Ersia: Raven Dawn

After Daigo’s victory, the day’s events continued as planned. Only two duels remained, but unfortunately, Viena, Lisabelle, and Theo had to leave. Lisabelle and Theo had some business to attend to—something about their project—and that meant Viena had to end her fun early.

The little girl protested, pouting in disappointment. The afternoon sun hadn’t even reached its peak, and yet she had to spend the rest of the day at home. But after a bit of coaxing from Lisabelle, a promise to take her out again tomorrow, and a small bribe in the form of snacks from the street stalls, Viena finally gave in.

“Can’t we at least go visit Daigo first? He looked really hurt,” Viena asked, her voice tinged with worry.

“If I were Daigo, I wouldn’t even want to hear you were coming,” Theo teased with a smirk.

“What? Why? I just want to cheer him up!” Viena blinked in confusion.

“You’re the one who said he was badly injured,” Lisabelle replied dryly. “He needs rest and focus to recover, not more noise to tire him out before his next match.”

Hearing that, Viena fell silent, realizing her sister was right. The three walked quietly through the bustling streets of the capital, surrounded by laughter, scents of roasted sweets, and music from festival performers. The city felt alive, as if the celebrations of Ludus Magnorum would never end. But Viena’s curiosity soon resurfaced.

“What about that snake? Where did that black snake come from?” she asked suddenly.

“Ah, that,” Theo said lazily, walking with his hands clasped behind his head. “Maybe they hid a few snakes under the sand?”

“The anklet,” Lisabelle replied curtly.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Anklet? What anklet?”

“If you noticed—after the match ended—the woman’s anklet was gone.” Lisabelle gestured subtly with her hand.

“You can’t mean—her anklet became that snake?!” Viena gasped in disbelief.

“That’s the only explanation that makes sense to me.”

“But I’ve never heard of magic like that before,” Viena said.

“Neither have I,” Theo admitted.

“Then why don’t you ask your father?” Lisabelle suggested. “Didn’t you say he knows a lot about strange things?”

“Oh! Right! I’ll ask Papa later!” Viena replied cheerfully.

By the time they reached home, the sun had softened into gold. Theo stayed for lunch, and Eleanor welcomed them warmly. She had prepared a thick fish stew, a recipe she’d learned from a cookbook purchased from one of the festival caravans that passed through town. The spices had been costly, but the way the children devoured her cooking with shining eyes made every coin worth it.

---

The Open Duel had now entered its quarterfinal stage. For reasons unknown, today’s matches were delayed by an hour. This small change only deepened the crowd’s curiosity, heightening the restless anticipation rippling through the stands. Everyone was eager—aching—to witness the clash of the eight greatest fighters from across Ersia, the pinnacle of martial brilliance upon the grandest stage ever known to men.

“I’ve emptied my stomach, drank just enough water, and went to bed early! I won’t have to run to the restroom this time! I’m going to enjoy every second of today’s matches!”

Viena raised her fists high with blazing enthusiasm. She had queued since dawn to secure a perfect seat—right behind the reserved section for royal guests.

“I can’t believe we finally get to watch again!” she squealed.

“I heard the duelists use all kinds of strange weapons and tools! I have to see them up close!”

“Gino, Gina—sit down already, before someone takes your seats. You too, Vivi,” Lisabelle sighed, sounding exactly like a mother wrangling three overly excited children. Normally she only had to keep an eye on Viena, but now with Gino and Gina joining them, her workload had tripled. Still, she didn’t mind. Her own pulse thrummed with excitement—after all, this was the day she’d see who among these champions could truly claim the title of the world’s finest warrior.

“Do you think someone will use a transformation spell like that whip lady yesterday?” Viena asked, eyes sparkling.

“Oh? So you’ve asked your father about that spell already?” Lisabelle tilted her head.

“Yes! Papa said transformation magic is really complex, and its difficulty depends on the type of change. Yesterday’s spell was about turning a living creature into a dormant object—something that can awaken on command. It’s a high-tier spell, but if the creature is a magical beast with certain innate traits, it becomes much easier. That’s what Papa said.”

“Oh… that’s quite fascinating.”

Lisabelle fell quiet, gazing at her palms. Viena’s explanation stirred something within her. She didn’t fully understand her own magic yet. All she knew was that her hands could mimic the texture of anything she touched—fabrics, metals, even stone. She could replicate them perfectly. Did that make hers a form of transformation magic? Perhaps… though turning oneself into an object wasn’t quite the same as transforming another being. Still, the thought gave her a new lead to explore.

Suddenly, the air shifted.

A thunderous blare of horns shattered the chatter of the crowd—three powerful blasts that made people instinctively cover their ears. Then silence.

A heartbeat later, the marching bands entered through the northern and southern gates—sixty performers in resplendent uniforms forming a circle by standing on the most outer side of the arena grounds, as if conjuring something unseen.

And then it happened.

From the heavens, a streak of golden light tore through the sky.

The band’s instruments fell silent—save for a single, booming drumbeat that echoed across the Great Gardenia. Smoke billowed along the arena walls, enveloping everything in a theatrical haze. The air grew electric.

A figure plummeted from above and struck the ground with a mighty crash—one knee down, fist pressed into the earth. Sparks scattered. Dust swirled. It was a superhero landing if ever there was one

From that brilliance descended a man—broad-shouldered, radiant, wrapped in a faint halo of flame and wind. He landed with a thunderous quake, one knee on the ground, fist planted—a superhero landing that sent dust and sparks swirling around him and his golden hair. In his hand he bore a great war hammer—its head engraved with an eight-pointed sun, its sharp rays glimmering like molten gold. The emblem was unmistakable: the same sun that once a manifestation of a guiding light itself. When he rose, the crowd gasped.

He looked exactly like Asmar—the Great Hero.

Even his laughter matched the legend’s. It rolled across the arena, warm and commanding, the laugh of a man who once faced down both men and monsters through seas of blood and storms of pain.

“Greetings, friends! How are you feeling today?!”

For a moment, no one dared to breathe. Then the arena exploded into cheers.

“ASMAR! ASMAR HAS RETURNED!”

“LONG LIVE THE SON OF DAWN!”

The cheers rose like a tidal wave. Tears welled in many eyes. Some clutched their hearts, whispering the old prayers once spoken in the hero’s name. For that instant, it felt real—Asmar had come back, the dawn reborn.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Tom Murphy, an actor—one of the most celebrated opera performer who had trained for months, sculpting his body, mastering every flicker of Asmar’s grin, every cadence of his voice. The Queendom of Rosmayne had spared no expense, enlisting master magicians to shroud him in with illusionary divine flame and glorious light.

He raised his hammer high toward the sky, eyes burning with conviction. The golden emblem on its hammer catching the sunlight and scattering it across the crowd.

“My friends,” he said, voice echoing like thunder wrapped in sunlight, “It takes far greater strength to preserve peace than to wage war. To be good is not to forsake power—it is to hold and restrain it with virtue. For only the strong can shield, and only the righteous can bear such might without ruin.

Let us be steadfast—let our fire be a hearth in winter, not a wildfire in spring.”

The crowd murmured in awe. Even the guards and priests watching from the balconies lowered their heads in silent reverence.

“And thus, to every soul in this arena—fight with honor. Laugh in the face of hardship. And let us not falter in the pursuit of the light.”

He lifted both arms. Runes blazed across his skin, cast by the archmages who powered the show. Fire gathered at his feet, swirling in spirals of divine light. The hammer pulsed with light—the eight-pointed sun emblem burning white-hot, as if channeling the fury of the heavens themselves. His pendant began to shimmer. His eyes ignited with golden fire. The air itself trembled as he began to chant.

Above him, a colossal, rotating magic circle unfurled across the sky, its rings filled with shifting runes of solar brilliance that stretched from one horizon to the other. The very air vibrated with sacred energy.

“O radiant flare that purges the wicked,

O ember that crowns the hearts of men—

Let the heavens bear witness to my vow.

Eradicate despair, sanctify the soil,

For I am the blazing incarnation of hope,

The flame that endures where darkness reigns.

May the land be graced with glory,

May the sky rain blessed abundance,

And may my virtues be eternal

To the unending tomorrow!”

As he raised his hammer high, a torrent of light burst skyward—pillars of flame spiraling into the heavens, forming the pure radiance of a stellar nebula. The entire arena trembled under the brilliance.

And then, as the light reached its peak, he wear a wide grin and shouted with every ounce of his breath—

“HERE COMES THE SUN!”

Tens of thousands of voices joined his, screaming the line in fevered unity—

“HERE COMES THE SUN!”

As the final words rang out, the magic circle flared to life, flooding the world with blinding brilliance. He then immediately brought down the hammer that is seemingly brimming with divine energy upon the earth.

The impact unleashed a cataclysmic burst of light—so bright it creats myriads of crepuscular rays upon the cloudy sky. Then, the entire arena trembled as a massive scorched emblem spread across the ground, perfectly mirroring the eight-pointed sun engraved upon his hammer’s face.

For a heartbeat, there was silence—only the echo of radiance and awe lingering in the air.

Then came the sound—soft at first—of applause, swelling like a wave breaking upon the shore. Some spectators rose to their feet; others simply stared, stunned by what they had just witnessed.

Viena’s small hands clutched the edge of her seat, her blue eyes wide and glistening. “So this is the great hero…” she whispered, her voice trembling somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“Although it’s not even close to the real one, it was real enough for us to remember him vividly,” said an old nobleman seated just in front of her, having overheard her words.

“The gentleman is right,” another noblewoman chimed in, tears tracing her cheeks. “They truly outdid themselves. I have never seen such an astonishing re-creation of the great hero’s signature move.”

Lisabelle, standing beside Viena, said nothing for a long while. The glow from the scorched sun emblem still burned faintly across the arena floor, reflected in her eyes. “…I suppose people will still tell his story for hundreds of years to come,” she murmured at last, her usual poise softened.

Meanwhile, Gino and Gina pressed their palms together in silent prayer. Words escaped them—their tears had become rivers. What once lived only in the pages of the book Lisabelle had given them now stood before their eyes, alive and blazing. They were too overwhelmed to even comprehend what they had just witnessed. It was a core memory immortalized.

The applause grew louder, echoing beneath the high arches of the Grand Gardenia as the curtain of dust began to fall—signaling not just the end of a performance, but the fading heartbeat of a legend reborn.

And then—

a lively, booming voice broke through the thunderous cheers.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Great Gardenia—what a divine spectacle that was! Let us give another round of applause for the man who brought the Dawn Hero back to life—Tom Murphy!”

The crowd erupted once more, clapping and whistling as the actor—now stripped of his blazing aura yet still radiant with sweat and triumph—bowed deeply to every corner of the arena. He lifted his hammer high one last time, and the light caught the etched sun emblem, drawing another cheer from the stands.

“Truly a sight to remember!” the commentator boomed, voice brimming with charisma. “But the time for remembrance has passed—it’s time for valor, skill, and fate to clash before our very eyes! I’m Bill Drury, and with me—arguably the world’s number one martial arts enthusiast—Martin Beglin! Together, we’ll be your hosts as we witness history unfold in the first-ever international open championship to decide who. is. the. greatest. duelist. in. the. worlddd!”

“The Open Duel Quarterfinals will now begin!”