Declaration

The Bishop, Alistair Tenebrous, strolled leisurely through the upper halls of the Estate, his hands clasped behind his back. A being of near-divine stature, a Demi-god, yet even he was not immune to boredom. Meetings, politics, the endless droning of lesser minds—it all blurred together into a monotonous haze.

But then, as he passed by the vast overlook of the cathedral's training hall, something caught his eye.

He paused.

Below, amidst the sprawling arena, a lone figure danced between five warriors—each of them above-average Rank Ones, trained, disciplined, and working in unison.

And yet, they were being utterly dismantled.

Alistair's dark eyes narrowed. He had lived long enough to recognize talent. This wasn't talent. This was something else entirely.

His gaze sharpened as he observed the Astra, moving like a wraith between his foes, weaving between their attacks with an almost lazy grace.

How curious.

"This bastard improved at such a rate..No wonder why Vesper befriended him.."

Astra was fast, faster than a mere Rank One should be. More than that, he was precise—his swordplay honed, his mana control impeccable. But what truly fascinated Alistair was the way Astra's magic pulsed through the air, both light and shadow bending to his will without hesitation. The contrast of elements should have clashed, but in Astra's hands, they harmonized, two forces that obeyed his call with unquestioning devotion.

The shadows trembled in reverence.

The light flickered with divine intensity.

Alistair's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.

"Those aren't even his strongest element..." 

....

Sybil lunged, spear flashing as she conjured a radiant orb of light above her. The glow forced back Astra's creeping shadows, dispersing them like mist under the morning sun. Her plan was clear—limit his ability to use darkness as cover.

"Clever." 

Astra's eyes flicked to the others, his senses stretched, reading the battlefield like an open book. He could see their footwork, the shifting mana around them, the way they adjusted their grips on their weapons.

Ronan moved first.

The water mage's sword gleamed, flowing like a tide, a style designed for endless, exhausting combat. Strike, redirect, strike again—never stop, never leave an opening.

Edwin followed, his fire-infused blade a stark contrast to Ronan's liquid grace. Fire was wild, aggressive, relentless.Every swing was a commitment, a declaration of intent. One hit would burn through armor, flesh, and bone.

Lance was the opposite—controlled chaos. His morning star blurred through the air, propelled by wind magic. Each swing bent the space around it, dragging the air itself in its wake. Even if Astra dodged, the very force of it threatened to pull him off balance.

Garek, the mountain, held back for now, waiting for an opening. His warhammer was slow—but with earth magic, he didn't need to land a direct hit. If he struck the ground, he could shape the battlefield, control space, force Astra into a disadvantageous position.

They were working together well.

Astra grinned. "Good."

Ronan's sword lashed out. A flowing arc, aiming for Astra's ribs.

Astra stepped forward—not back.

He met the blade at the hilt, reducing the force of the strike, then twisted his own weapon to drive Ronan's arm off-course. A clean, efficient redirection.

But Edwin was already there. Fire surged, and Astra barely had time to pivot as a flaming slash cut through the space he had just occupied. The heat kissed his cheek, scorching the air.

Astra retaliated—a flicker of movement, a downward slash aimed for Edwin's shoulder.

Edwin barely blocked, but Astra had already moved.

He ducked under Lance's swinging morning star, feeling the rush of displaced air as it howled past his head. A fraction slower, and his skull would've been paste against the stone floor.

Then, the ground shook.

Garek slammed his warhammer down, and a spike of earth erupted toward Astra's back.

No time to dodge.

Astra whipped his sword behind him, striking the spike mid-formation, shattering it into harmless rubble. He landed on his feet—only for Sybil to fire a concentrated beam of light straight at his chest.

It hit.

Astra gritted his teeth as searing pain lanced through him. Even without her being a higher rank, light magic had natural destructive force against shadow-aligned mana.

She pressed the advantage, closing the distance with her broken spear. A feint to the left, a real strike to the right.

Astra let the first move pass through his guard—then caught the real attack with his bare hand.

The splinters of her shattered weapon dug into his palm. But he didn't care.

Astra yanked Sybil forward—not for an attack, but as a human shield.

Edwin's fire blast struck her instead.

She screamed, rolling away to avoid taking the full brunt of it. The moment of hesitation from Edwin was all Astra needed.

He stepped in, hooked his foot behind Edwin's ankle, and slammed his palm into his chest.

The fire mage hit the ground hard, air leaving his lungs in a pained gasp.

Four left.

Ronan was already retaliating, his water sword shifting into a high guard stance. His next moves would be precise, defensive, calculated.

Lance and Garek, however, were going for a more brutish approach.

Lance whipped up a burst of wind, using it to propel his next attack at blinding speeds. The morning star was twice as fast now, twice as deadly.

Astra needed to change the battlefield.

Instead of dodging, he moved toward Lance. 

A calculated risk.

"Lets end this.." 

Lance's eyes widened. He wasn't expecting that.

Astra grabbed the chain of the morning star mid-swing. The wind-infused metal ripped at his palm, but he held on. He yanked. Hard.

Lance stumbled forward, balance disrupted. Astra's knee came up in a brutal, merciless strike to his ribs.

Something cracked.

Lance choked, crumbling to his knees. The morning star fell from his grasp.

Garek roared.

Astra barely had time to react before the ground beneath him exploded upward. A massive pillar of stone slammed into his side, sending him skidding across the training hall.

Pain shot through his ribs.

Garek was already moving, warhammer raised, ready to finish it.

Astra exhaled sharply.

Then he threw his sword.

The weapon spun like a flash of dark metal, burying itself into Garek's gauntlet with a sickening crunch.

The dwarf bellowed in pain, grip loosening.

That was enough.

Astra moved.

A full sprint—he closed the distance in a heartbeat.

Then, he jumped.

One foot landed on Garek's knee, using it as a step. He launched himself higher, flipped over the dwarf's head—

—grabbed his sword mid-air—

—and slammed the pommel on Garek's helmet.

The large dwarf collapsed, unconscious.

Astra landed gracefully, rolling his shoulders. He turned to Sybil, the only one still standing.

She had recovered from Edwin's accidental fire blast, but her mana was running low.

She already knew.

Astra walked toward her like a dark sinister knight, shadows cloaked him and surged all around his aura surging and surging pressing down on her like a mighty river in a great flood....

Sybil raised her hands, dropping what remained of her broken spear.

"I yield."

Silence.

For a long, breathless moment, the training hall was silent.

The crowd of Rank One disciples, who had been watching from the sidelines, stood frozen. Their expressions were a mixture of shock, fear, and something deeper—reverence.

The fight had started as a test, a challenge against Astra. Some had whispered that the five—Ronan, Edwin, Sybil, Garek, and Lance—stood a real chance.

That illusion had been shattered.

Astra had taken them apart with surgical precision.

He hadn't just won. He had outmaneuvered, outclassed, and overwhelmed them. Five against one, and in the end, he stood untouched, barely winded, while they lay on the ground, groaning in pain or struggling to rise.

Some of the spectators instinctively took a step back, as if afraid they might be next. They had trained for years, honed their skills, and yet… watching Astra had made them feel like children wielding wooden swords.

A few clutched their weapons tighter, their knuckles white. The realization was sinking in:

This wasn't normal.

Fear in Their Eyes

"He—he made it look easy," someone muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"That wasn't just skill," another added, their voice shaking. "That was something else. Like… he was reading them. Like he knew what they'd do before they did."

"His footwork," an older disciple murmured, eyes flickering with reluctant admiration. "The way he controlled space—he made them fight on his terms. None of them even realized it."

A younger recruit swallowed hard. "And he—he wasn't even using his full strength, was he?"

No one answered. But the truth hung in the air like a blade at their throats.

Astra's movements had been too fluid, too calculated. Every dodge, every counter, every strike had been measured, as if he had been holding back.

And despite that, he had still demolished five trained fighters—each skilled in their own right.

Among the crowd, some of the more experienced warriors watched Astra with different eyes.

They had seen prodigies before. Talented duelists, powerful mages. But Astra wasn't just powerful—he was lethal. There was an elegance to his violence, a refinement that only came from surviving something far worse than a sparring match.

This was not the finesse of a noble-born duelist or an academy-trained knight.

This was the sharp, unforgiving precision of someone who had fought for his life before—and won.

One of the older Rank Ones exhaled slowly, watching as Astra dusted off his sleeves, unbothered by the carnage he had left behind. "That," he said quietly, "is someone who knows how to kill."

A chill ran through the gathered disciples.

They weren't just looking at a fellow Rank One anymore.

They were looking at something else entirely.

And whether they liked it or not, they knew—

Astra was above them.

.....

Astra finally let out a slow breath, his muscles still thrumming with energy. With one hand, he reached up and dismissed his helmet, letting it fall to the side as it disappeared into the mana coins storage.

Sweat trickled down his forehead, sliding through his dark curls, dampened from the exertion. He pushed his hair back, his breath steady, his chest rising and falling in deep, controlled motions. A sharp contrast to the five around him, who were only now beginning to stand.

His violet eyes flickered across the training hall, a slight, satisfied smile pulling at his lips—

Only then did he notice the silence.

The onlookers, hundreds of Rank One warriors, stood frozen, their eyes locked on him. Their gazes were a mixture of awe, respect, and something else—unease.

The Rank twos were simply smiling seeing new monstrous talent.

Astra was just getting used to being watched, but this was different.

Astra shifted on his feet, feeling a creeping sense of social anxiety coil in his chest. He had been too lost in the fight, too immersed in the battle, but now—now the weight of hundreds of silent stares pressed down on him.

Then he felt it.

A gaze.

A shadowed presence that sent a shiver up his spine, heavy like the weight of an unseen hand resting on his shoulder.

Slowly, Astra lifted his head.

From above, standing in the upper halls, a man in flowing black and gold robes observed him with a small, knowing smile. Bishop Alistair Tenebrous.

The Demi-god.

Astra met his eyes, but Alistair only nodded, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips before he turned, stepping away from the overlook. The shadows near him coiled and twisted, following his movements like obedient specters before swallowing him whole.

The moment he vanished, Astra exhaled, tension bleeding from his body.

"What an awesome man..." he muttered to himself.

The spell of silence broke as the crowd erupted into thunderous applause.

Some clapped in admiration. Others in pure disbelief.

"Unbelievable," someone murmured.

"That was insane—he took all five of them down like it was nothing!" another shouted.

"He adapted mid-fight! Did you see how he countered Sybil's light magic? How he read Lance's wind movements?"

Among them, the five warriors Astra had fought were already being tended to by the healing mages, golden and green light swirling around their wounds.

Edwin, the hot-blooded fire wielder, let out a short laugh. "Damn," he muttered, rolling his shoulders as the pain in his ribs eased. "That was a thrashing."

Ronan, the water swordsman, rubbed his jaw where Astra had punched him. "He's a monster," he admitted, though there was no resentment in his tone—only respect.

Garek, the burly earth mage, let out a gruff chuckle. "First time I've ever been hit so damn hard I felt it through my helmet." He shot Astra a grin. "Nice one."

Lance, the wind-user, exhaled sharply as the mages finished tending to his bruises. "You didn't even use all your elements," he noted.

Sybil, still a little breathless, gave Astra a curious look. "You... held back, didn't you?"

Astra merely smiled, reaching out to shake each of their hands in turn. "You all fought well," he said sincerely. "I had to be careful, or I'd have ended up on the floor instead."

Edwin scoffed. "Bullshit."

Lance smirked. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

Garek let out a full laugh. "Let's fight again sometime."

Astra turned away from the recovering warriors and approached the far side of the training hall, where a lone figure sat on a raised wooden platform.

The old blind instructor. A Rank Three warrior, his white hair tied into a simple bun, his milky eyes gazing forward as though he could still see the battle in his mind. His presence was calm, steady—like an immovable mountain.

As Astra neared, the old man's lips curled into a faint smile.

"Did this quench your thirst for battle, young lord?"

Astra, still catching his breath, gave a small nod. "Yes, sir."

The instructor chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. "Good. Then go rest. You've earned it."

Astra gave a slight bow of respect before turning away, already feeling the exhaustion creeping into his limbs. He needed a break—but he knew this was only the beginning.

"Gods im tired" Astra headed back satisfied as he knew, one real battle was worth a thousand lessons

....

The fight should have ended there.

The battle had been won, the five contenders had yielded, and Astra had left the training hall with nothing more than a lingering ache in his muscles and the satisfaction of combat well fought.

But the world had other plans.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone had recorded the duel—capturing every moment in stunning clarity. The way Astra moved like liquid shadow, dancing between blades and hammers, slipping through gaps that shouldn't exist. The way he fought with ruthless efficiency yet a strange, effortless grace. The way his deep violet eyes gleamed beneath his helmet before he finally pulled it off—revealing damp black curls, sweat-slicked skin, and a smirk that sent hearts racing.

The footage made its way onto the Mana Network.

And then, it exploded.

By nightfall, the entire House Shadow Mana Network was flooded with reposts, slowed-down replays, and heated discussions.

- "Who is Astra? Where did he come from?"- "That fight wasn't just talent—it was pure dominance."- "Astra just dismantled five of the top contenders in House Shadow, and he did it without breaking a sweat."- "No, he did sweat—look at him at the end. He's literally glowing. Who let someone this pretty be thisterrifying?"

It didn't take long before the conversation left House Shadow's domain and spread further.

The broader nobility, mercenary guilds, and even other great houses started picking up on the whispers.

Who was Astra?

The fight itself had been enough to send a shockwave through the ranks of young warriors, but what truly sent the public into a frenzy was how Astra looked at the end.

His charcoal-black curls clung to his forehead, drenched from exertion. His pretty, ethereal face—sharp yet soft in all the right places—was damp with sweat, his violet eyes flickering with the afterglow of battle. The exhaustion in his posture only made him look more human, more untouchably alluring.

Comments on the Mana Network were relentless:

 "Astra's existence just confirmed that House Shadow has been hiding a god." "Bro, I thought we were hyping his fighting, why is everyone thirsting over him??" "DID YOU SEE HOW HIS SWEAT DRIPPED OFF HIS JAWLINE? I NEED A MOMENT.""I showed this to my sister, and she said, 'He can ruin my life.' I have no words." "This guy fights like a demon and looks like a dream. How is this fair?"

Even those uninterested in swordplay were captivated.

Astra's fame was no longer limited to warriors and tacticians—his name was spreading like wildfire across every circle.

Some feared him. Some wanted to fight him. Some wanted something else entirely.

Back in House Shadow, Astra had no idea what was happening.

At least, not until Vesper barged into his room with his Mana Tablet in hand, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Astra blinked, half-dressed, his hair still damp from a bath. "What?"

Vesper threw the device onto Astra's bed.

"You...Princess" he wheezed, "are a problem."

Astra glanced at the screen.

Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of comments. Millions of views. His face, plastered across different angles, clips slowed down and enhanced, debates raging about his fighting style, his mysterious identity, and, of course, his absurd attractiveness.

Astra's stomach dropped.

"...Oh gods...."

..........

Duskfall Elven District

Central Region

In a vast arena the air in the arena was thick with the scent of damp earth and the crisp perfume of blooming flora. Heavy vines coiled around towering marble pillars, their emerald leaves swaying gently in the evening breeze. In the center of the verdant battlefield, a lone figure stood—an elf, tall and poised, her presence as sharp as the wind before a storm.

Her pale skin seemed to glow beneath the filtered sunlight, her luscious blonde hair cascading like liquid gold over her shoulders. But it was her eyes—a piercing, light glacial blue—that carried the true weight of her power. They flickered with intrigue as she watched the holographic video hovering before her, displaying the dark-haired warrior from House Shadow.

She had been eager—hungry—to face the five contenders.

She had studied them, analyzed their movements, and dreamed of the hunt. They were to be her prey, their defeat a testament to her skill.

And yet, in mere minutes, Astra had undone them.

The recording showed everything—the shattering precision of his strikes, the way he moved like a phantom through their attacks, the eerie stillness in his gaze before he struck with unrelenting force.

The elf clicked her tongue.

"What a shame," she murmured, though her disappointment was short-lived.

She tilted her head, studying the young lord more closely. His violet eyes, the way they gleamed as if he saw more than what was in front of him. His swordplay, which was both instinctual and honed, as if he had been forged in battle rather than trained.

The five were no longer her concern.

She had found something far more interesting.

A small, amused smile curled on her lips. Bigger game to hunt, indeed.

Mana surged around her in an instant—wind twisting the leaves into a spiraling vortex, lifting the very air around her as her body seemed to blur, moving faster than sight. Her training resumed, but her thoughts remained elsewhere.

Astra of House Shadow.

She would find him soon.

.........

Duskfall Central District

Human Quarters 

The training chamber was long, stretching into the darkness, with towering pillars casting elongated shadows. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, broken only by the steady pulse of mana—a suffocating, living darkness that devoured the dim glow of the setting sun painted across the walls.

At the center of it all sat a man, his posture still yet commanding. His long, wavy hair cascaded down his back, catching the faintest hint of light, but it was his eyes—light purple, burning gold at the edges—that pierced through the gloom like a predator scanning the abyss.

The darkness around him wasn't mere shadow—it was true darkness, tangible, heavy. It pressed against the walls, slithered along the ground, pulsed in tandem with his breath. It did not merely obscure the light; it consumed it, absorbed it, thrived in its absence.

Then, something changed.

A flicker of mana. A whisper of something... worthy.

His dark golden eyes sharpened, a smile curling onto his lips before he even realized it.

"Astra, huh?"

The name was new, but the weight behind it was undeniable. He had seen the video. He had watched the dark-haired noble of House Shadow dismantle five of their finest without breaking a sweat.

Another monster had entered the tournament.

His fingers twitched as the darkness around him responded, writhing like living tendrils.

House Shadow, always so secretive. First, they tucked away their infamous demons—that bastard Vesperion, the Shadowbeloved Velora, the Phantom Reaper. Hiding them away from prying eyes, letting them grow in the depths of the abyss.

And now this?

A new contender. A prodigy he had never seen that they seem to have had been cultivating in silence.

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Truly a house shrouded in shadows."

It was almost poetic—how they lurked, only revealing the pieces they wanted the world to see. But no matter.

It wouldn't change the outcome.

He pushed forward, diving into the abyss of his own mana, the darkness swallowing him whole.

The tournament just got far more interesting.

.........

Duskfall Human District

Eastern Quarters

In a chamber unlike any other, heat rippled through the air, distorting the very space itself. The walls, reinforced with powerful enchantments, glowed with an amber hue, absorbing the immense energy radiating from the colossal sphere above—a miniature sun, a condensed mass of divine fire and raw mana.

Beneath it stood a lone figure, his golden eyes gleaming, his skin pale but kissed with freckles that softened the sharp regality of his face. He looked like a prince ripped straight from an old heroic tale, the kind spoken of in reverent whispers, destined for greatness.

His golden eyes flickered with amusement as he watched the screen floating before him, playing the viral footage of Astra, the so-called rising specter of House Shadow.

"My, oh my," he murmured, the light of the sun illuminating his smirk. "The shadows seem to have grown quite audacious."

His steps were slow, deliberate, the very ground beneath him molten, softening under his weight but never daring to claim him. It obeyed him, just as all things under the sun should.

"Sending in a monster…" He tilted his head, golden strands of hair shimmering as he watched the dark-haired noble devastate his opponents with effortless grace. "What exactly are they trying to prove?"

A challenge? A declaration? Or merely another power move in the eternal game between light and shadow?

He exhaled, and his breath alone stirred the mana in the air, feeding the flames above. Then, his voice rang out—not as a whisper, nor as a boast, but as a command infused with the weight of his power.

"Rise."

The miniature sun trembled, pulsed, and then soared higher into the chamber, growing, intensifying. The already stifling heat surged, devouring every trace of darkness in the room as if it were cleansing the world itself.

Beneath its might, he stood unwavering, basking in its radiance, his aura flaring to its absolute peak. The sheer force of it sent cracks racing across the floor, the molten veins beneath the surface churning like a beast awakened.

And yet, he only smiled, standing directly beneath his creation, basking in the inferno, untouched.

"Well then… let's see how long this little shadow lasts beneath the sun."