Riven awoke to the sound of someone knocking on his door. Groggily, he sat up in bed as his mom called, "Get up! You're going to be late." The reminder of the tournament snapped him out of his daze. With a jolt, he leaped out of bed, hastily fixing the bed sheets to the best of his ability before running to the bathroom.
In front of the mirror, he made another valiant attempt to tame his hair, but as usual, it resisted his efforts. For some strange reason, it always seemed to prefer sticking out in all directions, resembling a sharpened mop. Sighing in frustration, he tapped his finger on the sink's enchantment, letting a thin wisp of mana flow into it. Water poured out, and Riven splashed it over his face before drying off with the heated air enchantments embedded in the wall to his left.
With no time to fuss further, he donned his combat gear: leather pants, a jacket, a gray shirt, black boots, and a series of belts designed to hold items, weapons, and pouches for storing goods. This standard adventurer's outfit had been a gift from his father for his initiation as a novice adventurer.
Heading to the dining table, he found a hearty meal of eggs, bread, meat, and beans waiting for him. He scarfed it all down in record time before jumping out of his seat and heading for the door. On his way out, he saw his parents standing nearby. His mother gave him a reassuring nod, and his father called out, "Good luck! We'll be there in just a bit."
The streets were relatively empty as it was still early morning. Most people were either just getting ready for the day or still asleep. The calm and quiet, however, disappeared the closer Riven got to the Soul Arena. The area around the massive structure was bustling with activity. People moved about everywhere, some entering the arena seating areas, while others browsed the many wooden stalls lining its perimeter. These makeshift shops were covered with tarps and sold a variety of goods—food, equipment, clothing, and trinkets.
Riven made his way to the participant entrance, avoiding the chaos of the main gates. A small line of five people stood before him, waiting as a well-built guard in armor—likely a rank-three adventurer—checked their credentials and scanned for forbidden relics. When it was Riven's turn, he handed over his stone badge inscribed with intricate runes. The guard scanned it with his device, nodded, and gestured for him to enter.
The participant gathering area was filled with familiar faces. Jayce and Lora stood off to one side, engaged in an intense discussion. In another corner, his childhood friends Alen, Mark, and Lucy were talking to a group Riven didn't recognize.
Reflecting on his grandfather's words from the night before, Riven decided to approach his old friends. His awakening had driven a wedge between them. As the only person in years to awaken a flickering soul, Riven had surpassed his friends, whose dim souls were the lowest tier. They could no longer spar or train with him, as the difference in their power had grown insurmountable. The distance between them had only widened over time.
He hesitated for a moment, recalling what his teachers had drilled into him countless times: everyone had a soul, but not all were created equal. Souls ranged from blank, dim, veiled, flickering, luminous, to radiant. Those with blank souls were unawakened, forever barred from using mana or bonding with beasts. Flickering souls, like his, were incredibly rare and carried immense potential. When bonded with a beast of greater bloodline purity, such a soul could evolve the bloodline to the next rank—a feat normally impossible, as beasts, too, were born with inherent bloodline qualities, with higher purities being immensely stronger.
Steeling himself, Riven approached his old friends. "How are you guys doing? It's been a while," he managed, his voice awkward.
Mark smiled and extended a hand. "Haven't seen you in a while. How've you been?" His tone carried a hint of sadness.
"He's a big shot now, don't you know?" Alen said, folding his arms, his voice flat and expression cold. "Hanging out with a better crowd," he drawled.
"Now, now, let's not start this," Lucy interjected, raising her hands to calm the tension.
Riven tried to think of an appropriate response and opened his mouth, but Mark cut him off. "Good luck in the tournament," he said, turning away. "We're off to warm up—see you in the arena." With that, the group left without a backward glance.
Sighing, Riven leaned against a wall, one foot resting on it. He knew he'd fumbled their friendship badly, but there was little he could do now. Instead, he sharpened his focus on two men standing on a slightly raised platform overlooking the participants. One was dressed in typical battle garb—leather, armored plates, and two giant swords on his back. No doubt a powerful adventurer. The man next to him, however, exuded an aura of even greater magnitude. He wore white metal armor with gold-trimmed depictions of flowing feathers and strokes. His helmet had golden metallic lines running outward in a fan pattern.
Riven's unease grew. That must be the invigilator sent by the royal family. It was standard practice, but something about the man's armor made him tense. His thoughts were interrupted as the man spoke with a booming voice that silenced the crowd. "The total number of participants is thirty-two this year. The tournament will be a single-elimination bracket. Keep winning, and you'll get to the top. Simple as that. Good luck, and prove yourselves."
The man's gaze lingered on Riven, confirming his suspicions. A royal knight. They wouldn't have sent someone like that unless word of his soul awakening had reached the capital.
Riven's thoughts were interrupted when the hunter started distributing palm-sized stones, each enchanted with runes. He closed his eyes, preparing himself mentally, until the hunter handed him his token. The shining blue runes displayed his matches and tracked results.
His first opponent was someone named Malvik. Riven wasn't worried. He'd sparred with all five veiled-soul participants last year and knew none posed a serious threat. Confident in his abilities, he resolved to secure the top position.
When his name was called, Riven pocketed the token and walked down the corridor into the arena. Bright sunlight and a cacophony of sounds greeted him. He scanned the crowd, noting his parents on Corvax, his father's rank-five exalted-bloodline bond.
Waving briefly, Riven ascended the platform, where Malvik awaited. The referee raised his hand. "Begin!"
Riven wasted no time. He surged forward, enveloping himself in pink mana. Malvik raised his own protective aura, but the difference in their power and skill was too great. Riven's first punch connected with Malvik's sternum, shattering his defenses and doubling him over. Without hesitation, Riven brought his knee up, aiming for Malvik's head. Wracked by pain, Malvik was unable to react, his body lifting a few feet off the ground from the force.
Already feeling a pang of guilt, Riven paused, glancing toward the referee. To his dismay, no intervention came. Not wanting the match to devolve into needless brutality, Riven grabbed Malvik's arm before he could crash to the ground and pulled him closer. Whispering a quiet apology, Riven brought his left fist forward for another strike to Malvik's chest. This time, the referee stepped in, catching Riven's fist and steadying Malvik, who appeared barely conscious.
"Riven Stormbrand, winner!" the referee declared.
Cheers erupted from the crowd, but Riven barely registered them. His focus lingered on the referee as he carried Malvik toward the small stone building inside the arena, likely the healer's station. Without a word, Riven turned and walked back to the waiting area. Along the way, he noticed nods of respect from a few nobles. He knew it wasn't him they admired—it was his rare soul.
This hollow admiration only deepened his frustration. Shaking the thoughts away, Riven returned to his corner, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes, preparing for the next match.