By the time the group finally reached Trivordi, the first part of their contract was already as good as done. The small trading town lay quiet under the warm afternoon sun, and the dust of the road was only just settling after the last wagons rolled through the gate. They got ready for the next leg of the escort.
The merchant whose goods they were guarding was already waiting impatiently beside his carriage. Once the last formalities were settled, they climbed onto the flatbed without much ceremony. The horses scraped their hooves, the driver clicked his tongue, and the caravan set off again, heading straight for Textoria.
Alvios let out a delighted whoop. He sat half on the driver's bench, half on the railing, grinning as if the adventure had only just begun. "Here we go! This is going to be great!" His enthusiasm seemed to know no limits. One could almost believe the world itself was just waiting to throw new challenges his way.
What would our brave heroes experience on this journey? What dangers would they have to face? Who might they meet along the way?
Well. To be honest, none of that happened. The trip turned out to be remarkably uneventful. No monsters, no disasters, no dramatic twists — apart from a single bandit who tried to ambush the caravan, and for whom the timing turned out to be spectacularly poor. The man leapt out of a bush with a drawn knife, tripped over a rock, and was struck down by the lead carriage in the very same instant. A short scream, a dull thud, and then he lay motionless in the roadside ditch.
The driver just shrugged. "His own fault."
And with that, the ambush was already over. Aside from that brief incident, our heroes reached Textoria without any further trouble.
The sun stood high over the city as the carriage finally rolled through the gate. The horses were snorting, exhausted, their pace slowing more and more until the wagon finally came to a stop. The group climbed down and stretched after the long ride. The job was done, the escort completed without a hitch.
Raiiko rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out the tension. The journey had taken longer than he'd expected. Even Alvios, who could normally never sit still, looked worn out.
"Finally, Textoria," he muttered, letting his shoulders drop. "That dragged on."
Nouel glanced briefly at the driver. "At least it was without incident," he said calmly. "That's worth more than a fast trip."
Meanwhile, Raiiko took care of the paperwork. He pulled out the tattered contract sheet — a piece of parchment that had already been folded several times, its edges frayed, some spots faintly smudged from rain. The driver, an official representative of the merchants' guild, took the document and checked the details carefully. He read every line, gave a brief nod, and finally pressed the guild's official seal onto the parchment with firm pressure. Only with that seal could the payment be collected later — without it, anyone could claim to have completed a job.
A short while later they stood in the guild hall of Textoria. The room smelled of paper, ink, and old leather armor. The contract was logged, the parchment handed in, and at last they received their pay. It wasn't nearly as much as they'd earned from their last job.
Alvios counted the coins again, then pulled a face. "That's… less."
Nouel just shrugged. "We also did less."
Still, the money — combined with what remained from their last payout — was enough to repair their gear, buy fresh supplies, and pick up a few extra things.
Alvios and Viktoria took their armor to the blacksmith first. The old man behind the counter eyed the dented metal plates. "Looks like you two got into trouble again."
"Just a little," Alvios replied.
Sparks flew as the smith began hammering out the damage. Meanwhile, Alvios ran a few more errands, picking up a length of rope, a throwing net, and a sleeping draught. When he came back with his purchases, the rest of the group eyed him with deep suspicion.
Nouel crossed his arms. "If you use any of that on us, I swear."
Alvios grinned. "Not me."
Raiiko, for his part, simply pocketed his share of the money, calm as a particularly well-behaved schoolboy. Nouel also took the chance to restock his own gear — several of his arrows had shattered fighting his clone. So he bought new ones. Chosen with particular care.
"Alright, everyone," Alvios said at last, clapping his hands once. "You all done?" He grinned broadly. "Good. Then on to the next adventure!" He was itching to see more of this world. More cities. More fights. More stories.
But Viktoria let herself slump exhausted against a wall. "Take a break, my prince," she groaned. "My legs are about to fall off."
Raiiko nodded in agreement. "A few days of rest would be wise," he said. "We could gather information. There might be new contracts."
But their conversation was suddenly cut short by a loud commotion. A huge crowd had gathered in the town's central square. In the middle of the crowd stood a large notice board.
Alvios and Viktoria exchanged a glance. "What's going on?"
Without hesitation, they pushed their way through the crowd. People were shoved aside, some complained loudly, but that didn't bother our heroes in the slightest. They wanted to know what was happening. After a few minutes, they had finally fought their way to the board.
Viktoria pointed at the large poster. "My prince… look."
Alvios stared at it. "Whoa… no way."
The poster read, in large letters: GATHERING OF LEGENDS.
But as excited as they both were, neither of them had any idea what it actually meant. A middle-aged man had overheard their conversation. He laughed softly. "What, you don't know the legend?"
Alvios and Viktoria shook their heads at the same time. The man cleared his throat, as if preparing to tell a story he'd already told dozens of times, then began speaking in a dramatic storyteller's voice. "Then let me tell you a tale…"
Alvios and Viktoria hung on his every word.
"Every ten years," he began slowly, "there is a gathering held in Aeridor known as the Meeting of Legends. At this gathering — as the name suggests — the heroes of a bygone age come together." He paused briefly. "Heroes from a time when Aeridor was still at war." His voice grew more serious. "It was a terrible war. Murder… despair… entire cities were wiped out."
The crowd around them had gone quiet by now. Even those who'd only stopped by chance were listening closely.
"About thirty years ago," the man went on, "the Regina of Aeridor rallied her forces against the so-called Dark Order." Alvios frowned. The man continued. "With the help of brave adventurers, they finally managed to defend the kingdom. But the price was high." He glanced down. "More than half the royal army died in that battle." He sighed. "And of the adventurers… well…" He let the sentence trail off. "The few who survived decided, after the war, to start a tradition. One held every decade, in Trivordi."
Alvios' eyes began to shine.
"A tournament," the man finally said. "A tournament for the new generation."
Now Viktoria began to grin as well. The man held up a finger. "The winner of this tournament receives glory, honor… and a personal audience with Regina Aeridoris." The crowd began murmuring excitedly. "What's more," he added, "ten warriors from the old era — true legends — will be present at the tournament."
Alvios could barely stand still.
"And if you win," the man said, "you get to personally challenge one of those legends."
Alvios threw his arms up. "That's incredible! When does the tournament start?!"
A familiar voice answered from behind them. "Alvios… Viktoria… don't tell me you didn't know about this."
Nouel had also managed to push his way through the crowd, his expression a mix of disbelief and mild despair. "You don't know about the Gathering of Legends?"
Raiiko appeared a few seconds later, behind Viktoria. Alvios, meanwhile, was completely beside himself. "I'm fired up!" He leapt onto the small stone platform in front of the notice board. "Wait for it, legends of old!" He spread his arms dramatically. "Here comes the great Alvios! I'll make sure we go down in the history books too!" His voice echoed across the entire square.
And then, suddenly, dead silence.
Viktoria and Nouel froze. Dozens of heads slowly turned toward Alvios.
"My prince…" Viktoria whispered in panic. "Not so loud."
Only now did Alvios notice that everyone was staring at him. Nouel buried his face in his hand. Raiiko, meanwhile, had already vanished back into the shadows somewhere.
A young voice suddenly called out from the crowd: "Quiet! They're coming!"
Everyone turned at once. At the end of the long street leading to the square, several riders appeared. They rode slowly through the crowd. Seven figures. Seven legends.
At the very front rode a small dwarf. Yet despite his size, he radiated an incredible presence. On his head sat a golden crown shaped like rising dragons. His cloak was deep red, embroidered with golden patterns, and slung across his shoulder hung a war hammer nearly as large as he was.
Alvios' eyes went wide. "Man… that guy looks insane."
Nouel sighed quietly. He was the only one of them who actually took an interest in history. "That's King Shragrim Krumorgin," he explained calmly. "King of all dwarves." Alvios' jaw dropped. "They say that in the war, he brought a giant over a kilometer tall to its knees with a single blow." Viktoria stared at him in awe. "Also," Nouel went on, "he was the one who drove off the World Dragon."
To Alvios and Viktoria, all of this felt like a dream.
Nouel pointed to the second dwarf. "That one's his son. Shrodmir Krumorgin. He was also there for the great battle thirty years ago."
Beside them rode an elf woman, her gaze calm, almost cold. "That's Selia," Nouel explained. "Not much is known about her." He paused briefly. "But in the great battle, she supposedly took out over two hundred enemies… before anyone even realized she was there."
Alvios swallowed.
Behind her rode a massive figure, a lizard-like being. "That's Slarg, a Saurakai." Nouel crossed his arms. "They say sheer willpower alone let him briefly keep pace with the Regina's speed."
A group of young women suddenly began shrieking excitedly. "Oh my gods! Over there! That's Nuol!"
Nouel pointed as well. "A Nerathi. A rare Aqua-blooded people." Nuol's skin shimmered crystal blue; he wore a dark robe with a breastplate over it. His face was alien, two small feelers hanging from his cheeks, his eyes round red orbs.
"Three eyes… Nouel, are you seeing this?!" Alvios was thoroughly delighted. Nouel pointedly ignored him. "His spear is made of a green-silver metal," he said instead. "He defeated several elite warriors with it during the war."
Further back rode two more figures. An older man, and beside him a hooded woman, curved horns rising from beneath the hood. Nouel kept talking. "The woman is a succubus. The man beside her is sixty years old by now. The two of them fought together in the great battle." He grinned slightly. "And they even have a child together."
Alvios blinked. "What?"
"Their son is Prince Arthur." Nouel shrugged. "He'd be about seventeen now."
The crowd cheered as the legends rode through the street. But three of the ten legends had yet to appear. No one knew where they were.
Viktoria's eyes lit up. "My prince…" She grabbed Alvios by the arm. "Let's go down in history."
Alvios nodded at once. Nouel's stories had lit a fire in both of them. They wanted to fight. They wanted to prove they had what it took to be heroes too. Luckily, a registration booth for the tournament opened just a few minutes later.
"GO!"
Alvios and Viktoria bolted at once, shoving through the crowds. Even the Aether itself seemed to be listening. The new generation wanted to prove itself.
Alvios suddenly noticed Nouel wasn't following. He turned around. "Nouel!" His expression fell. "Why aren't you coming?"
Nouel crossed his arms. "I'm not entering."
Alvios blinked. "What?"
Nouel shrugged. "Tournaments are boring." But a dark shadow lay over his eyes. Something from his past. Something he still hadn't managed to let go of. "I'll just watch you two." He turned away. "So quit bugging me." His voice came out cold.
Hidden in the shadows, away from everyone else's eyes, Raiiko sat in silent meditation. The surroundings were cool and dim, yet within that darkness lay a strange kind of clarity.
"So… a tournament," he murmured quietly.
His meditation wasn't just for peace of mind. It was training — training for both mind and body. With every session, he worked to sharpen his mental discipline and deepen his control over the Aether. In his mind, he conjured an opponent: himself. Before his inner eye, a fight began — a lethal exchange between two identical fighters.
A right hook shot forward. Blocked. The second Raiiko sidestepped with precise footwork and countered instantly. Had there been spectators, they would hardly have dared to blink — every movement was so fast and exact that a single moment's lapse would have meant missing something decisive.
Raiiko feinted a strike. His double reacted instantly to the feint. But instead of following through with the attack, Raiiko shifted into an unfamiliar grip — a technique that didn't belong to the classic monk fighting style. A brief thought flickered through his mind: even a monk may take other paths, when the fight turns serious. The grip caught his double completely off guard. With a swift motion, he brought it to the ground. The fight ended with a clean, decisive strike — precise, calm, final.
The first victory. Yet the shadow-space of his mind remained. Sweat gathered on his brow, even though his body barely moved. His concentration grew denser, clearer, with every round.
So he began again. Once more he conjured his double, once more the fight began. And again. And again. Raiiko repeated the process fifty times. In his mind it felt like an eternity — an endless stream of movements, attacks, counterattacks. But in the real world, barely five minutes had passed.
Of those fifty fights, he won forty-eight. With every repetition, his double's movements grew more precise, faster, more dangerous. The more he fought, the stronger the opponent in his mind became. And that was exactly what Raiiko wanted. The two fights he lost came down to one simple reason: his focus had slipped, just for a moment.
His breathing, though, stayed steady. Even. Controlled. He sank deeper into his meditation, until he reached a state many claimed existed only in legend. For a single instant, he felt the flow. Not as power. Not as energy. As presence. The Aether. He was one with it. The world went still.
Once that moment had passed, Raiiko slowly opened his eyes. "I should go watch the fights." The wind was blowing toward the registration booth.
"Thank the Aether we made it!" Alvios was gasping for breath, sweat running down his forehead. Viktoria was equally out of breath — the crowd had nearly crushed them. But they'd managed to register.
Shortly after, another announcement was made. The tournament wouldn't be held in Trivordi, but in another city: Memoria Decem — a city that had grown out of the battlefield from thirty years ago. It housed a massive arena, the Circulus Immortalis. But what made it special wasn't above the arena. It was below.
Beneath the arena lay catacombs. More than a million graves. Fallen warriors. Heroes of the war. It was said their souls watched the tournament, judging the new generation.
The journey to Memoria Decem began. By tradition, every participant traveled on foot — even the legends kept to it. Alvios, Viktoria, Nouel, and Raiiko walked together with thousands of other warriors.
"Nouel," Alvios said suddenly. "Why don't you want to compete, anyway?"
Nouel didn't answer. His gaze stayed cold. "I forgot," he finally said.
Alvios went pale.
Nouel pointed ahead. "If we keep dawdling like this, they're going to leave us behind."
Raiiko's expression hardened. He could sense that something was weighing on Nouel. But he could only guess what it was.
Viktoria gently placed a hand on Nouel's shoulder. "You're right. Let's push forward, up to the legends."
Nouel smiled faintly, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment. Then Alvios spoke up. "I'll be there before all of you, you slowpokes."
"Wait, my prince, I'll get lost without you!" Viktoria grabbed Nouel's hand and together they ran after Alvios, weaving hastily through the crowd. Alvios stumbled more than once, but that didn't stop him from keeping his goal in sight.
"Viktoria, you're going to rip my arm off."
Nouel bit his lip and finally worked up the nerve. "Enough of this." With a determined look, he let go of Viktoria's grip, only to grab her hand himself the next moment and take the lead, dragging her along as he ran after Alvios.
The ground shook. Footsteps grew louder. Other competitors were doing the same. Now it was a race: whoever got there first earned the privilege of speaking with the legends.
"No way, not happening! I'm going to be first, Nouel!"
"Keep dreaming. Who exactly do you think you are, slowpoke?"
Nouel couldn't hold back a laugh. His knees ached, his hip stung, but he kept running, on and on. Viktoria was practically being dragged along by now. Alvios stumbled repeatedly, but he refused to give up.
Then he suddenly stopped. His face went pale. Someone was already walking ahead of the legends. An elf with white hair.
Alvios' eyes went wide. "Raiiko…"
Raiiko walked along completely at ease, as if nothing had happened. He'd simply emerged from the shadows, right behind the legends.
"You cheater!" Alvios shouted.
Raiiko didn't respond. He just kept walking.
Nouel finally caught up to him, grabbing at Raiiko's robe, gasping. "How…?"
Raiiko gave a faint grin. But before he could answer, a deep voice rang out. The dwarf king had come to a stop.
"We have arrived!" He raised his massive hammer. The ground trembled slightly. "Let us turn this tournament into a grand feast of battle!"
More than five thousand people cheered at once.
The beginning of the Ancestors' Tournament. A tournament held once every ten years.
And perhaps — just perhaps — this was where the next generation of legends would be born.