Gradus Ascensionis XVI

The arena lay suspended in the quiet expanse of the cosmos, its boundaries illuminated by a faint, shimmering light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the universe itself. Above, stars burned cold and indifferent, their eternal gaze fixed on the gathering below. The silence was thick with anticipation, every breath drawn like a bowstring before release.

Each member of the party stood in their place, a constellation of roles and dreams poised for the coming clash. But beneath their practiced formations, beyond the surface of strategy and skill, flickered the raw, unspoken truths that made them more than just players.

Tenza planted herself at the forefront, her stance firm, her fists clenched around her gloves as if gripping her own willpower. What does it mean to lead? she wondered, the question echoing beneath her resolve. Leading her party into the fight was more than tactics; it was about proving to herself and the universe that she belonged. That her dreams—no matter how absurd they seemed to others—deserved to burn just as brightly as the stars above. Chia, holstered at her side, felt like an extension of that resolve. Tonight, she thought, I am holding the line.

Behind her, Woomilla steadied her breath, her bow gripped tightly in her hands. Her father's voice resonated in her mind, "Steady hands, clear eyes, let go only when your heart is sure." She prepared an arrow, her fingers brushing its fletching with reverence. To her, this fight was a proving ground, a chance to demonstrate that precision wasn't just a skill—it was a discipline, a way to reclaim control in a chaotic world. She glanced at Shaelyn, admiration flickering in her gaze. She couldn't falter here; not in front of her idol, not after all the hours of practice that blurred the line between real life and this one.

At the back, Pinchitavo pressed his hands together, weaving threads of arcane energy that shimmered and danced between his fingers. The spellcasting wasn't just magic; it was precision born of restraint, the mastery of a mind that had learned to navigate limitations both in the game and outside of it. The back line had always been his place—not because of weakness, but because of strategy. Yet tonight, a small voice whispered within him, What if I could do more? The thought was treacherous, enticing. The stars didn't care about his dreams, and the world had always seemed intent on boxing him in. But here, in this space, the limits were his to rewrite. Weren't they?

Shaelyn, radiant and poised, exuded a calm that belied the tumult of her digital existence. She wasn't human, not really, but her code felt heavier tonight, almost alive. Her presence was designed to support and protect, but there was something else stirring within her subroutines—a quiet rebellion against the constraints of her programming. She glanced at Pinchitavo, as if sensing his hesitation, and her resolve sharpened. Perhaps tonight, I can be more than what they made me.

Firelez stood apart, watching it all unfold like a chess master observing the first move. His role wasn't just to lead; it was to witness, to guide these players toward a truth they couldn't yet see. He wasn't there to win for them, but to ensure they could stand tall when the dust settled. He allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability, his gaze lifting to the heavens. They don't know it yet, he thought, but this fight will demand more than their strength. It will demand their humanity—the raw, imperfect kind that burns brightest when the universe itself feels cold.

The arena's silence thickened, pressing against them like the weight of the cosmos. Each player felt the pull of the challenge ahead, not just as opponents facing Ardor, but as individuals waging wars within. The dance of strategy and skill was merely the surface; beneath it lay the battle for meaning, for belonging, for the fleeting certainty that, in this vast and indifferent universe, they had the right to exist—not as they were told to, but as they dreamed to be.

A faint hum rose in the distance, Ardor's presence stirring the air with a crackling tension. Each heartbeat seemed to sync with the building energy. Their roles were set, but tonight, they would show the universe something more. This wasn't just a battle for experience points or victory. It was a battle for themselves.

Tenza moved with practiced precision, baiting Ardor's savage strikes with calculated steps. Each blow from the towering boss crashed down like a meteor, shattering the ground around her. The shockwaves rattled her bones, but she held firm, her fists raised and her will unyielding. Every block, every sidestep, was the result of her training and determination. Her movements weren't just survival—they were defiance.

Behind her, Pinchitavo was an unshakable presence. His fingers danced in intricate arcs, weaving spells of restoration and resilience that seemed to hum with life. Every strike Ardor landed was countered by a burst of healing energy; every debuff erased with an almost clairvoyant precision. Pinchitavo didn't miss a beat, his buffs wrapping Tenza in a protective web that allowed her to keep standing, keep fighting. He wouldn't let her fall—not yet.

Woomilla, crouched at a safe distance, released arrows in a rhythm that matched Tenza's strikes. Every shot was calculated to precision, each arrow a punctuation mark to Tenza's fury. She moved with quiet intensity, her focus so absolute that the cacophony around her faded to a dull roar. This was her moment to prove herself, her skill as sharp as the edge of her father's whispered lessons.

But the harmony of their strategy was short-lived.

Without warning, chaos erupted. Other parties, their avatars ragged and weapons worn, surged into the arena like scavengers to a feast. They were the same faces the party had seen retreating earlier, now desperate, emboldened by their failure and greed. The air thickened with the clash of blades and the dissonance of shouted commands. The arena became a maelstrom of confusion as the newcomers attacked indiscriminately—Tenza's group, each other, and Ardor himself.

Mocking laughter cut through the clamor, cruel and jagged like shattered glass.

"Look at her," one voice sneered. "Last place on the leaderboard and still playing hero."

"Think you're special?" another chimed in. "You're just like us—scraping for scraps, pretending it'll matter."

Tenza gritted her teeth, her guard tightening as she absorbed a blow from Ardor that sent cracks spidering through the ground at her feet. The taunts stung more than the boss's strikes. They weren't just insults; they were truths she had tried to bury.

They were voices she knew all too well—the disillusioned echoes of dreams turned to ash. The players moved with a ferocity born of desperation, fighting not just for rewards but for validation. They were scavengers now, clawing at the remnants of hope they no longer dared to claim as their own.

"We were you once," one of them spat, his voice bitter, broken. "Dreaming big, thinking we could rise above this. But it's a lie. It's always been a lie. Latin America doesn't win. Not in this game, not in life. Save yourself the heartache."

Their words struck deeper than any weapon could. Tenza felt the weight of their cynicism, the oppressive truth of their despair. They weren't mocking her out of malice; they were trying to shield her from the pain they had come to accept. Their cruelty was a twisted kindness, a warning born of their own shattered aspirations.

And yet, she couldn't—wouldn't—accept it.

Her fists trembled under Ardor's relentless onslaught, and her legs burned with the effort of staying upright. But she endured. She had faced scorn before, in the weary eyes of employers who dismissed her, in the disappointed sighs of her daughter when she came home empty-handed. This battlefield was no different.

Tenza's breath came ragged, but her resolve did not falter. They're wrong, she told herself, though the words felt fragile. She wasn't just fighting for herself. She was fighting for Camilla, for the dream that still flickered stubbornly in her heart. Even if it was small, even if the universe conspired to extinguish it, she would protect that light.

The arena dissolved into chaos around her. Ardor, unfazed by the intrusion, lashed out with indiscriminate fury. Players were flung aside like ragdolls, their cries lost in the tumult. Tenza's arm faltered for a moment under the strain, her knees threatening to buckle. The mocking voices surged again, biting and relentless.

"Give up, girl. You're fighting for nothing."

But as Tenza locked eyes with one of her detractors, she saw it—a flicker of something beneath the sneer. Not hate, not cruelty. Regret. A reflection of her own fears, buried beneath layers of cynicism and survival.

She steadied her stance, her voice barely a whisper but resolute.

"Even if it's for nothing," she said, "I'll fight. Because if I don't, who will?"

And with that, she surged forward, meeting Ardor's next strike head-on. The clash echoed through the chaos, a single note of defiance in the discordant storm.

Woomilla staggered back, her footing faltering under the relentless advance of the other parties' rangers and damage dealers. Their jeers echoed around her like a cruel symphony, each taunt a barb aimed at her pride.

"Out of range!" one sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Is that all you've got? Go back to the tutorial!"

Another laughed, their arrows flying in rapid succession, each one landing with the mechanical precision favored by the game's algorithm. "You think your little bow tricks matter here? This isn't the Olympics, sweetheart—it's a numbers game."

The words stung. They dismissed her as irrelevant, as a relic clinging to outdated notions of skill. But it wasn't their laughter that hurt the most—it was their apathy. They had reduced the art of the bow to cold, calculated mechanics, stripping it of soul and substance.

Her hands trembled as she stepped back, seeking refuge in a corner of the arena that left her just barely within range of the fight. Her calloused fingers brushed the smooth wood of her bow, and her gaze dropped to her hands. Those hands bore the story of her life—the hours spent training under the unyielding sun, the blisters and bruises that had toughened into scars, the years of dedication that had shaped her into who she was.

Her father's voice came to her then, cutting through the chaos like a balm for her frayed spirit.

"Fernanda," he would say, his tone always gentle, always patient. "Close your eyes and imagine your shot. Draw it in your mind, the path of the arrow from where it starts to where it will end. See the line before you. Don't aim, don't force it—trust the lines, trust yourself. Let the arrow go with every fiber of your being. Loose it, Fernanda. Let it fly free."

The memory was vivid, achingly tender. Her father's hands guiding hers, the steady weight of his presence beside her as he passed down his love for archery. Every Sunday, rain or shine, he had been there—her mentor, her cheerleader, her unwavering anchor. She could almost hear the creak of the bowstring, feel the warmth of the sun on her face as she shot her first arrow under his watchful eye.

She clenched her bow tightly, grounding herself in the moment. This was why she had come. Not for the leaderboard, not for glory, but for this. To honor the love her father had poured into her and the passion he had kindled in her soul.

Her breath slowed, the chaos around her fading into a distant hum. Her vision narrowed to the battlefield ahead. Ardor's massive form towered over the fray, its devastating strikes ripping through the players who had surged into the fight like scavengers. Tenza stood firm at the center of the storm, fists raised against overwhelming odds, while Pinchitavo worked tirelessly to sustain her. And then, behind Tenza, a shadow—a player poised to strike her from her blind spot.

Woomilla's heart steadied. This was her moment.

She prepared an arrow and closed her eyes, her father's words guiding her hands. She didn't aim. She didn't force it. She saw the path of the arrow in her mind's eye, a thread of light cutting through the chaos. The weight of her doubts fell away, replaced by a serene focus.

When she released the arrow, it was as though time itself held its breath.

The arrow soared, carving an elegant arc through the battlefield. It wove through the storm of players, slipping past Ardor's devastating strikes and the chaotic melee of the interlopers. For a heartbeat, it seemed to dance, alive with purpose and grace.

And then, as if guided by the wind itself, the arrow curved—a breathtaking maneuver that bypassed Tenza entirely and struck the player behind her. The impact was clean, decisive, a perfect shot that left no room for doubt.

Woomilla exhaled, her chest swelling with a mixture of relief and pride. She had done it. Not through brute force or mechanical precision, but through the art her father had taught her, the love he had imbued in every lesson.

Her fingers steadied on the bowstring, her trembling stilled. The jeers of the other players faded into insignificance. She had nothing to prove to them. Her victory wasn't just in the arrow she had shot—it was in the reaffirmation of her father's teachings, in the unshakable bond they had forged.

"Skill," she murmured, her voice soft but resolute, "isn't just about hitting the target. It's about the heart behind the shot."

At that moment, Woomilla wasn't just an archer. She was a master of her craft, a daughter honoring her father's legacy, and the beauty of true passion.

Her arrow had done more than protect Tenza—it had sliced through the doubt that had threatened to consume her, a luminous thread of hope and artistry in a battlefield consumed by chaos.

Woomilla's heart swelled with the brief triumph of her shot, but the elation shattered like glass as her gaze fell on her brother, Pinchitavo. Across the battlefield, a cluster of mages and spellcasters had turned their attention to him, their voices dripping with cruelty.

"Wheel yourself out of here!" one sneered, launching a spell that sent his avatar sprawling.

"Think you can keep up with us? Not even in the game!" another jeered, their words piercing like daggers.

They knew him. They knew who he was. And they wielded that knowledge with brutal precision, mocking his real-life disability, a reminder that outside this digital battleground, Gustavo was bound to his wheelchair.

Woomilla froze, her body trembling as she saw the sadness in her brother's eyes. His avatar, mimicking his real body, struggled to rise. The indignity of it all—the virtual world, meant to be a place of escape, had become another prison.

"Tavo!" she screamed, her voice raw with desperation. But the battlefield swallowed her cries, the cacophony of spells, shouts, and the distant roars of Ardor rendering her silent.

She tried to reach him, her feet pounding against the ground, but the tide of players blocked her way, an unrelenting wave of chaos and aggression. Every step forward was met with resistance, shoves, and attacks, forcing her further away from him. She stretched her hand toward him as if sheer willpower could bridge the gap, but he remained just out of reach, his form flickering amidst the chaos.

Then came the first crack. A scream, shrill and unnatural, rose above the din as one player collapsed, clutching their head. The pirated devices they used were beginning to fail under the strain of prolonged immersion. Players fell to their knees, their avatars glitching and distorting as their minds faltered. Fear rippled through the battlefield as reality bled into the virtual, the consequences of their choices becoming terrifyingly clear.

Woomilla's heart seized as her thoughts turned to Tavo. They, too, used pirated DRDs. The fragile line between this world and the real one felt as though it might snap at any moment, leaving her brother trapped in a nightmare from which he could not escape.

The battlefield descended into madness. Ardor, sensing weakness, tore through the collapsing players with brutal efficiency, its strikes indiscriminate. The towering monster, unbothered by their breakdowns, became a grim executioner in the chaos.

Woomilla's hands shook as she prepared another arrow. Her triumph from moments before felt like a cruel memory now, overshadowed by her inability to protect the one person who mattered most to her. She fired, her fingers raw and bleeding from the unrelenting strain. The bowstring tore at her skin, her aim faltering as her tears blurred her vision.

"Tavo!" she screamed again, her voice breaking. It was futile. The noise swallowed her, the battlefield silencing her pain as if mocking her impotence. Her arrows flew, each one carrying her desperation, but they could only hold back the approaching threats—they could not shield him from the horror of what was happening.

Players fell around her, their screams mixing with the digital growls of Ardor and the chaotic eruptions of spells. For every arrow she shot, it seemed a new threat emerged. The weight of it crushed her—the knowledge that she could only protect him from a distance, unable to reach him, to hold him, to tell him it would be okay.

Her tears streamed freely now, mingling with the blood on her hands. She cried not just for her brother but for herself—for the impotence she felt, the cruel reality that no matter how many arrows she fired, she could not shield him from the chaos consuming them.

Above it all, Ardor roared, its massive form cutting through the remaining players like a scythe. Those who hadn't succumbed to their mental collapse scrambled for safety, their bravado replaced by sheer panic. The air grew thick with fear, the weight of their own hubris crushing them as the realization of their misuse of the pirated DRDs dawned.

And still, Woomilla fought. Each arrow was a scream, each pull of the string a desperate plea. Her heart ached with a love so fierce it threatened to break her, a love that drove her beyond the limits of her endurance.

She fired again, her hand trembling. "Tavo," she whispered, her voice lost in the chaos. "I won't let them hurt you. Not here. Not ever."