Ersia: Raven Dawn

A thunderous roar surged through the stands. Flags snapped like whips in the wind, thousands of feet stomped in rhythm, and the sound of drums reverberated like a war cry and a prayer all at once. The air shimmered with meta.

From the far gate, the lights dimmed—then burst open in a shower of swirling, magically enhanced petals, their colors shifting from ivory to gold with each heartbeat. The petals spun in spirals, guided by invisible enchantments, catching the torchlight and casting thousands of tiny suns across the audience.

One by one, eight figures emerged through the golden storm. Each wore a ceremonial white robe with light-blue streaks, the fabric flowing like water under sunlight. On their chests gleamed the emblem of Ludus Magnorum—an eight-pointed star intertwined with an open laurel wreath;

The star symbolized Hope, its radiant points representing the spirit of Asmar, the light that guides people even in the darkest dusk. The wreath embodied Courage, a crown that rests in every heart, a force to break limitation. At its center, a single circle—a symbol of Virtue in perpetual continuum, moral core that sustain the world peace.

The attire was not for battle, but for honor. It was the royal committee’s way of introducing these warriors not as mere fighters—but as champions standing before the world.

Bill’s voice rang out again, amplified by a spell that made every syllable feel like it brushed against the listener’s chest.

“For those of you joining us for the first time, behold the eight who have endured every trial, crossed blades with the finest, and claimed their place in history. This is the peak of the Open Duel!”

The crowd surged like a living ocean. Old fans raised banners with names they’d cheered since Day One; new faces leaned forward, wide-eyed, to witness legends in the making. The energy was electric—no, golden—as if the very air itself awaited the clash to come.

This was no longer just a tournament.

It was a moment that would be remembered.

---

After the dazzling opening ceremony of the Open Duel Quarterfinals, the first match of the day was about to be announced. Yet curiously, Bill Drury did not reveal the names of the two fighters who would face each other.

He deliberately let the tension steep, allowing the crowd to whisper and speculate, their murmurs rippling like restless wind through the stands.

“Boss, who do you think’s going to fight first today?” Gina asked, leaning closer to Lisabelle with eager, shining eyes.

“I don’t really care who,” Gino cut in before Lisabelle could answer. “They all look insanely strong anyway!” he said, practically bouncing in his seat.

Lisabelle exhaled through her nose in amusement, her gaze sweeping across the colossal Great Gardenia Arena. “Who knows,” she replied at last. “But one thing’s certain—we’re lucky this entire Ludus Magnorum event is still free for now. I doubt it’ll stay that way forever.”

“You mean… they’ll make us buy tickets like in a theater?” Viena tilted her head.

Lisabelle didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes roamed over the sea of humanity filling the arena. Tens of thousands of people cheered and roared like waves upon a shore. Vendors shouted over each other to sell their festival treats; security officers stood vigilant at every gate. The city itself seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the crowd.

“Look closely, Vivi,” she finally said softly. “This atmosphere… this is far from the previous days. This is a different world entirely. I can already tell—the semifinals and finals will be even more outrageous. And people who smell profit? They won’t let a spectacle like this slip away.”

“But this is supposed to be a people festival made for everyone!” Viena pouted.

“If only everyone thinks like you do,” Lisabelle murmured with a faint smile, ruffling her little sister’s hair.

Then—like a spark striking oil—a triumphant fanfare exploded through the arena. The first fighters stepped into the spotlight.

From the northern gate emerged a man whose presence silenced the crowd for a breath. His skin was the color of midnight, his broad torso bare and painted with white war paint mimicking the shape of big cats' eyes. Crude stitch-like markings snaked across his arms and chest as though he’d been sewn back together from death itself.

His arrival was a study in ritual warcraft—every piece of his kit announced him before his footfall did. He wore a broad cloak of tawny hide patterned like a leopard’s pelt, the fur’s rosette-marks set off by bands of tightly woven beadwork that ran down the shoulders and chest in geometric rows. Over one shoulder hung an isihlangu-style shield—an imposing oval of cured cowhide stretched over a wooden frame—its surface painted in stark white and ochre stripes that made it look like a moving omen when he turned. Thick leather thongs and brass fittings cinched the shield to his arm, and dangling cowrie shells tinkled faintly with each small motion.

Around his waist, a skirt of layered hide cut from various beasts—impala, kudu, and a darker strip of wildebeest down the rear—swayed as he moved. The edges of the hides were trimmed with rows of colored beads and tiny bone-tassels; some strips bore embroidered sigils that might have been clan marks if the crowd could read them. Across his chest were several necklaces: carved bone, tight seed beads in deep indigo and scarlet, and a central gorget fashioned from the hollowed horn of an antelope—its tip polished and capped in hammered bronze.

His headdress was a savage crown: a circlet of braided leather from which rose a fan of vulture feathers—long, glossy, and blackened at the tips—laid in alternating ranks so the silhouette read like a halo and a threat at once. Strips of hide and bead-laced cords fell from the back of the circlet, framing his face and throat.

Yet, above all, it was his eyes that unsettled the crowd the most. Each iris was split like a cracked gem, patchworked with different colors that seemed to shift in the light.

He did not walk—he loomed, his very presence dragging a chill across the arena. Some spectators cheered wildly, drunk on the thrill of danger. Others winced and frowned, unable to disguise the unease twisting in their stomachs.

For a heartbeat, it felt less like a man had stepped onto the stage… and more like something that had clawed its way out of the grave.

“Yrka! Yrka! Yrka!”

“Gwishin!”

“Sluagh! Tá m’athair ceart!”

“Babau! Mother, look! It’s Babau!”

Voices erupted from the crowd in a dozen tongues, naming the creatures of their homelands—ghosts, fiends, things born from the deepest folk terrors. All of it was hurled toward him, the figure emerging from the northern gate.

He was an elf, though no song nor poem could have prepared the onlookers for his presence. His frame was lean, but the cords of muscle along his arms, shoulders, and back moved like coiled steel beneath his pallid, snow-white skin. He stood a little taller than most men. Three small white earrings dangled from his broad right ear. His hair—light green, the shade of early spring leaves—fell past his shoulders, and his eyes mirrored the same hue, shimmering faintly beneath the arena lights.

His attire bore the unmistakable breath of the forest—woven not merely of cloth, but seemingly with the woods themselves. A long, sleeveless mantle of dark green and pale ash draped from his shoulders, patterned with delicate whorls resembling tree rings. Each thread shimmered faintly like morning dew catching sunlight.

Beneath it, his light armor was a lattice of barksteel—smooth and pale as birch, yet carrying a tempered hardness that only ancient groves could forge. Thin lines of living moss crept along the seams, pulsing softly with bioluminescent veins. On his forearms were carved wooden bracers etched with runic sigils, whispering old elven oaths whenever touched by wind.

His trousers, dyed in muted earthen tones, were fitted for movement, bound with a plaited vine sash from which dangled three small pouches and seed capsules. Barefoot, the soles of his feet were wrapped in silk-like root fibers—grown, not woven—allowing him to move with the silence of falling leaves.

In his grip was a short staff of pale wood, no longer than his arm. As he drew the strands of his hair back into a neat tie, the arena quaked with cheers—most of all from the women in the stands.

As before, the referee stepped forward to recite the rules once more. The audience groaned, hungry for blood and brilliance rather than formalities, but the man in the black-and-white plate armor uniform did not falter. The rules would be upheld.

“From the northern corner—Obagwam Cheik Ademi of Gondwand! Prepare yourself!”

From beneath the crimson cloth that draped his shoulder he drew an akrafena—but not the gilded ceremonial short sword one might expect. This was an obsidian akrafena: the blade was forged from volcanic glass, flaked and honed into a near-black edge that shimmered with oil-slick iridescence in the torchlight. The hilt was bound in tightly wound leather and inlaid with brass studs; etched along its spine were tiny Akan-style motifs—stylized fish and geometric crests—burnished to a dull gold. Where ceremonial akrafena mark leadership and oath-bearing, this blade sang of both ritual and lethal intent. In his hand it looked impossibly light and impossibly keen, like a promise of midnight made flesh.

As he turned the weapon in the lights, the jagged obsidian caught glints of the arena fire—sharp as a grammar of violence, quiet as a judge’s breath. It was not merely a tool; it was a statement: the man before them was both champion and sacrament.

The referee turned to the opposite side, hand raised.

“From the southern corner—Mikael Calis of the Rhuttane Woods! Prepare yourself!”

Mikael—graceful, unhurried—produced three nut-sized seeds from his satchel, fitting them between the fingers of his right hand like a duelist preparing his knives.

Then came the sharp cry of the silver whistle.

Instead of lunging at one another like beasts, both men held their ground. Ademi began to circle the arena with the patience of a predator, each step deliberate, eyes fixed on his prey. Mikael mirrored him, light on his feet, green eyes glinting beneath the open sky. The tension thickened like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

And then—Ademi charged. His obsidian akrafena blade gleamed like black fire, his shield braced close to his chest as his feet pounded against the earth.

Mikael answered not with steel, but with seed and spell. He flung the small seeds from his palm and struck them midair with his white staff, each swing clean and swift as a river current.

“Greim—Lingwurm!”

The first seed shot forward like a sliver of living silver, slicing through the air. Gasps rippled through the audience as it darted toward Ademi’s neck—toward the pulsing artery beneath his jaw. With a guttural snarl, Ademi twisted aside, the projectile brushing past him with a hiss.

“He dodged that!” Martin Beglin’s voice thundered through the stadium’s speakers. “By the gods—that was a hair’s breadth!”

“Calm precision from Mikael… raw instincts from Ademi,” added Bill Drury, his tone sharp with excitement. “This is what we came to see!”

Mikael did not wait. His voice rang out again—

“Fás—Raach!”

The second seed, struck by the staff, expanded midair. It swelled like a living heart, its bark thickening into a massive pod as gravity caught its weight. A collective roar burst from the stands as the seed, now the size of a boulder, plummeted toward Ademi like judgment from the sky.

With a feral roar, Ademi vaulted upward, shield raised high. The impact hit like thunder, deflecting the monstrous seed off course. He rolled across the ground with the grace of a seasoned hunter, dirt scattering beneath him, before springing back to his feet—scarred, but unbroken.

And then he saw it—

Mikael was already readying the third shot.

“Pléasc—Bláthsi!”

The final seed streaked forward, dead center at Ademi’s face. At the last split second, the warrior slashed upward in a black arc—

The seed split cleanly in two.

BOOM.

The explosion detonated with a sound like the cracking of the world. Fire and wind burst outward, sweeping dust and debris in a hungry wave. Ademi staggered back, his cheek singed, the skin blistering under the heat. But worse than the burn was what followed—

Thick white smoke erupted from the shattered seed, far denser than anything natural. Within seconds, it billowed outward, swallowing the arena whole like fog from some otherworldly swamp.

“What in the blazes—this isn’t just smoke, this is a forest’s shroud!” Bill shouted over the roar of the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t even see my co-host, and he’s three feet away!” Martin coughed. “The arena is completely engulfed!”

The spectators leaned forward in their seats, some rising entirely, craning to see through the choking mist. Shouts and murmurs cascaded through the stands: some thrilled, others anxious.

Viena clutched Lisabelle’s sleeve, her blue eyes wide. “Where did they go?”

Lisabelle’s gaze narrowed into the haze, a small grin ghosting her lips. “He’s setting the stage,” she murmured.

All around, the once-clear battlefield had transformed into a choking, milky-white haze. The blast had birthed a storm of smoke so dense that the world beneath looked like a shifting dreamscape. But from the stands above, the crowd still had a hazy view of the figures moving below—two silhouettes locked in a deadly dance.

Then came a sound that didn’t belong on a battlefield. A wet snap—followed by a guttural crack.

Ademi jerked violently as something coiled around his leg, pulling him upward in one swift, merciless tug. His body swung in the air, caught in the strangling grip of a massive vine—the very plant that had sprouted from Mikael’s first seed, the one everyone thought had missed.

“He’s got him—Mikael’s trap worked!” the commentator’s voice flared through the stadium, slicing through the fog like a blade.

A roar thundered from the stands.

Mikael wasted no time. The white wood of his staff pulsed, then flushed into a crimson glow. Scarlet light pooled at the tip—pure, concentrated intent to wound. With a deft motion of his fingers, he stroked the light and shaped it into sharp, spectral arrows.

“He’s manifesting it—pure Anima conversion, clean execution!” the commentator barked, awe and thrill mingling in his tone.

The first arrow shot out with a banshee’s scream. Ademi twisted violently midair, his body bending in ways that should have been impossible. The arrow hissed past his throat by mere inches, tearing through the mist.

Mikael answered with four more. The arrows sliced through the fog like a volley of red comets—straight, precise, unforgiving. But even blind, Ademi moved like an animal that felt the world rather than saw it. His shield and obsidian akrafena met each strike in a symphony of sharp clangs, redirecting every arrow with terrifying precision.

Gasps rippled across the coliseum. The spectators leaned forward, faces pressed against the railing.

“How the hell is he doing that? He can’t even see them!” one spectator shouted.

“He’s moving like a beast,” another whispered.

“Correction,” the commentator cut in, voice rising, “he is one.”

With a growl deep in his throat, Ademi severed the thick vine coiled around his leg. He dropped heavily to the earth, landing on one knee—a hunter reborn. The fog still churned across the arena floor, but the stands could see his silhouette crouching low, poised like a predator.

Mikael’s ears twitched. A sound rippled through the mist: a low, throaty grunt followed by a chuff—half laugh, half snarl. His gut tightened. He could feel it. His opponent had been holding something back.

He was right.

Ademi’s breathing changed. His stance shifted. And in that moment, the world tilted. He was no longer just a man—he had drawn on the spirit of the hyena, fusing its savage instincts with his own. While Mikael struggled with the half-blind field, Ademi’s borrowed senses cut through the smoke. Every beat of Mikael’s heart, every tremor of his footwork, every slight motion in the air—they were all laid bare before the predator.

“Oh no I don't like this! It's back to zero now! Mikael has lost his advantage!”

The first strike came like a whisper. Mikael blocked it. The second came faster. He parried again. By the third, the clang of steel and wood became a storm. Ademi’s slashes blurred into a relentless assault, each swing faster, sharper, meaner.

Mikael staggered back. His elegant footwork frayed at the edges, his breathing clipped. The spectators could barely track the two shadows swirling in the haze—but the clash of steel rang sharp and clear, like a heartbeat amplified across the arena.

“Mikael’s on the back foot! This is turning into a hunt, ladies and gentlemen!” the commentator shouted, his voice riding the roar of the crowd.

Ademi lunged for a killing blow—

And Mikael whispered through clenched teeth.

"Coill síoraí, glac liom"

A deep, ancient hum rolled across the arena floor. Mikael’s skin shivered as bark like black iron began crawling up from his boots, winding itself over his limbs, his chest, his shoulders. It hardened into jagged plates of Schinopsis wood—one of the most unyielding materials in the elven world. The elf’s body locked in place, encased in a living fortress. Only a thin slit at his eyes remained uncovered, his vision narrowed to a predator’s tunnel.

The cost of such magic was brutal. His anima reserves were running dangerously low, his limbs growing heavy. But if he didn’t do this, he knew the match would be over in seconds.

Ademi’s obsidian blade struck the armor with a sharp metallic clang. Sparks and splinters flared.

The blade bounced.

“It didn’t cut—Mikael’s standing like a statue!” the commentator barked, his voice rising with the crowd’s growing frenzy.

“What is that wood made of?!” a spectator shouted from the stands.

Ademi pulled back, surprised by the sudden shift. His keen eyes studied the figure in front of him—unmoving, rooted to the ground like a tree that had decided to fight back. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then, Ademi decided to test it again.

The next strike landed. Then another. Each blow ricocheted back, staggering his edge. But this time, he saw something—a hairline crack, a dent in the armor.

The Gondwand warrior bared his teeth in a fierce grin. He struck again. And again. His rhythm grew savage, relentless, until the once-razor-sharp edge of his blade began to dull from the sheer abuse. He didn’t notice Mikael’s menace behind the slitted mask of bark.

This was part of the plan.

The smoke had thinned by now. And just as Ademi drew his sword back for another swing—

DUAR!

The Schinopsis armor exploded outward in a storm of splinters and bark shards. All the accumulated force from every strike Ademi had dealt came crashing back at once. A concussive blast rippled through the arena.

Ademi’s instincts screamed, but too late. He raised his shield at the last second. The force slammed into him like a battering ram. His shield cracked down the middle, fragments shattering. Shards of bark pierced into his flesh, drawing dark red streaks across his arms and shoulder.

The crowd erupted, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Before the warrior could regain his footing, Mikael surged forward with a feral cry. His staff twisted, bark reshaping into a brutal cactus studded with iron thorns. He swung.

CRASH.

Ademi blocked, breaking away most of the buried thorns with powerful swing of his akrafena, but Mikael was already on him again. The second swing buried the thorns even deeper into the battered shield. Mikael then twisted the weapon hard and ripped, tearing the shield from Ademi’s grasp. Wood and iron screamed as the shield finally parted from its master.

“The stubborn shield’s gone! Mikael’s stripped him bare!” the commentator’s voice cracked with excitement. The crowd howled their approval, some rising from their seats.

"Get him son! Don't let him breathe!" Said an old man, telling Mikael to not let Ademi creates a gap.

Unfortunately, that is impossible. Both men were breathing hard. Mikael’s chest rose and fell like bellows, the strain of magic dragging the strength from his bones. Sweat traced down his temples. Across from him, Ademi straightened his back and reached beneath the crimson cloth at his shoulder. His hand emerged with a weapon shaped like a V, its edges wicked and gleaming.

With a smooth flick of his wrist, Ademi hurled it.

The spinning blade cut through the air with a sharp, predatory whistle. Mikael twisted aside just in time—the weapon missed him by inches. His breath came out as a shaky laugh. That could have ended him.

He lunged forward, striking with the cactus staff, but Ademi danced just out of reach. Mikael’s movements were slowing. His reserves were nearly gone.

Then—slash.

Mikael froze. His shoulder burned. Warm blood trickled down his arm. His eyes widened—not at Ademi, but at the boomerang blade now streaked with his blood. It had looped behind him and struck from the blind spot.

“What was that weapon?! It came back—I repeat! IT CAME BACK!” the commentator bellowed.

“I-I can't believe my eyes! Blood has been drawn!” a spectator shouted, and a murmur rippled through the stands.

Ademi caught the returning weapon with practiced ease, his grin sharpening like a hyena catching scent of prey. He raised the weapon, smeared with Mikael’s blood, and pressed it against the obsidian blade. The crimson streak sank into the black stone as if the sword itself drank.

“A-Am I seeing things?” the commentator whispered hoarsely, the wild roar of the crowd falling into a tense, shivering hush.

“He's feeding it,” Gina shivered.

Mikael gasped.

A sharp, unseen force clenched his body like iron chains.

“…! Ack!”

Suddenly, his limbs went rigid. He could no longer move—not even to draw breath properly. His heart thundered in his chest, but the rest of him was frozen, helpless.

Then the nightmare unfolded.

Ademi’s shadow began to move.

At first, it quivered faintly, like a pool disturbed by wind. Then it slithered across the ground, serpentine and alive, until it reached the elf’s feet. Mikael’s own shadow convulsed in answer. The two merged in a grotesque tangle, and the arena was suddenly filled with a suffocating, ancient darkness.

The warrior raised his obsidian sword.

And without hesitation, he swung—

At his own arm.

The blade cleaved through flesh and bone. Ademi’s arm fell to the sand. A collective scream erupted from the stands—only to be drowned out by a much sharper one.

Mikael’s.

Blood sprayed across the arena floor. His arm had been severed too, as if the wound were mirrored. He collapsed to one knee, eyes wide, mouth open in an animalistic scream. Ademi, meanwhile, did not flinch. His expression was calm. Cold. Merciless.

He’s… linking their bodies through the shadows,” the commentator croaked. “Every wound he gives himself—Mikael suffers it too!"

Before anyone could react, Ademi drew the blade once more—this time, he dragged it across his abdomen. The sound was wet and low. His blood poured onto the ground like a cordon bleu.

And Mikael… Mikael screamed again, a raw, broken sound that ripped through the arena. His tunic darkened with blood as his stomach split open, entrails straining against torn flesh. His vision swam. The stands dissolved into a blur of faces—some pale with horror, others frozen, children crying into their parents’ arms.

“Stop it! Someone stop this!” someone from the crowd shouted.

“Ref! What the fuck are you doing?! Call the match!” another screamed.

The referee’s whistle finally split the air—a sharp, panicked shriek.

Mikael crumpled to the ground, too weak to even lift his head. The light of the arena torches danced against his bloodstained face. Ademi, still breathing steadily, stared down at him not with hatred, but with the cold certainty of a beast that knows it has already won.

“T-The winner—!” the announcer stammered, voice cracking. “Obagwam Cheik Ademi of Gondwand!”

The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in gasps, cries, and a chilling silence that spread like frost across the stands. Mikael’s blood soaked into the sand, the shadow-link between them fading at last as the victor lowered his sword.