In the blink of an eye, two years vanished like mist beneath the rising sun.
Within the hallowed halls of the Great Temple, Ezmelral's lookalike knelt on polished stone, her posture straight and unwavering, eyes alight with purpose as she prepared for her journey to Planet Eden.
"Are you ready?" the GodKing asked, his voice echoing through the chamber like colliding stars.
"I am," she replied, steady and sure.
He advanced without another word, each step of his armored boots resonating through the hall like a drumbeat of inevitability. As his presence swept past, she rose with fluid grace, falling into step behind him. Together they crossed the massive doors, walking toward a moment that would redefine them both.
Meanwhile, on Planet Eden, Ezmelral and Raiking floated high above the tournament site, hidden in the folds of time. Ezmelral's breath caught as her gaze fell on the spectacle below. Floating islands hung in the sky like scattered jewels, each hosting meditating Entities whose forms radiated raw, oppressive power. Crimson cascades spilled from their edges, endless rivers of liquid light dripping into the abyss.
There was no ground—only a vast red sea stretching to infinity, its surface undulating like living blood.
To the left rose a colossal city, its spires piercing the heavens, a metropolis of crystal and ether pulsing with cosmic heartbeat—the capital of Eden.
At the center, the red sea split in a jagged path, carving tiers of seating where spectators sat upon the surface as though it were solid stone. At the heart of it all, a massive stone ring floated—a square carved with glowing runes that thrummed in anticipation, ready to host battles that would shake the stars.
Seven contestants stood atop the ring, each a paragon drawn from distant corners of the Cosmos—warriors clad in garments that embodied their worlds' essence, prodigies whose very presence warped the air with untapped might, and heirs who carried themselves with the quiet weight of future thrones. Among them was Shona, his posture ramrod straight, five arms crossed in unyielding vigilance, his gaze fixed ahead like a commander surveying the battlefield before the first clash.
But Ezmelral's attention snagged elsewhere—on the Elders, their haughty forms clustered together, white robes billowing like storm clouds swollen with thunder. Their eyes were fixed not on Shona, but on a single young man in the ring. His bearing was regal, unflinching, as though the world itself owed him deference. He wore flowing white robes threaded with scattered patches of armor, each plate etched in ancient symbols that pulsed faintly—like fragments of forgotten power stirring awake, awaiting his command.
"Who is he?" Ezmelral asked Raiking, pointing to the one under the Elders' scrutiny. "The one they're all staring at."
Raiking's voice was low, laced with the weight of history. "The son of the eldest Elder. Their pride and joy—who, if the GodKing didn't exist, would likely be the next ruler of the Entities."
Ezmelral absorbed it, the pieces falling into place like stars aligning in a constellation. The hostility between the Elders and the GodKing wasn't black and white—not just defiance of taboos, but a deeper rift: jealousy, fear of a throne usurped, a legacy overshadowed by an unbeatable force.
The air above the ring began to crack like fragile glass under immense pressure, the fractures spreading in jagged lines that distorted the sky itself. A hush fell over the spectators as the pieces shattered outward, tumbling toward the ground in a cascade of shimmering debris—each fragment glinting like fallen stars. From the rift emerged a plated leg, armored in star-forged might, followed by the GodKing's full form, his presence alone commanding the cosmos to still. Behind him stepped his disciple—Ezmelral's lookalike—her robe flowing like a banner of quiet defiance.
They hovered above the masses, towering like a king and princess descending upon their subjects for the first time in ages, the weight of their aura pressing down on the crowd below. Whispers rippled through the throng: "The GodKing himself..." "Look at her—his disciple, after all these years..." "She's mortal? How can that be?"
Many Entities, spectators, and even the warriors in the ring dropped to their knees in unison, bowing in reverent silence, their heads lowered as if the very act of gazing upward would invite divine wrath.
To Ezmelral's lookalike, it was her first time witnessing such a scene—the sheer scale of adoration and fear twisting her stomach into knots. She knew her master was revered, but secluded in the temple for years, she'd never felt it like this, the air thick with expectation. She tried to compose herself, straightening her posture to appear worthy, but her hands trembled slightly at her sides.
The GodKing noticed. His helmet tilted, his voice lowering just for her: "Relax. I am here."
He took her hand in his massive grip, steadying her. Her heart skipped—the same warmth as in the dungeon, the same reassurance.
He drifted her forward toward the Elders' section, their cluster seething in silence beneath their white robes. The GodKing gave them a curt nod. They bowed, voices rising together: "GodKing."
"Should I… stand with the other contestants?" she whispered.
"You'll sit here."
The red sea rumbled. Benches split apart, reshaping, and from the surface rose a platform above the Elders. Two thrones took form, carved in cosmic elegance, towering above the arena like declarations.
He led her to sit beside him, their place unchallenged. Even Entities on floating islands teleported down, seating themselves lower, none daring to sit above him.
Whispers swelled through the sea of spectators:
"That's his disciple?"
"He treats her like royalty…"
"A mortal? Impossible."
"So lucky. Imagine being chosen."
The whispers swelled, a mix of envy, shock, and reverence rippling through the assembly, leaving the air charged with unspoken questions—and for Ezmelral's lookalike, a whirlwind of emotions she struggled to contain, her heart pounding as the tournament's shadow loomed ever closer.
Ezmelral's gaze lingered on the GodKing's retreating form, the weight of the moment pressing on her chest like an unseen hand—his effortless acceptance of the lookalike's closeness, the quiet intimacy they had built across years of shared trials. Something stirred within her: envy? longing? She couldn't name it, but it ached like a wound that refused to heal.
Then the air shifted.
Golden sand gushed into existence beside the Elders' platform, coiling like a desert storm. From its heart, the Keeper of Time and Fate emerged, her robes blooming with temporal light, hourglass in hand. Within its glass, the grains did not merely fall—they glittered with stars and galaxies, entire cosmoses trickling away in miniature majesty, visible only to those beyond Cosmic Level.
Beside her, a subtler presence whispered into being: the hum of scales balancing, like judgment carried on the wind. Ta'Narsha, Keeper of Balance, materialized with serene authority. Ten arms extended, each cradling an emblem of dominion: a scroll, a sheaf of grain, a torch, a seed, a shield, a spear whose edge had never tasted blood, an orb of harmony swirling with light—together a tableau of sustenance, defense, justice, restraint, and war.
Silence blanketed the arena. Even the whispers of awe stilled as the Keeper of Time and Fate stepped forward, her voice resonating like the tick of an eternal clock.
"We gather here for many reasons," she began, her words weaving like threads of destiny through every soul. "Some come to witness what they thought only legend—to stand in the presence of gods whispered about in the dark." Her gaze lingered on a female contestant with ocean-blue skin, her robe flowing like tides, gill-slits at her sides breathing softly.
"Others fight to prove mortals can rival the divine—that flesh may bridge the gap to eternity." Her eyes passed to a man whose back bristled with jagged spikes, his skin mimicked cracked earth, a beaded necklace swaying against his bare chest.
"Some enter seeking the wish—to preserve what is most precious, a world hanging by a thread." Her gaze found Ezmelral's lookalike, the young woman's resolve burning steady as a beacon amid the parted sea.
"Some battle to carve their worth into the stars themselves." Her eyes flicked to an Elder's son, his white robes pristine, the sword at his hip humming faintly as though yearning for release.
"And some…" her gaze locked with Shona's, his five arms folded across his chest, a faint smirk betraying his calm, "fight only for the thrill—the clash that sets the blood aflame."
The arena held its breath. Contestants straightened, the crowd's anticipation swelling into a low, rising roar. Ezmelral felt it too—the pulse of expectation, the tension coiling tight in her chest, mirroring the fire in her lookalike below.
Raiking stood silent beside her, crimson eyes veiled in shadow, the gulf between past and future stretched taut like a bowstring about to snap.
The tournament loomed—a crucible where fates would be forged or shattered. And in that suspended moment, the weight of it all pressed down, leaving Ezmelral breathless, caught between hope and the gnawing dread of what victory might truly demand.