Zane Silverwind
Zane Silverwind, a high elf, stood at the edge of the grand terrace, overlooking the sprawling expanse of the Verdant Dominion, a kingdom of 100 million cultivators, mostly elves and fairies. Below, crystal spires gleamed in the sunlight, rising from forests that teemed with spiritual energy. Rivers of light coursed through the land, glowing faintly with raw power. It was a sight that spoke of prosperity and strength, but Zane's attention was elsewhere.
His cobalt-blue eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the horizon as though searching for something just out of view. His tall, lean frame, clad in finely embroidered deep blue robes, carried the effortless grace of nobility. His silver hair, shining like polished steel, shifted with the breeze. Yet, despite his composure, the metal collar around his neck cast a shadow over his appearance.
The collar was dark, engraved with faintly glowing runes. A slave collar, unmistakably crafted to suppress and control. Though no one dared speak of it openly, its presence was clear for all to see. Zane's fingers brushed against the cold metal, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes. Six months ago, he hadn't worn it. Six months ago, his life had been simpler.
Then, it appeared.
The first sign was a subtle ripple, like the stirring of a vast, unseen ocean. Soon after, came the news: a legendary secret realm had reconnected to the universe.
The palace halls had been abuzz with talk of it for weeks. This was no ordinary secret realm. Its name carried weight, whispered with reverence and fear by scholars and warriors alike. It had connected to a newly awakened world—Earth—and the implications were monumental.
The last time the realm had appeared, 50,000 years ago, it had left a mark on history. Those who entered—whether native inhabitants of the world or cultivators sent to claim its treasures—had emerged transformed. Of those survivors, a rare few had ascended to apex cultivation, their names etched into legend.
The realm was vast and unforgiving, designed to test those who entered, particularly those with little cultivation. It offered opportunities beyond imagination, but its trials were equally merciless. No one, not even the boldest cultivators, underestimated the dangers. The rewards were immense, but the price of failure was steep.
Zane exhaled slowly, his gaze hardening. He understood the weight of what was happening. Everyone did. The realm was a crucible, designed to strip away weakness and reward only the strongest and most adaptable.
It wasn't just the realm's trials that demanded strength. The very nature of an awakened world brought challenges. Powerful treasures were often suppressed, leaving cultivators to rely solely on their skill, willpower, and ability to grow. Survival required more than raw talent—it required the ability to adapt to a constantly shifting battlefield.
Zane's uncle had acted swiftly upon hearing the news. Normally cautious and methodical, he had moved with urgency, summoning Zane without warning and fastening the collar around his neck. His cousin, the crown prince, would lead their forces on Earth, and Zane had been ordered to assist, it was said the arm would number 50,000 uncultivated elves and faries. And there werent the only kingdom.
The promise was that it would be removed upon their return, but Zane wasn't so sure. He knew what it represented: distrust. His cousin didn't trust him, and the collar was a leash, meant to keep him under control.
His lips tightened as he pushed the thought aside. This was no time for resentment. The opportunity before them was too great to waste.
The universe was converging on Earth. Races from every corner of existence were sending their best and brightest to claim what the realm offered. Inheritances, treasures, forgotten techniques—each more valuable than the last. For many, it was a chance to change their fate. For others, it was the only path forward.
His uncle's words echoed in his mind:
"Only pieces of trash use the system, not princes."
Zane had ignored that sentiment long ago. He had secretly attached himself to the cultivation assist system, using its insights to sharpen his skills and prepare for moments like this. No one knew—not his uncle, not his cousin.
Most Denzins only connect to the merit part of the system to fight the Aether and fallen, taking no part in the cultivation assist system.
The system had already begun feeding him ideas—subtle strategies, clever paths, and solutions to challenges he hadn't yet faced. It wouldn't solve the trials for him, but it offered guidance, and that was enough.
Zane's gaze shifted to the horizon. Though the realm was still distant, he could feel its pull. Its energy radiated faintly, a whisper of the power that lay within. The treasures it held were calling to them all, daring them to survive its trials.
The collar pressed against his neck, but Zane hardly noticed. The system had given him good ideas, and when the time came, he would act.
"Just a little longer," he murmured, his voice low and steady.
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Velanis Duskshade POV
The air hung heavy with ash, the acrid stench of burning wood mingling with the metallic tang of blood as the young dark elf ran through the forest. Velanis Duskshade, the last scion of an ancient and noble clan, sprinted through the smoldering forest, her long, ink-black hair streaked with soot and clinging to her sweat-dampened shoulders. Her deep indigo skin, marked with faint silver tattoos of her lineage, gleamed faintly in the flickering glow of distant flames.
She clutched a crystalline shard against her chest, its faint spiritual pulse matching the frantic rhythm of her heart. The artifact, once a symbol of her clan's storied legacy, now held only the last remnants of their power. Her crimson eyes, sharp and alert, darted between the burning trees, her long, tapered ears twitching at every crackle of fire and distant scream.
Behind her, the night sky was painted red by the fires engulfing her homeland. The Duskshade stronghold, once the proud seat of her family's ancient power, was collapsing under an onslaught of overwhelming force of multiple dark elves clans attacking together. The cries of her kin and the clash of steel echoed through the forest, but Velanis didn't stop. She couldn't.
Her grandmother's voice still rang in her ears, steady and commanding even in the face of annihilation:
"You are the last. Go, child. Escape to the awakened world. The realm will change your fate."
Velanis leapt over a fallen branch, her slim but powerful legs propelling her forward. Her clan's treasure—the crystalline shard—glowed faintly in her hands. It was an artifact of immense power, veined with intricate patterns of silver and gold, its light dimming as its energy was drained. It wouldn't last much longer.
Ahead, the faint glow of the teleportation array came into view, a beacon against the chaos. She pushed herself harder, her feet pounding the scorched earth as the sounds of the battle grew louder behind her. She didn't dare look back. Her grandmother, the matriarch of the Duskshade Clan, was sacrificing herself to hold off the attackers, her immense life force burning away to buy Velanis time.
Earth. A newly awakened world. It was a place whispered of in ancient tales, a fragile but untapped land tied to a vast and deadly realm. Those who entered its trials would face unimaginable challenges, but for those who survived, the rewards were unparalleled. Treasures, inheritances, strength—power enough to rival the apex of cultivation. It was the only chance Velanis had to rebuild her clan, to carve a new destiny out of the ashes of her old life.
The cost of passage was high. The crystalline shard in her hands was a relic of her family's glory, but its energy would not survive the journey. The Will of the World would absorb it, stabilizing Earth's spiritual foundation as the price for allowing her through. She didn't care. Nothing else mattered now.
Reaching the teleportation array, Velanis stumbled onto the platform, her legs trembling with exhaustion. The array glowed faintly, its intricate runes sparking to life as she pressed the shard into the pedestal at its center.
The artifact flared brilliantly, its tendrils of energy unraveling and feeding into the array. Velanis stepped back, her eyes narrowing as the light intensified. The artifact dimmed, its power consumed, its purpose fulfilled.
Behind her, the sounds of the battle reached a crescendo. Her grandmother's voice echoed in her mind one final time:
"Survive, child."
The array pulsed, and the forest vanished in a burst of light. Velanis was pulled through space and time, her surroundings blurring as she hurtled toward the unknown.
The Duskshade Clan was gone, consumed by fire and blood. But Velanis's crimson eyes burned with determination. Earth was her last chance, and the realm was waiting.
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Branthor Ironhearth
The forge burned bright, its molten glow casting waves of heat and light across the cavernous workshop. Branthor Ironhearth, a teenage dwarf, stood before a towering blackstone golem, his broad, calloused hands running over the smooth surface. The runes etched into the golem hummed faintly, glowing with an ancient power that would never see the battlefield. This was not a creation meant for the trials ahead.
Branthor, with his stocky frame and ruddy skin, bore the sturdy build of his kin. His copper hair was tied back in a tight braid, and his short beard, still uneven, bristled with ash and sweat from the forge's heat. His green eyes gleamed with admiration as he stepped back, taking in the golem's intricacy.
"A true masterpiece," he muttered, his voice tinged with reverence.
Behind him, his father—broad-shouldered and towering even for a dwarf—watched in silence, his silver-streaked beard tied in thick braids adorned with gold clasps. The elder Ironhearth, head of a wealthy dwarven merchant clan, was as much a craftsman as he was a businessman.
"Aye," his father rumbled, his voice carrying the weight of the mountains themselves. "But it's not for you, lad. You've got a bigger task ahead. Earth calls, and the realm waits."
Branthor turned toward the teleportation platforms glowing faintly at the far end of the forge. His eleven brothers stood there, each surrounded by their own 1,000 uncultivated young dwarves, the youngest and strongest of their clansmen. Branthor and his brothers, all born of their father's many consorts, shared a fierce rivalry. Though close in age—none more than two years apart—their competition had defined their lives.
Now, they were united by a singular purpose. Earth, a newly awakened world, had become the universe's focal point, drawing the attention of millions of races. A secret realm had attached itself to the fragile planet—a cosmic coincidence that promised unimaginable rewards for those brave enough to enter its trials. The realm's reputation was legendary: inheritances, treasures, and power for those who survived.
The Ironhearth clan, like countless others, had sacrificed vast treasures to the Will of the World to secure their entry. Spiritual artifacts, refined essences, and ancient relics had all been consumed to stabilize Earth's burgeoning spiritual foundation. It was said that the sheer influx of treasures would cause the planet to double in size, transforming it into something far more dangerous.
Each of Branthor's brothers had been assigned their own battalion of 1,000 uncultivated dwarves, handpicked for their strength and resilience. Branthor, the youngest, stood at the head of his own force, the dwarves behind him armed with plain iron weapons and clad in simple, unadorned armor. The Will of the World would suppress anything more elaborate, allowing only the barest essentials.
The elder Ironhearth stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on Branthor's shoulder. His blue eyes burned with intensity as he spoke.
"Listen to me, boy," his father said, his voice low but commanding. "It's not your weapon, nor your name, nor your army that'll carry you through. It's what you've got inside. Show Earth what it means to be an Ironhearth—and don't come back empty-handed."
Branthor nodded, gripping the crude iron axe slung across his back. It was heavy and simple, its edges rough, but it didn't matter. This trial wasn't about equipment. It was about willpower and survival.
He turned to face his battalion of 1,000 young dwarves, their faces set with determination. Though their weapons were crude and their armor plain, the fire in their eyes burned bright. The competition among them was fierce, but the stakes were even higher.
The hum of the teleportation array grew louder as Branthor stepped onto the platform. His brothers, flanked by their own armies, exchanged glances of acknowledgment—and challenge.
Branthor grinned, his green eyes flicking between them. "Let's see who brings back the real prize," he muttered under his breath.
The platform's runes flared with energy, and the workshop dissolved into a burst of light. Branthor, his brothers, and their 12,000 warriors were gone, hurtling toward Earth and the trials that awaited them.