeth, wings, and raw Arcana. They didn't speak. They didn't demand. They simply destroyed what the kingdom had built for years.
The world was burned for seven years.
Velarion, once the shining jewel of the west, fell in a single night.
The Draconic Kingdom of Aetherra—renowned for its sky-thriving warriors and ancient flameborne prophecies—retreated into its volcanic peaks. The samurai-clan Empire of Kurogane, with its sword-saints and elemental artistry, fractured into civil war before the Void ever reached their borders. And amid the collapse of order, only two nobles of Velarion remained standing: Auren and Aurelia Vehlion.
The prince and princess.
Now, three years after the Great Riftfall, Velarion's capital still bore its scars—cracked marble roads, blackened spires, statues melted into puddles of stone. But the place that were a ruins, is now in recovery. The white banners of the royal crest once again flew in the wind.
Auren Vehlion stood on the edge of a broken overlook, wind teasing his silver hair. Below him stretched the remnants of the royal gardens, now blooming again with pale green.
"Hard to believe this place was hell on earth not long ago," came a voice behind him.
Auren didn't turn. "Still smells like ash when it rains."
Footsteps approached. A moment later, Caelan Mavareth stood beside him.
Where Auren was all calm focus and sharp gaze, Caelan was a contrast—lean but powerful, with golden-blonde hair tied back, and a smirk that rarely left his face. His longcoat fluttered slightly in the breeze, and at his waist, the hilt of his strange alloy-forged blade shimmered faintly.
Caelan folded his arms. "You always get poetic when you're nostalgic."
"I'm not nostalgic."
"You're brooding with your cape billowing dramatically. That's peak nostalgia, my prince."
Auren gave a short exhale. "And you're still an idiot."
"Your idiot."
That earned him a side glance.
Caelan grinned. "See? I can still make you look."
Caelan Mavareth—former noble of the fallen steel kingdom of Ordran—was more than just Auren's childhood friend. He was one of the few Arcana-bearers who had awakened a Trump without losing his humanity. His ability to manipulate metals allowed him to imbue any item he touched with physical and elemental properties—even Void material, should he choose. His Trump, "Transmutation Pact," allowed full control over his own body's structure. Steel bones. Gold-woven muscles. Diamond skin.
He was living alchemy in motion.
And every ounce of it bent toward protecting Velarion and Auren.
"So," Caelan said after a long silence. "When are you finally going to take your knight summons on a walk, i heard those summons can even have thoughts on their own."
"It does." Auren's mouth twitched. "Argues like a drunken tactician."
Caelan chuckled. "Let's spar. I'll help you put him in his place."
The courtyard had once been a ceremonial plaza. Now it served as a training ground.
Caelan stepped into position, unsheathing his blade—its core forged from Ordran steel, but the edge laced with Void alloy. It shimmered with an eerie sheen.
Auren raised a hand. Four glowing chess-like pieces hovered in a ring around his body. His Arcana glowed with cold, strategic intent.
"Pawn," he said.
A white-armored soldier appeared, kneeling. Auren flicked two fingers. The soldier leapt forward.
Their clash was elegant—like a dance of storms. Caelan's strikes were fluid, impossible to predict, his weapon shifting in form as needed. But Auren didn't fight directly. He commanded.
"Bishop—behind him."
A magic-coated soldier phased in, launching a critical burst of searing energy. Caelan twisted his blade mid-parry, absorbing the energy into the alloy.
"Nice try."
"Wasn't aiming to hit."
From the right, the Knight blinked into existence and swept Caelan's legs.
Caelan barely caught himself. "That was cheap."
Auren gave a faint smirk. "Can't blame me for that."
From the royal tower above, Queen Aurelia Vehlion watched through the stained glass. Her armor shimmered faintly under her robes, and the legendary Spear of Vehlion rested against the wall beside her desk.
She placed her hand on a scroll.
Aetherra's prophecy.
"The Great Rift was but the First. When the Arcana aligns, and the Queen rises, the Second Rift shall bleed a sky of fire, and from it shall ride the Riders of Ending."
Aurelia narrowed her eyes. "We're not ready."
She had rebuilt Velarion in three years with steel in her spine and blood on her hands. But even she knew: what came next would be beyond what even her Spear could stop.
A knock. "Enter," she said.
A raven-masked figure stepped into the room silently.
"Audric," Aurelia greeted. "What news?"
"The Tournament of Decree has been declared. Seven nations. Three champions each. They will meet at the capital of Elys Kaarn in a fortnight."
Aurelia stood. "So it begins, I didn't expect the councils would have approved of these. Despite it had been the tradition for us to hold the tournament for every decade, hosting it right after the apocalypse is quite a bold move.."
Elsewhere, deep beneath the city, the shadows stirred.
The Velarion Blackwings, a covert assassin faction, moved like ghosts. To most, they didn't exist. But to those in power, they were the kingdom's silent dagger.
One of them—a man cloaked in feathered black—paused on a rooftop as the news of the tournament echoed in his mind.
"Three champions, huh..."
He smiled beneath his mask. "Let's see if the world still remembers what Velarion shadows can do."
And at the heart of the training grounds, as Caelan and Auren's spar reached its crescendo, the winds shifted.
A pillar of white-blue light erupted from the central tower. A holographic glyph burst into the sky, visible for miles.
Aurelia's voice boomed across the recovering city:
"By decree of the High Circle, and in alliance with the Seven Nations—Velarion shall enter the Tournament of Decree."
"To all Arcana-bearers, Trump users, and Void slayers—prepare yourselves. Only the one with the wills to thrive will survive."
The sky blazed with Arcana.
And across the worlds, fighters begans to awaken.