Ersia: Raven Dawn

At the center of the arena, only two figures remained now—Randia and Mr. Sunday, standing opposite one another beneath a sky that had gone unnaturally black. No one needed to ask what would follow. The answer hung in the air as clearly as the coming storm: a duel without limit, without reprieve, a contest that would end only when one of them lay dead upon the stone.

Before it began, Mr. Sunday took his time.

He adjusted every part of his attire with meticulous care. The gambeson was tightened, the outer vest smoothed and secured, the shawl drawn and fastened as though he were dressing not for battle, but for a ceremony. He greeted this moment the way a man greets his bride—solemn, reverent, and utterly devoted. This day was the culmination of his life. Every wound, every loss, every breath he had drawn until now existed for this single point in time. And he intended to honor it perfectly.

Then he raised his Horn of Resonance high above his head, displaying it openly to the gathered masses.

“I have nothing left to say,” he declared, his voice carrying through the vastness of Great Gardenia. “I have nothing left of my own.”

His fingers closed around the gold- and silver-plated amplifier with crushing force. A shrill, agonizing ring tore through the air as metal protested under pressure—until the artifact finally gave way, collapsing and melting in his grip like softened clay, its purpose erased.

As those words left him, the magic of Great Gardenia shifted once more.

The barrier vanished entirely.

What had once formed a vast, invisible cage—meant to contain and imprison the fighters within—was simply gone. The spell unraveled as a consequence of the immense, consecutive magics drawn from the Central Chamber. The cost had been too great. Even the Vocal Seal could no longer sustain itself also.

Sound returned.

The crowd could hear again—their own breathing, ragged and shallow; the pounding of their hearts; the quiet, crawling whisper of their anxiety as rain began to fall in fine, cold needles. The sky, though it was barely past ten in the morning, was pitch-black, swollen with storm clouds that rolled and groaned overhead. Thunder muttered in the distance, not yet striking, but promising violence.

Randia, who had stood unmoving until now, finally shifted.

He changed his stance, turning his body sideways, grounding his feet, his posture settling into readiness. He prepared for every possibility—not out of pride, nor duty, but for a single, clear reason.

He could not guarantee Viena’s safety.

If he were to fall here—if he were to die—he did not know what these people would do to the small girl he had already claimed as his own.

“Mr. Sunday…” Randia began.

“‘Mr. Sunday’ is merely the name I use when I am working, Hero,” the man interrupted calmly.

“And right now, I am not working. I don't get paid for this. Quite the opposite, in fact—I have paid dearly to bring this day into being.”

Rain traced thin lines across his face as he straightened, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Randia.

“So know the name of the man who will kill you today, Great Hero Randia. I am Vito Farelsi.”

His voice did not rise. It did not tremble.

“And I am one of your unspoken sins.”

Randia closed his eyes.

The storm did not fade. The ravens did not quiet. The weight of the arena remained exactly where it was. When he opened his eyes again, they found Vito Farrelsi without hesitation—steady, focused, and stripped of everything but intent.

From beneath his robe, Randia drew forth an object he had carried for years without ever truly daring to acknowledge its weight.

A necklace.

Worn smooth by time and memory, it was the relic once held by Asmar—his twin, his other half, his better self—given to Randia on the day death tore them apart and left only one brother standing.

“This,” Randia said quietly, his voice steady despite the storm gathering in his chest, “was the relic borne by Asmar, and now entrusted to me. A covenant between us and Them, made tangible. An aperture to the truest essence of the Eight Divinities.”

His fingers curled around it.

“…I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

The moment his grip tightened, light answered.

Golden radiance surged from the necklace, crawling up his hand like living veins, branching, pulsing, alive. It did not merely illuminate—it consumed. Cloth, leather, robe, every mortal thing clinging to his body burned away without flame or ash, undone as though they had never belonged to him in the first place.

Then the light exploded outward.

A pillar of brilliance erupted from Randia’s form, lancing straight into the heavens—the same judging, sacred column that had erased Pope Innocentius I from existence.It tore through cloud and rain alike, piercing the blackened sky with divine violence. The brilliance was unbearable. Every soul in Great Gardenia shielded their eyes, and even Vito was forced to turn his face away, vision scorched white by its intensity.

Through the blinding glow, Vito could barely make out Randia’s silhouette.

He was pointing to his own temple.

“Even now,” Randia’s voice carried through the roar, calm yet strained, “my head feels as though it might split apart. Believe me, Sir Vito—they will not hold anything back to stop you.”

Then, slowly, inexorably, the light began to fade.

When it did, Randia was no longer the man who had stood there moments before.

Plates of pale gold and radiant ivory interlocked seamlessly across his body, each surface etched with faint sigils that shimmered like prayers half-forgotten by the world itself. The metal did not shine with harsh brilliance; instead, it breathed with a controlled, living glow, as though dawn had been bound and disciplined into form.

From his shoulders flowed a mantle of white cloth trimmed with the quiet geometry of the graceful cosmos—light as ash, yet utterly unyielding—trailing behind him like the wake of a falling star.

His hair had grown long, straight, cascading to his waist in silver-white sheets, untouched by wind or rain. Across his skin ran luminous lines like divine circuitry, glowing steadily, pulsing in time with his resolve. It was less decoration than declaration: a fording river of gleaming miracles made visible, flows unrestricted, and impendence unmistakable.

A long sash of celestial fabric crossed his waist, fluttering even in air made still by awe, suggesting unseen currents bending instinctively toward him. There were no jagged edges, no cruel embellishments. Only balance. Symmetry. Purpose.

He did not look like a cruelty forged for war.

He looked like genesis given form.

This was the culmination of Asmar and Randia—two great heroes as one.

“If you seek justice,” Randia said, his voice now resonant with something deeper than flesh, “if you seek to rewrite the world, if you seek to reclaim what you are due—then please do not hold back.”

His eyes locked onto Vito.

“For I will unleash every power you despise, without hesitation, and without leaving even a fragment behind.”

Randia extended his hand, fingers opening as though grasping the air itself.

The light obeyed.

From nothingness, a great scythe of pure white color manifested in his grip—long, elegant, and impossibly sharp. Its blade curved like a crescent moon torn from the night sky, cold radiating from it in waves that frosted the stone beneath his feet.

He lowered the scythe slowly to his side.

The ground cracked.

Not from force, but from presence alone—a single, clean fissure carved into the arena floor like the world itself had flinched.

“Take thy right with might, O thee who hast dared to challenge the heavens,” Randia said, his voice low and steady, as though it no longer belonged to a single man. “End this with thine own hands.”

He raised his gaze at last, and in his eyes there was neither wrath nor mercy—only judgment made patient.

“Show unto us thy conviction, Vito Farelsi.”

As her father stood clothed in light not meant for men and his presence reshaped into something vast and beyond comprehension, a flicker of fear did reach Viena—but she pressed it down, steadying herself with a believe, albeit wavering: that this was still her father. Yet the weight of the moment kept tightening, the air itself seeming to strain, and with it grew another fear, quieter but sharper—that this battle would pass beyond restraint, beyond return.

She understood then, with a clarity that did not belong to a child, that whatever came next might be final. So she chose to witness him. Not to turn away, not to hope blindly, but to take him in as he was now—every line of light, every stillness, every breath held before violence—committing it all to memory, because she knew this might be the last time she would see her father like this, or perhaps the last time she would see him at all.

Not a storm—not yet—but a thin, persistent veil that darkened the stone and slicked the arena floor until every step threatened betrayal. Water traced slow paths along carved runes and fractured tiles, gathering in shallow pools that trembled with each distant rumble. The air grew dense and metallic on the tongue, each breath frosting faintly as if the world itself had begun to brace. Somewhere beyond the walls, thunder spoke in low intervals—not as a threat, but as a reminder that once this began, there would be no clean end.

Vito tore his sword free from the stone.

There was no announcement, no ceremony. The moment the blade cleared the ground, he launched forward—acceleration brutal enough to spray water and shattered stone behind him. His charge was straight, decisive, the kind meant to seize momentum before it could ever settle.

Randia did not rush.

That was the first thing Vito noticed.

He stood with the scythe lowered at his side, posture relaxed to the point of insult, yet nothing about him felt open. The pale-gold lines running across his body glimmered faintly beneath the rain, each pulse slow, measured—controlled. When he stepped forward, it was neither a charge nor a feint.

It was a declaration of distance closing.

Steel met divine alloy.

Randia retaliated with effortless precision, lifting the shaft of his scythe just enough to intercept Vito’s opening blow. The impact rang outward like a struck gong, a deep metallic reverberation that swallowed the arena whole.

The duel had begun.

The shockwave tore through the stands.

Wind and rain blasted outward from the clash, sharp enough to stagger spectators, to send cloaks snapping and stone fragments skittering across the tiers. Several were nearly struck—until shadows fell over them.

Lady Morwenn moved.

Without gesture or incantation, ravens descended in a black tide, one per spectator, each bird perching with eerie exactness. Feathers brushed shoulders, claws gripped fabric and stone alike. Fear rippled through the crowd—but none dared resist.

As Randia and Vito exchanged their next blows, the reason became clear.

The impact of their clash diminished.

Force that should have shattered bone and crushed flesh bled away into the air itself, swallowed by the presence of the ravens. A chunk of stone, flung violently toward a child with trembling hands, halted mid-flight—suspended, unmoving, as though time itself had been seized and held.

.

.

.

Within the arena, the fight pressed on.

Vito advanced hard, boots splashing through shallow puddles, blade cutting sharp diagonals meant to test reflex and intent. Randia met each strike without haste. The curved blade of the scythe caught steel again and again, the sound dull and heavy, traveling straight through Vito’s arm and into his spine.

No recoil.

Randia turned his wrists and pushed—just a little.

The pressure alone forced Vito back half a step. Not thrown. Not repelled.

Simply outmatched.

They exchanged again. And again.

Short arcs. Clean motions. No wasted force. Randia’s scythe moved like an extension of gravity itself—low sweeps, restrained hooks, blunt deflections that never overcommitted. Vito answered with speed and experience, shifting footwork, changing angles, trying to break the rhythm before it could settle.

It never did.

The glow along Randia’s body pulsed—once, twice—like a measured inhale. The circuit-lines brightened, dimmed, then flared again as he advanced at a walking pace, each step deliberate, unavoidable. The scythe dragged lightly at his side, its edge kissing the ground, leaving behind a thin trail of frost that refused to melt.

Vito felt it then.

The pressure.

Not killing intent—worse.

The sense that the ground, the air, the space between them had already chosen a side.

He struck harder. Faster. A relentless series of cuts meant to force reaction, to demand commitment. Randia answered each one with minimal motion, redirecting steel with the shaft, slipping past edges by margins so thin they felt intentional. Rain hissed where divine light met stone, steam rising briefly before vanishing.

Then Randia stepped inside Vito’s reach.

Too close.

Vito tried to disengage—

—but the scythe rose.

From low to high.

The blade tore upward in a merciless arc, splitting the stone beneath them cleanly in two. The arena floor ruptured as though awakened from a long sleep, a fracture racing outward like a fault line breaking free. Pale-gold light surged through the crack—

—and then it burst.

Divinity erupted upward and outward in the same breath, raw and unrestrained. Vito was lifted off his feet, hurled across the arena like a discarded weapon. His body struck the wall with a sound too heavy to be called a collision.

Stone cracked.

Vito slid down, breath torn from him, vision swimming.

A single vertical wound carved his right side—clean, merciless—stretching from his right clavicle to his hip bone. Blood spilled freely, dark against rain-soaked stone, steam curling where it touched the lingering heat of divine power.

Randia remained where he stood.

The scythe lowered once more.

The light steady.

Unmoved.

The first phase ended not with triumph—

—but with certainty.