Ersia: Raven Dawn

Thick clouds blanketed the sky. The wind swept through in irregular gusts, carrying with it the promise of rain, while the distant horizon lay submerged in a heavy, brooding darkness.

Viena, Lisabelle, and Eleanor had arrived at Great Gardenia.

It was unlike anything they had ever seen.

A sea of people surged and gathered that day—far more than usual. The reason was clear enough: several grand finals from various Ludus Magnorum events, not only the Open Duel, had been scheduled by the organizers to take place here on the same day. The consequence was overwhelming. Tens of thousands of spectators packed the area shoulder to shoulder, voices blending into a roaring tide of anticipation.

They had not been waiting long at the entrance when Eleanor, already advanced in age, began to show signs of fatigue. Her steps slowed, her breathing grew heavier. Lisabelle noticed immediately. Concern etched itself across her face, and she leaned closer.

“Grandma, it would be better if you waited up there,” Lisabelle said, pointing toward a nearby eatery. The building had a balcony positioned high enough to overlook much of the venue.

“Are you out of your mind?” Eleanor snapped back. “How could I possibly leave my little grandchildren alone in a place like this?”

Before Lisabelle could respond, someone tapped Eleanor on the shoulder.

“Ah—so it is you! It’s been a long time, Madam Eleanor!”

Turning around, Eleanor recognized the woman at once.

“Lady knightess?” she replied in surprise.

It was Gwen, stationed at the gate that day.

They exchanged brief pleasantries—Gwen laughing as she reminisced about how much she missed Eleanor’s cooking, claiming without hesitation that it was far better than her own mother’s. For a fleeting moment, the tension eased. But it didn’t last long.

Gwen’s expression shifted as she took a closer look at the group. She noticed how unusually quiet Viena was—no playful banter, no teasing Lisabelle, no curious wandering eyes. Just a small girl standing stiffly, eyes dulled with worry.

“…Did something happen?” Gwen asked carefully.

“Uncle Ran has disappeared for several days,” Lisabelle answered.

“The medevist?” Gwen blinked. “Isn’t that normal for him?”

“This time it’s serious, Gwen,” Lisabelle replied at once.

“O–Oh. I see. I’m sorry. Should I help by adding him to the missing persons list?”

“Yes, please. That would be very helpful.”

At that point, Eleanor joined the conversation, her voice steady despite the strain in her posture.

“Someone who knows him said he would attend today’s match. That’s why we’re here—to look for him.”

“…I understand,” Gwen said slowly. Then she glanced around, uneasy. “But Madam, today is extremely crowded. I, myself, have never seen this many people in my entire life. I’m not sure you should be standing in line here. I’d wager this place is more crowded than a battlefield.”

“I agree,” Lisabelle said quickly. “Gwen, could you escort Grandma to rest over there?” She pointed once more to the eatery with the balcony.

Eleanor refused again at first. But Lisabelle persisted, explaining that from above, Eleanor would have a far better view of the venue. She might even be able to spot Randia from there. And if he appeared, Eleanor could immediately contact the knights on duty to secure him.

It was a good argument—well thought-out and practical.

Still, Eleanor’s resolve only wavered slightly.

Her worry for Lisabelle and Viena—whom she already regarded as her own grandchildren—outweighed every other consideration.

“And what about you two?” Eleanor asked at last.

“Rest assured, Madam,” Gwen said with a grin, thumping her chest with a clenched fist. “I’ll make sure they’re safe.”

Finally, Eleanor relented. She followed Lisabelle’s suggestion, and Gwen escorted her out of the line.

Now, only Lisabelle and Viena remained together.

As they moved closer to the corridor entrance, a vendor caught their attention. He was handing something out freely. Every person who passed him seemed delighted. When it was their turn, Lisabelle and Viena realized what it was.

Masks—made of papier-mâché.

They came in countless shapes and styles: cubist designs, abstract forms, circular patterns, animal likenesses, and stranger creations still. Each mask was distributed at random.

The sight struck Viena deeply.

It reminded her of one of her father’s old stories.

Her chest tightened, and the sadness she had been holding back welled up again.

“Focus, Vivi,” Lisabelle said gently but firmly. “How are you supposed to look for your dad if your eyes look like that?”

Viena wiped her eyes and nodded, forcing herself to breathe.

Moments later, Gwen returned, just as she had promised, and guided the two of them forward. Together with the flow of spectators, they finally entered the corridor—drawn deeper into the heart of Great Gardenia, where noise, fate, and reunion awaited.

---

Inside the massive structure, the spectators went mad.

The match that had just concluded was the grand final of the wrestling event, pitting a veteran champion from Helden, Rangel Roulon, against a rising contender from Aramia, Oleksandyr Karlin. Rangel, a wrestler with immense experience and countless bouts under his belt, had long been idolized as the inevitable victor. The majority of wagers—bold and reckless—had been placed squarely on his shoulders.

But fate, as it so often does, refused to follow expectations.

Against all odds, Karlin emerged victorious.

At only twenty-one years of age, Oleksandyr Karlin stood crowned as champion—his explosive strength standing in stark contrast to his youth. In that moment, he could be said to have become the first officially recognized world wrestling champion in the history of Ersia.

The arena erupted.

Thunderous applause cascaded down upon him like a storm, cheers crashing together in waves as spectators rose to their feet. Praise, admiration, disbelief—everything merged into a single, deafening roar.

As soon as the kotinos—the olive wreath of victory—was placed upon Karlin’s head, the iconic commentator duo Martin Beglin and Bill Drury entered the arena. Their voices carried effortlessly across the stands as they began their announcement, deliberately vamping for time—keeping the crowd’s excitement alight while officials worked swiftly behind the scenes to prepare the stage for what everyone had truly come to see.

The grand final of the Open Duel.

For nearly twenty minutes, the commentators stretched the anticipation, stoking excitement with anecdotes, analysis, and speculation—until finally, the moment arrived.

The Open Duel began.

The opening ceremony commenced with a folk dance—Farrandol—from the province of Bavelin, its rhythm lively and ancient, echoing across the stone and steel. Following it, a grand magical performance unfolded. Mages stepped forward in unison, chanting and weaving spells that transformed the duel arena itself.

Before the eyes of tens of thousands, the battleground reshaped into a perfect circular ring, surrounded entirely by a shimmering pool of water, with scattered stepping stones embedded along its perimeter.

The crowd roared.

This was unlike anything they had seen in previous matches. The spectacle alone was enough to steal breath away. Everyone agreed—this was a stage worthy of the final they had waited for.

Not long after, the first of the long-awaited combatants emerged.

Mr. Sunday stepped into the arena.

He drew his sword and raised it high, walking the circumference of the ring with measured confidence, blade held aloft. When he reached the midpoint of the circle—standing directly before the gate of his opponent—he performed a brief, precise flourish with his sword before bowing deeply.

The audience responded with approving applause.

They recognized it immediately: a gesture of respect toward his unseen rival.

Then, at last, the second fighter appeared.

A young man from the Yeon Confederation entered the arena.

He wore a pristine white hanbok, accented with black stripes, immaculate and unblemished. At the center of his back—and mirrored upon the crown of his traditional gat—rested the emblem of his school: Haneunghak. The symbol depicted a crane and a deer entwined within a single circle, representing Sipjangsaeng—the philosophy of longevity and immortality.

His name was Haerang Seoryun.

He was the man who had defeated countless challengers to reach this final stage. His face was youthful—almost boyish—handsome and serene, giving the impression of someone still in his teenage years. Yet rumors whispered through the crowd claimed he had already reached his fifth decade of life.

His martial art was unlike any other.

At his side hung a calligraphy brush, and secured neatly at his waist was a rolled parchment scroll—tools essential to his combat style.

Like Mr. Sunday before him, Haerang intended to greet the audience in his own way.

He raised his brush to his lips and blew gently.

Instantly, from the blackened tip of the brush, birds burst forth—dozens of them, formed entirely from flowing ink. They soared into the air, singing sweetly as they flew. Some fluttered down to land upon the cheeks of children in the audience; others perched on clothing, walls, and railings.

Wherever they touched, they transformed—

melting into elegant ink paintings, perfectly still.

The commentators gasped.

The audience exploded.

Applause began slowly, hands clapping in rhythm—once, twice—then faster and faster, building into a unified thunder until the sound became a continuous roar.

Everything was ready.

The magical barriers descended into place, sealing the arena. The referee stood upon a secure platform outside the combat zone, his voice ringing out clear and commanding.

"The first Grand Final of the Open Duel of Ludus Magnorum will now begin!

Combatants—prepare yourselves!"

A sharp, piercing whistle cut through the air.

The final had begun.

---

Instead of charging at one another immediately, the two fighters remained still—silent, watchful, measuring each other with unwavering focus.

The crowd began to shout, voices overlapping in impatience, urging them to clash already, to tear each other apart as they had been promised. Yet neither combatant seemed to care in the slightest.

At last, Mr. Sunday moved.

He began to walk clockwise along the edge of the circular platform.

Haerang, mirroring his opponent perfectly, stepped forward as well—moving in the same direction, maintaining distance, eyes never leaving Mr. Sunday’s form.

What followed disappointed the spectators.

The two men did nothing but walk—slowly, deliberately—circling one another until they had completed a full rotation and returned to their original positions. The audience booed loudly, their frustration spilling into jeers and shouts.

Only then did the man from Yeon act.

Haerang reached calmly for his brush and began to unroll the parchment at his waist. As the scroll unfurled, ink bled into motion. From its surface emerged a white deer and a black crane—manifestations of light and darkness, standing as living calligraphy before the crowd.

This was the moment Mr. Sunday had been waiting for.

He drew his sword fully from its sheath and pointed the blade straight at Haerang.

“Haerang Seoryun,” he said clearly.

“I hold you in the highest respect. You—and your summoned companions—are far too powerful to be faced half-heartedly. Forgive me… but I have an important agenda for the day, and unfortunately, you are in the way. I’m afraid I cannot spare your life.”

The commentators reacted instantly.

“Oh? Oh? Hahah!” Martin Beglin exclaimed.

“What’s this, ladies and gentlemen? This is the first time we’ve seen Mr. Sunday so fired up! As expected—the grand final really is different!”

Bill Drury cut in quickly, his tone lighter but firm.

“But let’s remember—killing is strictly off-limits here! Let’s keep the spirit of competition healthy, and Ludus Magnorum enjoyable for everyone!”

Haerang paid them no mind.

He began chanting softly and painted a magic circle in the air with his brush. In an instant, twenty circular mirrors—black and white—materialized, hovering around the duel platform, enclosing the space like silent sentinels.

Then Haerang shouted, his voice sharp and resonant, in the language of Yeon:

"오늘, 네 진짜 얼굴을 보여주게 될 거다!" (Today, you will show us your real face!)

At that very moment, Mr. Sunday’s blade shattered.

The sword broke apart midair, splintering into countless fragments that rang sharply as they fell.

Mr. Sunday did not flinch.

“I’ve never traveled east,” he said calmly,

“and I don’t know what you’re trying to say… However—regrettably—you are already dead.

Without warning—

Blood erupted.

It burst forth from Haerang’s body and mouth all at once, spraying violently as if something unseen had struck him from every direction simultaneously. His form convulsed, the ink creatures dissipating into nothingness—

And at the climax of the moment, his head separated cleanly from his body, tumbling to the ground.

Silence followed.

The arena froze, breath stolen from tens of thousands at once.