A sea of disciples filled one of the Fiend Devouring Sect's grand peaks, their numbers stretching into the millions. From novices to seasoned elites, their power ranged across a broad spectrum—though most hovered around Rank Five, the Luminous Heart realm, their combined presence cast a palpable tension over the mountaintop.
Beneath the lofty sky, a raised platform dominated the scene. At its summit stood Sect Leader Hinjo, regarding the assembled crowd with an austere calm. His voice carried with the authority of a leader who had guided countless battles.
"Disciples," he began, "many of you are wondering why I've gathered you here. You have questions about the recent phenomenon. Today, I will provide some answers."
He raised a single hand, and the very ground trembled. In a matter of seconds, a colossal stadium rose from the earth, carving out space in the throng. Disciples hastily stepped aside, marveling at the sight. Another wave of Hinjo's hand produced small, inscribed badges that drifted into each disciple's waiting palm.
"The Heir of Zulmasharr—spoken of in ancient lore—has emerged," he announced, his voice echoing across the mountainside. "the black flames seen across Afloria confirm the prophecy: The day will come when the Flames of Severance appear, and the true heir is born."
A hush enveloped the crowd. It was an unspoken rule in the Fiend Devouring Sect to keep one's emotions in check, especially during major declarations; thus, no one dared murmur or exclaim. They listened with rapt attention, the occasional flicker of apprehension darting across their eyes.
"We don't know if this new heir is something entirely new," Hinjo continued, a faint smirk crossing his lips, "or if it's an ancient demon rising to claim the throne. We can only guess it is a new heir. But mark my words—this situation can either bring us an advantage or plunge us into a greater war."
From within the throng, a slender young woman raised her hand. The crowd's focus zeroed in on her. Ris—her name, spoken with both respect and curiosity. A striking figure with long black hair draping to her waist and dispassionate green eyes.
"Sect Leader," she said softly, her tone even, "how certain are we that the phenomenon indicates a new heir, rather than an older demon ascending to that title?"
Hinjo nodded, acknowledging her valid concern. "We aren't entirely certain. If an ancient demon is taking up the mantle, the war could escalate beyond anything we've seen. But if it's someone new, we might have time—perhaps even an opportunity to weaken the demonic realm's control." He let the words sink in, then gestured to the badges in each disciple's hand.
"Those symbols you see will mark your identity once you enter Zulmasharr…if you choose to go. The Guardian Sects across Afloria have agreed on this. Each badge lists your assigned team, your point of entry, and contains a teleportation circle to send you there directly."
A muscular young man, exuding an aura that rivaled any in the crowd, stepped forward. "What if we don't choose to go? Will there be punishment?"
Hinjo's eyes flicked to him. "Brune, you needn't worry about punishment. But there will be generous rewards for those who volunteer and for those who achieve noteworthy accomplishments." He held his own badge aloft. "Each badge will log how many demons you kill and their ranks. Use that knowledge, or hoard it—your choice. Just remember that this is not a competition. We're not pitting you against each other, but against the demons that threaten our world. Anyone who slaughters a fellow human will face the wrath of the sect."
His gaze swept the assembly, reminding them that, although internal rivalries existed, the true enemy lay in Zulmasharr.
"I've nothing more to say," Hinjo concluded. "You must learn to seek information yourselves. You all know how vital intelligence can be—this is your chance to hone those skills in real battle conditions."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. Then his voice took on a lighter note. "One final point: anyone who uncovers credible information about the Heir of Zulmasharr shall receive the privilege of entering the Realm of Fiends."
A collective inhale rippled across the disciples and even the higher-ranked elders present. The Realm of Fiends was veiled in legend, a place that promised unimaginable trials and treasures.
Ignoring the mounting questions that flared up in the crowd, Hinjo merely smirked. "All disciples holding 'Green One' on their badges—step into the stadium!"
Thousands surged forward, among them Brune and Ris, two of the most capable disciples at Luminous Heart rank. The stadium resembled a grand coliseum, ringed not by cheering spectators but by caged demons, each snarling through iron bars. Their chains rattled ominously; drool and blood smeared the ground where they thrashed.
At the center sat an older man clad in modest robes—Elder Fir. He exuded the calm authority of a seasoned warrior. "Your test is simple," he announced. "We shall unleash the aura of these demons. If you can withstand it for one minute, you'll pass. But know this—these are no ordinary fiends. Each is a Rank Seven Valgath, and I have hundreds chained here."
A wave of unease coursed through the disciples, although they tried hard to maintain composure. Karo, another top disciple, gnashed his teeth. "Elder Fir, that's suicide—none of us are anywhere near Rank Seven."
Brune, eyeing Karo with a familiar rivalry, smirked. "What's the matter, Karo? Scared?"
"You should be," Elder Fir cut in sharply. "Compared to the horrors of Zulmasharr, these fiends are a mercy. At least here they're chained. Out there, they roam free—and if even one were to find you, you would be the prey."
Karo swallowed his retort, stepping back with grim resolve. Ris hung behind, her expression unreadable. Some stared at her, but she offered no hint of fear or excitement.
Elder Fir let his gaze linger a moment before giving a curt nod. "Very well. Let's begin."
He snapped his fingers, and a dull, sickly hum vibrated through the stadium. The caged Valgaths suddenly stiffened, their eyes rolling back as wave after wave of murderous aura emanated from their hulking forms. The spiritual pressure hit like an anvil, forcing many disciples to their knees. Others collapsed entirely, gasping for air. Brune and Karo clenched their fists, straining to remain upright.
From his vantage point, Elder Fir's voice rang out, unflinching. "You have one minute. Those who die…well, their corpses go to the demons."
His words echoed in the coliseum, heralding the beginning of a grim test—one that would separate the bold from the faint-hearted, and the living from the dead.