The skies above three different worlds were painted by three entirely different scenes, yet a strange resonance linked them together like invisible strings tightening across dimensions. A medieval kingdom beneath storm-laden clouds, a zombie-ravaged military outpost, and a colossal ship drifting across a drowned world—these were the stages upon which three beings stood, separated by reality, united by memory.
In the royal training hall, Ragnar's wooden practice sword clashed violently against Sir Lancelot's shining blade, each strike igniting sparks that leapt through the air like wild, crimson lightning. Around them, rows of knights and squires strained their eyes to follow the duel, unable to keep up with the sheer speed and ferocity of the combat. Ragnar's every movement was sharp and decisive, a predator testing his cage, while the seasoned knight commander fought with tempered grace, his holy light cutting through the air in radiant arcs. Ragnar's muscles burned with the thrill of combat, and in that moment, the world around him blurred to nothing but the duel.
Far away, in another world overrun by rot and death, Noctus spun through the battlefield like a living tempest. His fists tore through decaying flesh, wind bursts erupting with each strike. He and Artemis were back to back, surrounded by the endless tide of undead clawing their way toward living flesh. Every time they cleared a wave, another shambled forward. The air was thick with the stench of decay and gunpowder. Mutant zombies screeched in the distance, the sound cutting through the wind like a rusted blade. Noctus's breathing grew heavier. He could feel it—the pressure, the chaos, the thin line between control and something deeper.
On the Arkworld ship's stern, Gaiard stood beside Tiama, the two of them cornered by waves of Edward's armed subordinates. The metal deck echoed with the sound of boots, blades, and gunfire. Gaiard's elbows cracked against jawbones, his knees broke ribs, his Silat and Muay Thai blending into a dance of brutality and precision. Tiama's kicks and punches were sharp and disciplined, driving back attackers despite their overwhelming numbers. Yet, despite their skills, the flood of enemies didn't end. And then came the gunshot—an iron sting to his elbow. Gaiard hissed as pain seared through his arm, but even as he gritted his teeth and healed it with crystal energy, something deeper stirred within him.
Three battles. Three warriors. Three moments when the past clawed its way back into the present.
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In two distant worlds, under two completely different skies, two battles were unfolding in parallel—one wreathed in blazing fire, the other blanketed by frost and snow. Yet in both, there was a shared tension in the air, like the drawing of a bowstring before release. The battle halls and arenas reverberated with pressure, a sense of imminent breakthrough, of something sleeping deep within slowly stirring.
Ignis stood in the Space Exploring Officer Academy's blazing battle hall, the heat swirling around him like a restless beast. Across from him was Flamme, fire whip coiling like a serpent, her stance steady, fierce eyes locked on him. Every strike, every dodge, every burst of flame between them was more than just a fight—it was a test of identity. Each movement carried echoes of their past, of the powers they bore and the pride they carried.
Friz, in another world, stood on the icy plains of the International Ranker Association's arena. Snow and cold mist rolled like waves, clinging to his figure. Facing him was Friya, her icy aura condensed into the shape of frost spears and bullets, her resolve sharp as the weapons she conjured. Their movements carved trails into the frosted ground, colliding over and over, each impact releasing a burst of white snow and biting cold.
They fought in two different places, yet at this very moment, their hearts and memories turned to the same point in time.
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Across two different skies, beneath two vastly different landscapes, two figures stood on the brink of awakening something deeper inside themselves. Heim stood amidst a dense and ancient forest world, surrounded by towering trees and barbarian tribes, their primitive shouts echoing like a hunting chorus. Alstar, far away in another world, stood at the edge of a canyon with Alexandrite, facing a massive python and an ambushing group of opportunistic players.
Two different places, two separate battles, yet in this exact moment, their minds stirred the same distant memory—an origin that shaped their bond, their growth, and their shared struggle.
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Even though they chose different paths, in different worlds, the past and memories still connect them, it is a bond that goes beyond space and time.