Chapter 83: First Round Begins
(Read Author’s Note please! IMPORTANT!)
***
Tens of thousands of Epic-rank Hunters filled the vast white basin outside Kaelveth Prime, packed shoulder to shoulder beneath a sky that had gone strangely still, banners of a thousand houses hanging motionless overhead in air the tournament itself had stilled.
At the basin’s center, a Divine-rank Overseer floated above a pedestal holding a small, unassuming stone artifact, its surface carved with script that shifted and rewrote itself every few seconds, ancient symbols dissolving into new ones like the stone itself was still deciding what it wanted to say.
"The rule is simple," the Overseer announced, voice carrying to every corner of the crowd without visible effort. "Remain standing. The artifact’s pressure will rise, gradually, without pause, until only one hundred of you remain on your feet. Those hundred advance. Everyone else does not."
A murmur ran through the tens of thousands, and then the pressure began.
It came down like weather at first, a heaviness settling into shoulders and knees, invisible and total, the kind of force that didn’t strike so much as accumulate. Within minutes the front ranks were already trembling, faces going pale and jaws clenching tight against a weight that had no shape to fight back against.
Solenne planted her feet and breathed slow, feeling the crushing pressure settle into her freshly peaked Epic-rank frame like a held breath she refused to release, shadow curling faint and steady around her ankles as if even her new talent wanted to help anchor her down.
Beside her, Beatrix gritted her teeth, stubborn as ever, sweat beading along her jaw as the artifact’s hum climbed another register, her freshly learned Cerulean War Requiem thrumming low under her skin, patient, waiting for punishment worth converting.
Around them, hundreds fell in the first hour alone, knees buckling, bodies collapsing into the dirt in ragged waves as the invisible weight found their limits and pressed straight through them, the white basin slowly filling with those who’d already lost.
Neither woman moved from where they stood.
...
Seven hundred kilometers away, on the edge of a forest that swallowed the horizon whole, tens of thousands of Legendary-rank Hunters gathered beneath the shadow of a mountain they could not yet see.
Another Divine-rank Overseer addressed them from a raised dais of pale stone, the Great Zil Forest stretching dark and endless behind him.
"One hundred kilometers separate you from the peak of Celestial Fang Mountain," the Overseer said. "The first hundred to reach it advance. Simple enough. Here is the complication."
He raised one hand, and a shimmering dome of pale light unfurled overhead, capping the entire forest at exactly one hundred meters off the ground.
"No flight. No altitude above this ceiling, for any reason. Origin Tombs carry this same restriction within their depths, and this tournament will train you for exactly that reality before it ever matters." His eyes swept the crowd once, flat and final. "Break the ceiling, and you are disqualified on the spot. No warnings."
Aidan rolled his shoulders at the edge of the crowd, Duskrend Scythe humming faint and eager where it rested against his back.
’A hundred kilometers of forest floor, capped like a bottle.’ He grinned. ’Fine by me. I like the ground.’
The starting horn sounded, and the tree line swallowed tens of thousands of Hunters at once.
...
The forest was old in a way that felt less like age and more like patience, canopy layered so thick overhead that daylight arrived in scattered coins rather than sheets, trunks wide enough to hide a house standing shoulder to shoulder with things that glowed faint blue in the permanent gloom.
Roots the size of rivers coiled across the forest floor, and somewhere off in the deeper dark, things moved that hadn’t been introduced to the tournament rules at all.
Aidan moved through it alone, and alone was rare.
Groups of three, five, sometimes a dozen thundered past on either side of him, pooling resources and watching each other’s backs against whatever the Zil Forest decided to throw at them, formations tight and disciplined, the kind of coordination that took months to drill into a team.
A pack of five offered him a spot in passing without even slowing down, one of them calling out something about safety in numbers over the crash of their own footfalls.
"Appreciate it," Aidan called back, already three strides past them. "I move faster solo."
He wasn’t lying. Wind carried him low and fast between the ancient trunks, aspects folding into his stride until the forest blurred past in streaks of green-black shadow, roots and hollows and low-hanging branches parting around him like the whole forest had learned to get out of his way.
He covered ground the packs around him simply couldn’t match without slowing to coordinate every step, ducking under a fallen giant of a tree here, vaulting a ravine thick with mist there, never once breaking his stride to think about it.
Twenty kilometers in, he’d already passed most of the field, and the forest ahead had begun to thin of competitors entirely.
He was reaching for another burst of speed when five figures dropped out of the canopy directly into his path, boots hitting the forest floor in a loose, deliberate arc that blocked every easy line forward.
Aidan slowed to a stop, and recognition settled cold and immediate.
Two of the five he knew. Pale, aristocratic faces, robes cut from the same dark violet cloth as the Nevelrot elder’s, the coiled serpent crest glittering at both their collars.
He’d seen them standing silent and smug behind their family’s Divine-rank elder in the Overlord-class hall, watching their patriarch try to put him in his place.
They hadn’t looked nearly this pleased to see him then.
"Garen." The taller one said the name like it tasted foul in his mouth, violet eyes gleaming in the forest’s dim light. "Or whatever you’re actually called. Small world, isn’t it."
"Guess it is." Aidan glanced at the three strangers flanking them, mercenary-plain gear, professionally blank expressions. "Friends of yours, or hired help?"
"Does it matter?" The second Nevelrot smiled, slow and unpleasant. "Our grandfather was very displeased after that little scene at the shelter. Family honor and all that tedious business."
"He insulted my friends first," Aidan said. "I just answered."
"You embarrassed him. In public. In front of Enforcers." The taller one’s smile didn’t reach his eyes at all. "A hundred kilometers of forest, no witnesses, no cameras, and a very convenient tournament rule against flying." He spread his hands. "Accidents happen out here all the time, Garen. Ask anyone."
The three hired blades shifted their weight, settling into loose, ready stances behind the two cousins, and the forest around them went very quiet, the way it always seemed to right before something started.
Aidan didn’t reach for his scythe. He didn’t need to yet.
He just rolled his neck, unbothered, and let a slow, sharp grin spread across his face.
"You know," he said, "I was having a nice, quiet run. Genuinely enjoying myself." He flexed his fingers, lightning crawling lazy between them. "Rude of you to interrupt that just to threaten me with your grandpa’s feelings."
The taller Nevelrot’s smile finally cracked.
"Kill him," he said. "Slowly, if you can manage it."