Creation Of All Things

The sun hung low over Krayon Sol, its golden light washing across the marble towers and winding bridges like melted glass. The middle district buzzed with life—banners of every color fluttered between stone archways, magical symbols glowed above streetlamps, and voices of every species mingled in the air.

It was tournament day.

And it wasn't just any tournament.

The Celestial King himself had sanctioned this one. A once-in-a-decade show of strength and diplomacy, drawing in champions and warlords, mystics and monarchs, all under the guise of performance—but everyone knew what it really was.

A gathering of power.

And this year?

It was where Joshua planned to announce his return.

Adam walked at the front of the small group, his cloak brushing the ground behind him, silver eyes calm but alert. Beside him, Joshua moved with casual confidence, dressed in a sleek black vest and red-lined cloak, Kaiden trailing close in similar colors. Alice stayed close to Joshua, her fingers gently brushing his sleeve now and then, her eyes sharp behind the soft smile she wore.

As they turned the final bend toward the main plaza, the enormous venue came into view. A floating coliseum built atop a hovering disc of crystal and stone, surrounded by glowing chains anchored to sky-pillars. Spectators were already lining up in long, flowing robes, armor, or enchanted gear—beings of every race filing into the arcane elevators, chattering excitedly.

"That's it," Kaiden said, awestruck. "The Zenith Arena."

Joshua smirked. "You should see it from the top. It's like standing in the eye of a storm."

"Or a lightning rod," Adam muttered.

Ahead, standing at the base of the lift and looking extremely out of place in a bright orange scarf and greasy apron, was Vael—grinning, waving with one hand while holding a meat skewer in the other.

"There's our invite," Alice said, nudging Joshua with a smile.

But the moment was shattered.

A shriek tore through the air, followed by a blur of violet energy ripping down the plaza, straight toward them.

"Move!" Kaiden shouted.

But Adam didn't.

He simply raised one hand—calm, measured.

And flicked his fingers.

The air cracked.

The incoming figure was yanked mid-flight as if reality itself had changed direction. A violent burst of pressure bent the air, flinging the attacker sideways, smashing through a merchant stall and skidding across the plaza tiles.

Wood splintered. Dust rose. People screamed.

Guards turned instantly, swords drawn, magic flaring.

Vael didn't flinch. He just took a slow bite of his skewer. "Every damn time," he muttered, chewing.

The dust cleared.

The figure groaned and staggered up.

Hair wild. Cloak shredded. A cracked spiral mask hanging crooked off one ear.

Lyrix.

Joshua's face went still.

"Of course it's him," he muttered.

Lyrix spat blood to the side, his jaw twitching with rage. "You think you can parade through this city like you own it?" he roared. "You think just showing up makes you its leader again?!"

People were watching now. Crowds slowing. Curious eyes turning.

Exactly the kind of attention Joshua had hoped to avoid—until the right moment.

"Not the time," Adam warned, stepping in front of Kaiden.

Lyrix's eyes locked on him—and burned hotter.

"You think you're untouchable. All of you. Because you've got old stories and power behind your name. But you don't belong here anymore. You're ghosts wearing the faces of men!"

Joshua stepped forward slowly, calm but heavy with presence.

"Lyrix," he said. "Walk away."

"I won't," Lyrix snarled. "You humiliated me. You took everything from me!"

"I let you walk last time," Joshua said, voice lower now. "That won't happen again."

The crowd murmured louder. People pushed closer.

And Lyrix smiled. Because this? This was the stage he wanted.

"I don't care who you were," he snapped. "You're nothing now. And I'll make sure the world sees it."

From under his cloak, he pulled out a small orb, pulsing with dark light.

Aurora, now arriving behind the group, froze.

"The Spiral's mark," she whispered. "That's not an ordinary artifact."

Joshua's eyes narrowed. "What did you do, Lyrix?"

Lyrix's smile widened, cracked and bitter.

"I'm not just fighting for pride anymore," he hissed. "I'm fighting with a cause."

He raised the orb. The shadows bent.

And something old and wrong stirred in the air.

Joshua stepped forward—but not with fear.

With something colder.

Final.

"Then this is the last time we speak as men," he said, voice echoing across the plaza.

Adam cracked his knuckles. "Want me to handle it?"

Joshua shook his head.

"No," he said. "This time, I do it myself."

And across the sky, the coliseum glowed brighter—waiting. Watching.

The air cracked.

Not with sound, but silence.

A stillness that didn't belong.

And then—it began.

A ripple at the edge of the plaza. Shadows unfurled from the cracks in the stone, crawling like they had claws. The crowd gasped and stepped back as dark shapes emerged, slow and wrong. Like they'd always been there, just waiting to be seen.

Three figures.

No fanfare. No smoke. Just presence.

And dread.

Joshua stopped mid-step, eyes scanning the perimeter.

Lyrix grinned.

"I brought friends," he said.

The first to step forward was a woman with flame dancing in her palms—not wild, not alive. Chained. Fire that hissed like it hated its master. Her hair was scorched at the tips, her robes torn and stitched back with runes that burned. Her eyes were hollow.

Ashra.

The failed summoner who once tried to call a fire god and got burned from the inside out. Now she didn't command fire.

She argued with it. And it listened.

She cracked her neck, muttering under her breath.

The second was a man cloaked in pitch—no armor, just bandages soaked in ink that stained the cobblestones as he walked. His face was covered. His eyes? Gone. Just inky sockets dripping silence. When his blade was drawn, the air around it blurred—like it was slicing memory itself.

They called him Hush.

He didn't speak. But he bled ink, and the more he bled, the faster he moved.

And the third…

Wasn't even human anymore.

He was tall, shirtless, his skin pale like bone-charred ash. Hammer slung over his back, its head carved with spirals and faces that screamed without sound. Every tool he touched cursed its wielder. Every weapon he forged turned on its owner.

They called him Anvil.

And he smiled through cracked teeth.

The Pale Choir.

The Spiral's dogs.