Strength And Courage

The first stage of the tournament began, the King's decree echoing in the thunderous roar of the crowd – a palpable wave of sound that vibrated through the very ground, a low hum felt as much as heard. The air crackled with anticipation, thick with the scent of sweat, dust, and the metallic tang of blood from earlier skirmishes. "Citizens of our beloved King!" boomed the facilitator, his voice amplified by arcane runes etched into the stadium, a voice that resonated deep in the chest. "We gather to witness the selection of our new ruler!"

The crowd's cheers escalated, a deafening crescendo that shook the ancient stones of the amphitheater, the very air seeming to shimmer with the force of their collective excitement. Then, King Gymenium Goret emerged, his regal purple robes shimmering in the midday sun, his silhouette a stark contrast against the blinding light, his presence filling the vast, circular battleground. The scent of expensive perfume and polished leather hung faintly in the air around him.

"My people," his voice, a resonant baritone, cut through the hushed anticipation, "for generations, we've refined this method. No royal blood, noble title, wealth, or divine claim can inherit this crown without proving their worth through life and courage." His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of tradition.

A notorious criminal, infamous for unspeakable acts, was then brought forth – his ragged clothes a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding him. The stench of unwashed flesh and damp earth clung to him, a revolting counterpoint to the rich aromas of the crowd.

"Gahahaha!" the prisoner shrieked, his laughter a chilling rasp that scraped against the ears. "Do you think our selfish king would allow a poor, classless person to be a candidate?" His voice, laced with bitter contempt, echoed through the silent amphitheater.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd; their faces fell, etched with sorrow and disbelief. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional sob. Their sadness was palpable; the prisoner was the King's elder brother, beloved despite his dark deeds. The air felt heavy with unspoken grief.

"The preliminaries are complete," the facilitator announced, his voice regaining its composure. "Let us begin with a prayer to our goddess, offered by the United Aetherna Apostles." The sound of his voice was a welcome relief from the tension.

Figures in gleaming white armor, polished to a blinding sheen, ascended to a platform, each carrying a torch whose flames cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, their warm glow a stark contrast to the cold stone of the arena. The assembled crowd bowed their heads, eyes closed, their collective breath forming a silent prayer, a hush that could be felt as a physical pressure.

"Our goddess!" their voices rose in unison, a harmonious chorus that seemed to lift the very air, "we are flawed, touched by darkness… yet, you grant us peace. We shall follow your eternal light." The sound was a balm to the tense atmosphere.

Qshon Shun's turn arrived. The crowd's faces were a mixture of anticipation and excitement, their eyes glued to the arena, their breaths held tight in their chests. The air thrummed with nervous energy.

"Let the battle commence!" The facilitator's voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear.

Five elite soldiers, clad in armor that gleamed under the sun, brandishing weapons that shone with a deadly luster, charged towards Qshon. The clang of their armor was a deafening roar, the air filled with the metallic scent of their weapons. Qshon, unarmed, stood ready, his silhouette a stark contrast to their formidable appearance. The ground trembled slightly under their charge.

The soldiers' blades flashed, a whirlwind of steel aimed at overwhelming him. The sharp hiss of steel slicing through the air was almost deafening. But Qshon moved with impossible speed, each strike missing its mark by a hair's breadth. The clash of steel on steel, the grunts of exertion, the roar of the crowd – all painted a vivid picture of the intense battle. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the force of the blows.

Despite his agility, Qshon was on the defensive, forced to dodge a relentless assault. The soldiers pressed him, their coordinated movements a deadly dance, the air thick with the smell of sweat and impending violence.

"Finish him! He has no eyes in his sides or back!" a soldier yelled, his voice raw with exertion. Four surrounded him, one behind, a net of steel closing in. Qshon was trapped, their coordinated strikes a deadly ballet of steel. The air grew heavy with the expectation of bloodshed.

Qshon's confident expression didn't waver. "I shall win!" His voice, though calm, carried an unshakeable conviction.

Choenil and Luna watched from a distance, their faces etched with concern, the wind whipping their clothes around them. Anon and Nexus were absent.

"Sister! He's using it!" Luna gasped, her voice barely a whisper, the wind carrying her words away.

"Yes," Choenil said proudly, his voice a low rumble, "after all these years, he finally uses it again."

The crowd watched in stunned silence, their faces a mixture of shock and disbelief. The air crackled with tension. As Qshon declared victory, he moved with impossible grace, dodging each blow with effortless precision, his movements a blur of motion. The air seemed to shimmer around him as he moved. He didn't just evade; he countered, turning each attack into an opportunity, his movements precise and deadly.

The first soldier received a devastating kick, the sound of bone cracking audible even over the roar of the crowd, his armor crumpling like paper. The soldiers on either side were sliced, their weapons clanging as they stumbled, the metallic scent of blood heavy in the air. The soldier behind was struck by a stone, launched with surprising force, the sound of the impact echoing through the stadium.

The crowd erupted in a thunderous cheer, a wave of sound that washed over the arena, their voices a deafening roar of approval.

"A magnificent victory!" the facilitator exclaimed, his voice barely audible over the cheers.

A troupe of children, their bright costumes a kaleidoscope of color, provided a brief interlude of entertainment before the next fight, their youthful energy a welcome contrast to the tension. Their music, light and cheerful, filled the arena, temporarily washing away the lingering scent of blood and sweat.

In the waiting room, the air was thick with the smell of dust and stale air. Nexus, cloaked in a white hood, intercepted Qshon, his presence a cold shadow in the dimly lit room. "What was that? Your ability?" His voice was low and menacing.

"None of your concern," Qshon replied, his voice cool and dismissive. "And you hide yourself; how can I trust you?"

Nexus vanished, leaving Qshon to prepare for his next challenge. Anon was absent, consumed by his own internal conflict.

"Why? Did I say I would never give you that power?" Anon demanded angrily, his voice tight with frustration.

"No, you didn't, you abnormal one," Lux retorted, her voice sharp and brittle.

Lux Aeterna, the former goddess and Anon's mother, had lost her power due to Anon's control over the idea of "Ultimate Family Bond", a power surpassed by his ability, TTA. Hearing the prayers, she yearned for her former power, leading to a bitter conflict with her son. The air crackled with unspoken tension.

"Mother,.. if you weren't my mother, I wouldn't see you as an adult. You're more childish than an infant," Anon said, his voice devoid of emotion.

Lux fled, tears streaming down her face, her sobs echoing in the silence. Anon felt guilt but didn't follow. The silence hung heavy in the air.

"Ahhh, I hate this!" Lux cried, her voice echoing with despair, the raw emotion palpable. "Why am I in this world? I want peace! I want light!" Her words hung in the air, heavy with sorrow and longing.