The gong's echo still rattled through the obsidian chamber when silence fell. Every Awakener present understood what it meant: from this point on, there would be no hiding, no pretending.
The chamber wasn't just a hall—it was an arena carved into the heart of the Stronghold itself. Stone older than civilization stretched upward, black pillars webbed with silver veins of energy. Each vein pulsed in rhythm with unseen power, the heartbeat of the Network that controlled this place.
Around the arena, tiered balconies overflowed with Awakeners. Some were rookies, faces pale with anticipation. Others were seasoned killers, leaning casually with folded arms, scars on their skin glowing faintly where divine brands had burned them.
And high above, in thrones carved from obsidian flame, sat the arbiters of the Gathering: cloaked figures whose mere presence warped the air. They weren't gods—but they were acknowledged by gods, and that made them terrifying.
Rivals
The first to step forward was the scarred giant. His voice carried like a hammer striking steel.
"Name's Darius Vorn, Dragon-ranked. Flame affinity."
Heat shimmered as his aura rolled out, molten and oppressive. His scar twisted into something like a grin.
"I've crushed a dozen Apostles already. One more won't change much."
The crowd murmured—some with awe, some with fear. Darius wasn't bluffing. His fists were said to break stone like glass, and his flame was rumored to burn even in the vacuum of space.
The fox-eyed killer followed, silent until he stood at the edge of the circle. He smiled faintly, daggers glinting under the light.
"Ren Ikaro. I don't care about rank. I just care about watching people bleed the right way."
His words were soft, almost playful. But the casual flick of his wrist made three daggers vanish into thin air, reappearing a heartbeat later at the feet of the rookies watching from the balcony.
Ren's style wasn't brute force—it was precision, cruelty, and artistry in death.
Then came the woman in bone-white armor. She carried herself with the grace of royalty, her spear balanced effortlessly in her hand. Her pale eyes swept across the chamber like she was looking at insects.
"Seraphine Kaelth. Abyssal candidate."
No theatrics. No smile. Just cold certainty. Her aura, faint as it was, sank into the skin like needles of ice. The bone armor wasn't just for show—it was said to be carved from the remains of something she had killed in the Rift. Something no one had dared name.
---
Others followed—faces less famous, but no less hungry. A boy with lightning flickering across his skin, too young for the scars he bore. A woman with tattoos that crawled when she moved, whispering in tongues not meant for mortals. A pair of twins who spoke in perfect unison, their shadows never quite matching their bodies.
One by one, the wolves revealed themselves.
Kairis Ash
And then there was Kairis. He didn't step forward. He didn't introduce himself. He didn't need to.
Because as the silence stretched, gravity itself answered for him. The floor groaned under invisible weight, pebbles trembling at his feet. The Void lingered around his shoulders like a cloak stitched from starlight.
Eyes turned. Whispers spread.
"That one—he's new."
"No, not just new. Look at the pressure…"
"…could he be an Apostle?"
Kairis smirked, eyes sharp beneath the shadows of his hood. "Talk all you want. None of you are ready."
It wasn't arrogance—it was fact, spoken like a blade drawn across stone.
---
The Gathering's Purpose
From the throne above, a cloaked figure raised a hand. His voice boomed, layered with authority that wasn't his alone.
"Awakeners, remember why you stand here. The Gathering is not a game. It is the fire through which humanity is reforged."
"Those who fall here do not rise again."
"Those who rise here may claim rank—Dragon, God, Abyssal. The higher you climb, the greater your authority, the greater your protection, the greater your chance to survive what is to come."
The cloaked figure's gaze swept the chamber, lingering on Kairis for a heartbeat longer than the rest.
"And remember this—gods are watching. Every strike you make, every drop of blood spilled, carries weight beyond this chamber. Choose carefully what you reveal."
Kairis tilted his head back, catching a glimpse of the throne above. His smirk faded into something sharper, colder.
He had no interest in playing under someone else's banner. But if this Gathering was the road to more power—the kind of power he needed to protect Elyra and Aeren—then he'd walk it.
Step by step. Kill by kill.