Encircling the stage were five imposing men, each clad in impeccably tailored golden suits that shimmered under the dappled sunlight. Their presence alone radiated authority, their sharp gazes scanning the area as if they were waiting for something—or someone—of great importance.
Suddenly, from beneath the stage, a platform rose, carrying King Carter—a tall, commanding figure adorned in a regal golden mask that gleamed under the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. His long cape billowed slightly as he stepped forward, surveying the VIPs with a casual yet knowing gaze.
“Alright, so you’re the only ones who showed up?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as the suited men silently began dropping folded slips of paper into a gilded bucket.
Carter picked it up and began unfolding the bets, his eyebrows raising slightly. “Huh. Everyone bet on Melanthius,” he remarked, glancing at the men in gold. None of them reacted—no words, no expressions, just the quiet confidence of those who already knew the outcome.
With a shrug, Carter set the bucket aside. “Whatever. I’ll still make plenty of revenue from the regular spectators—those who just want to see a good fight rather than scouting future powerhouses,” he mused.
He then moved to the stage, carefully placing down sleek, enchanted nameplates, each one glowing faintly as it locked into position. “When they arrive tomorrow, they’ll find their names here. Probably get a grand introduction, too,” he said, stepping back to admire the arrangement.
A smirk tugged at his lips. “There are a lot of strong contenders this year,” he added, his voice laced with intrigue.
Early in the morning, on the misty outskirts of Auroria Dominion, Mel, Lucy, and Lance stood before the airboat, its sleek frame hovering just inches above the water. The vessel hummed softly, reflecting the gray sky as raindrops pattered against its metallic surface.
Mel turned to face Bimoth and Althara, who stood a few feet away, their expressions calm but resolute. “I can count on you guys, right?” he asked with a confident smile. “Just guard Atlantis, don’t start any fights, and keep selling that batter, yeah?”
Bimoth smirked and gave a nod, while Althara simply crossed her arms. Without another word, the two figures turned and vanished back into the bustling streets of Solstice City.
Mel exhaled and walked over to Lucy, handing her a sleek, silver pass. “This will get you into the backstage areas with us,” he explained. She took it, looping the lanyard around her neck with a quiet nod.
“Okay,” she replied flatly, her eyes fixed on the airboat.
Lance, standing beside them with his usual cocky grin, nudged Lucy. “Don’t worry, he won’t win anyway,” he teased.
Mel shot him a look, crossing his arms. Before he could retort, a deep rumble of thunder echoed overhead, and the rain began to pick up. He held out his hand, watching the droplets collect on his palm.
“We should start loading up. The rain’s getting worse,” he muttered, his tone shifting to focus. With that, they turned toward the airboat, ready to embark on their three-week journey to Zephyrreach.
Moments later, Mel stood at the very edge of the airboat, the wind whipping through his hair as he gazed out at the endless sky. Clouds stretched as far as the eye could see, and the world below was nothing but a distant memory.
“I’ve never been on a boat in the sky before!” he said, excitement clear in his voice.
At a small table nearby, Lance clung to its edge with a queasy expression, his face a sickly shade of green. “C-can you not stand so close to the edge like that?” he muttered, pressing a seasick patch onto his shoulder.
Lucy, sitting across from him, glanced at the table before looking up at him. “Are you airsick?”
Lance weakly nodded before groaning. “Yeah. It’s bad.” Without warning, he lurched forward and vomited into a bucket, his entire body shuddering from the motion.
Mel, entirely unfazed, took a few steps closer to the edge, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
Lance’s eyes widened in panic. “Mel, you’re gonna fall!” he blurted out, gripping the table even tighter.
Mel turned his head slightly, a smirk forming on his lips. “I’m not gonna fall—”
Just as the words left his mouth, a powerful gust of wind slammed into him, ripping him right off the edge. His triumphant smirk was instantly replaced by sheer panic as he plummeted downward, his scream echoing through the sky.
“Mel, no!” Lance shrieked, scrambling to the edge despite his dizziness. He hesitated, heart pounding, before reluctantly peering over the side.
To his shock, Mel wasn’t falling at all. He was effortlessly flying alongside the ship, riding the wind currents with an amused grin.
“Thought you didn’t care,” Mel chuckled and Lance let out a long, exhausted sigh, sinking back into his seat. “I hate you,” he grumbled, pulling the bucket closer just in case.
Some time later, Mel sat at the airboat’s small table, his eyes fixed on his computer screen as he scrolled through footage of past Sky Jousting tournaments. The grainy videos flickered across the screen, each one showcasing the brutal reality of the competition. Warriors clashed mid-air, some striking their opponents with devastating force, others barely hanging onto their mounts before plummeting into the clouds below.
“The former Sky Jousting tournaments were brutal,” Mel muttered, watching a particularly savage fight where one contender was sent spiraling to the ground, unmoving. “Some fights ended in death, others left people with permanent injuries… and sometimes even the spectators got caught in the crossfire.”
Lucy leaned in, her sharp eyes scanning the carnage. “I doubt you’ll have to hold back against these guys. Most of them aren’t even human.” She pointed at the profiles of the upcoming contestants, some sporting horns, wings, or mechanical enhancements.
Lance, who had been trying to focus, took one look at the bloodied scenes and promptly vomited into his bucket.
Mel ignored him and continued scrolling. “There’s only one match per day. A one-on-one fight, then a points match, then another one-on-one. But there are also two-on-two matches. How would that work with just twenty contestants?”
Lucy tapped on another article. “Sometimes you’ll go up against these people called VIPs. They look like normal competitors, but they’re actually outside challengers brought in to test the fighters. There are only five of them, though.”
Mel hummed in acknowledgment before closing his laptop and stretching. “I should get some more training in.” He stepped away from the table and raised his hand. Threads of shimmering silk wove together in the air, forming a humanoid figure—a Silken Enforcer. Its grotesque, featureless face twitched as it solidified, and Mel willed it to morph. Its right arm stretched, twisting into a curved sickle.
Lance, still recovering, glanced up and groaned. “How do those things even work?”
Mel crossed his arms, proud of his creation. “Thanks to my magic from Shieka, the Wild Storm Spider, I can summon and control them. They’re not sentient, so I have to give them commands. I can alter their forms too—” He flicked his wrist, and the Enforcer’s sickle arm shifted into a jagged spear, then a massive hammer, before reverting to the sickle. “They also use web magic.”
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Lance sighed, gripping his katana tightly. “I’m gonna have to fight my own sensei… and in my eyes, he’s never lost.” He stood up and stepped to the side of the deck, practicing slow, deliberate strikes.
Meanwhile, Mel floated off the ship, his feet barely skimming the air as the Silken Enforcer hovered in front of him. With a sharp movement, the Enforcer lunged, slicing downward with its sickle. Mel crossed his dragon-fanged sais, blocking the strike as blue flames flared from the blades.
The training began.
—
Over the next few hours, the air around the ship became a battleground.
Mel’s Training:
- He focused on maneuvering mid-air, dodging attacks with precise bursts of wind magic.
- His Silken Enforcer adapted, switching between different weapons, forcing him to react faster.
- He sharpened his counters, using his sais to redirect attacks before launching his own explosive strikes.
Lance’s Training:
- He honed his swordsmanship, moving through precise kata with his katana.
- He practiced against multiple opponents using conjured illusions, adjusting to unpredictable attacks.
- He worked on footwork, moving fluidly across the deck despite his airsickness.
—
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the three finally slowed. Mel wiped sweat from his brow and smirked at Lucy and Lance, who were equally exhausted.
“Alright,” he said, spinning his sais before sheathing them. “That should be enough for today. Tomorrow… we land in Zephyrreach.”
The next day, as the airboat glided through the clouds, the towering silhouette of Zephyrreach came into view. Suspended high above the world, the sky-bound city rested on a vast floating landmass, its foundation hidden beneath a sea of swirling mist.
Golden bridges arched between enormous levitating platforms, each one holding a district of the city. Towering spires, adorned with glowing runes, reached toward the sky like celestial lighthouses, their tips crackling with contained lightning. Airships and skydocks lined the outskirts, where merchants and travelers bustled, their vibrant banners flapping in the wind.
Zephyrreach was alive with motion. Mechanical birds zipped between towering domes, delivering messages. Gilded windmills spun lazily, harnessing the powerful currents that sustained the city’s elevation. The architecture blended elegance with ingenuity—marble streets intertwined with veins of floating crystal, channeling energy throughout the metropolis.
At the city’s heart stood the Sky Coliseum, an awe-inspiring structure suspended by massive chains linked to floating islands. Its open design allowed the wind to howl through its massive archways, and banners bearing the insignias of past champions fluttered in the high-altitude breeze. This was where the Sky Jousting Tournament would unfold.
Mel leaned over the airboat’s railing, eyes wide with excitement. “Now that’s a city.”
Lucy adjusted the visitor’s pass around her neck. “I see why the tournament’s held here. It looks like a place built for warriors.”
Lance, still looking a little pale, rubbed his temples. “As long as the ground doesn’t move too much, I’ll be fine.”
The airboat descended toward the docks, where officials in wind-stitched uniforms awaited them. The tournament was about to begin.
Mel, Lance, and Lucy stepped onto the wooden docks of Zephyrreach, where the cool morning breeze carried the scent of salt and steel. Around them, eighteen other contestants arrived, some walking alone, others in quiet conversation. Despite the variety of warriors, all eyes soon locked onto the five men standing at the front of the dock, each wearing a pristine golden tuxedo.
Lucy leaned in and whispered, “Those are the VIPs.”
Mel gave a small nod, studying the five men. Their presence radiated authority, but more than that, an air of superiority.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man with thick muscles stretching the fabric of his suit, stepped forward. He opened his mouth to speak, but the murmur of the contestants drowned him out. His jaw tightened.
“Alright—” His voice was firm but quickly overpowered again.
His patience snapped.
“Shut the fuck up!” he bellowed, his voice booming across the docks like a gunshot.
The group immediately silenced, though a few hushed whispers lingered.
With the attention now fully on him, the man straightened his tie and introduced himself. “I’m Daniel Baxter.” His arms were as thick as tree trunks, his physique straining against the tailored tuxedo.
Another man, shorter in stature with slicked-back blue hair, stepped forward next. “Beckham Rojas.” He adjusted his tie with a practiced elegance, his sharp eyes scanning the group.
The third was tall and lean with a shaved head, his posture rigid like a soldier’s. “Ace Carpenter.” His voice was low, steady, and void of any unnecessary emotion.
The fourth was another muscular figure, but what stood out was the black tie wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold. A katana rested at his hip. “Branden Kinney.” His words were short, efficient.
Finally, the last man stood out from the rest—not due to his strength, but his round frame. He adjusted his glasses with one hand while shoveling a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth with the other. “Taylor Barnes. Is this all? These contestants look weak as hell.” He spoke between bites, barely glancing at the group before returning to his meal.
Branden suddenly turned his head toward Mel, his expression shifting into one of recognition. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and bowed slightly. “Your Majesty.”
The other contestants turned to look at Mel, murmuring in confusion or curiosity.
Mel waved a hand dismissively, a casual smile on his face. “Hey, you don’t have to be so formal,” he said. “I’m older than you.”
Branden straightened, nodding in acknowledgment. “Understood.”
Despite the brief interaction, the atmosphere had already changed. Some of the contestants now eyed Mel differently—some with respect, others with silent resentment.
This tournament had just gotten a lot more interesting.
Taylor finished his meal in a few quick bites before casually tossing the plate aside. He wiped his mouth and clapped his hands, his golden suit shimmering under the lights.
“Alright, all contestants must now head to their rooms at the Cloud Hotel. Tomorrow at 8:00 sharp, you’ll report to the coliseum for a demonstration match led by us. Make sure to wear tuxedos.” His voice carried a tone of authority, leaving no room for negotiation.
He smirked before adding, “Tomorrow, the first match will begin. Tonight at the coliseum, we’ll draw the names of the first two fighters.”
Before anyone could ask questions, the five golden-suited figures vanished in a streak of gold, leaving behind a stunned silence.
Excited murmurs filled the area as contestants whispered among themselves, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Mel, Lance, and Lucy turned toward the coliseum.
“Wow, they mean business,” Lance muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Mel nodded. “Yeah… this is going to be intense.”
Suddenly, footsteps approached. A boy with three-section nunchaku hanging from his neck strode toward them, his expression unreadable. His dark green eyes locked onto Mel with unsettling curiosity.
“I’m Gust Watton.” His voice was smooth but carried an underlying sharpness. He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly. “So you’re the infamous Melanthius Shadowbane. Your name is all over the news in my country. Thought you were dead.”
He clicked his tongue and sighed dramatically. “That sucks. If you die in this competition and somehow come back, that’s basically cheating. You’ll never understand what it truly feels like to be on the brink of death.” His tone was casual, but the underlying malice was clear.
Mel instinctively scratched the black-gold marking on his arm and the side of his face, a subconscious reaction to the mention of death. The memory of Goldman weighed on him, stirring an uncomfortable insecurity.
“I uhh—”
Before he could respond, Lance stepped forward, his stance firm.
“Watch it.” His voice was unwavering. “This guy has probably looked death in the face more than all of us combined.”
Gust shifted his gaze downward, examining Lance with an unimpressed smirk. “And who the hell are you?”
Lance cracked his knuckles. “I’m his student.” His words carried a sense of pride, as if daring Gust to challenge him.
Gust scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Then why’d you even come? You’re not even worthy of my two-section staff.”
Without warning, Gust lashed out, throwing a sharp punch at Lance’s face—
—but the moment his fist moved, his vision twisted.
Suddenly, he saw himself staring at his own severed head. His throat burned, his body cold as if the life had been drained from him. He clutched his neck in pure terror, his face losing all color.
His breathing quickened. Was he… dead?
Then—just as quickly as it came—the vision disappeared.
Gust staggered back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes darted around, searching for an explanation. But there was none.
Unbeknownst to him, Lucy stood a few steps behind Lance, her fingers subtly lowering from a faint gesture. Her Phantom Severance Technique had planted the illusion into his mind, making him experience a death that never truly happened.
Gust swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. “W-whatever,” he muttered, his voice shaky. “You’re gonna lose anyway.” He turned and walked off, though his steps weren’t as confident as before.
Lance raised an eyebrow, glancing at Lucy. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
Lucy nodded. “Maybe.”
Mel exhaled, shaking his head. “Well… that was a fun first impression.”