The twilight of the horizon bled into a deep, bruised violet.
High above the kingdom of the clouds, the ten airships maintained their formation with clinical precision. Hundreds of avians glided alongside, teasing the iron behemoths in a macabre dance. The warbling of the flock harmonised with the rhythmic, low-frequency thrum of the mageia engines—a steady, industrial heartbeat against the sky. Though these machines were not the masters of the firmament, they were a rare sight for the avians, who shadowed the fleet with a curious reverence, as if observing silent, gentle giants of the air.
Seraph sat motionless at the vessel's stern, entombed in the frigid darkness. The gale lashed around him without reprieve. With eyes closed, he plunged into a deep, unwavering meditation, flanked by a pair of avians preening their wings in the indifference of the wild.
In the void of his mind, the young magis sensed the vibrant, emerald aura of the ventus currents swirling playfully around him. They lingered within the clouds and the ether, shy and elusive. He reached out, attempting to tether the natural forces of the heavens, transmuting them into the very essence of his own mageia.
Meditation stood as a cornerstone of mageia development. There were but three paths for a magis to ascend in power: first, through the slaughter of demons and beasts; second, through the rigours of meditation and the chanting of spells; and third, through the crucible of training and mageia duels.
Upon Jewel Hill and within the Sanctus Sanctum, the natural forces of fire, wind, and lightning were potent. Yet, the sky was the true palace of the ventus and the storm. Here, in the vast expanse, lay the sacred domain of raw energy; the kingdom of clouds was the cradle of infinite mageia. No other place upon the earth possessed a concentration of wind and lightning as volatile or as pure as this.
Yet, to ascend to such heights was impossible without the aid of a mageia airship; given the staggering costs, it was far more pragmatic to hone one's craft upon the earth below.
Once suspended in the high, azure firmament, Seraph refused to let a single heartbeat of the journey go to waste. For hours on end, he remained anchored in meditation—a singular, unwavering focus amidst the clouds. Part of this was to drown the persistent echoes of his anxiety; the other was to refine his mageia with utmost haste, bracing for the perils in wait.
The young magis hadn't the luxury of an extended vigil in the heavens, yet a mere few hours at the vessel's stern felt as though he'd been imbibing Origin Light Dust for a month! Even as the journey had only just commenced, Seraph could sense his strength ascending in staggering bounds.
'If this progression holds... perhaps this Bloody Hunting won't prove entirely disastrous,' Seraph mused through the stillness of his trance.
This surge of power restored a measure of the young man's spirits. He surrendered himself so utterly to the cultivation of his mageia that he remained indifferent to the passage of three full meals; the saturation of natural forces within his spirit had rendered physical sustenance redundant.
While the majority of the demon hunters began to confer amongst themselves—bartering details of their prowess and forming cabals to bolster their chances of survival.
Seraph remained a phantom. He was a solitary figure, secreted away at the stern of the tenth vessel. Though some sought him out, none could discern his presence amidst the shadows.
A mageia chime shrieked, its resonance vibrating through the very hull of the airship, followed by a commanding voice amplified by a broadcast artefact.
"Attention, all demon hunters! At 0010 hours, the first official mission briefing is to commence. All personnel are ordered to the Central Hall immediately!"
The alert echoed twice more, galvanising the hunters within the vessel's belly. Seraph caught the distant swell of voices—the boisterous clamour of challengers nursing fever dreams of glory and renown.
"The hour is upon us, it seems..." Seraph murmured to the void.
The young man's form rose, buoyed by unseen currents. Curiously, despite the ferocious gale lashing the upper deck, the hem of his white cloak rippled with preternatural calm, as if the winds themselves were under his thumb. The heterochromatic eyes that had blazed with azure and gold slowly receded to their natural state before his boots made soft, noiseless contact with the deck plating.
"A satisfactory result," he allowed, a thin smile touching his lips.
The young magis descended from the heights of the deck toward the Great Hall. This marked his first foray into the gut of such a titanic mageia vessel. The airship comprised numerous decks; it was no mere luxury liner for the idle rich. In truth, it was a colossal artefact of the Arkflame military, forged for the grim necessity of sovereignty and survival above the treacherous demonic frontiers.
While the vessel's capacity reached into the thousands, the holds were currently laden with potions and heavy armaments of war. Consequently, each ship carried a contingent of only 1,000 demon hunters, ensuring maximum manoeuvrability and safety for the fleet.
As the young magis crossed the threshold into the Central Hall, his senses were assailed by the presence of a thousand demon hunters gathered in restless clusters. Amidst this sea of humanity, though stray magis from beyond the Sanctus were scattered throughout, he found no familiar face. To a solitary practitioner like himself, the souls aboard this soaring vessel were nothing but ciphers—ghosts without a name in the annals of his journey.
Initially, none deigned to spare a glance for the stripling with the youthful visage of a sixteen-year-old. Yet, the moment their eyes caught the sigil of the Stormcloud Citadel upon his gold-trimmed cloak, they were compelled to look again with a start of disbelief. Several hunters nudged their comrades, pointing in hushed urgency to confirm the sight.
For a magis of Sanctus was a rarity in any circle, but a white cloak with gold embroidery within Arkflame signified a prodigy of the highest order. They had not fathomed that the Sanctus would commit so heavily to the Bloody Hunting, risking a magis of such high affinity in this lethal crucible.
Various cabals began to cast predatory glances toward him, shifting their stance to approach and curry favour with this mysterious powerhouse. However—
"Silence! Are all demon hunters accounted for?"
A mageia-magnified voice thundered from the high dais at the hall's fore. The sonic wave crashed over the assembly, instantly arresting the crowd's movement. Upon the stage stood an Overseer in the full regalia of the Arkflame military—a stark reminder that the Bloody Hunting was a joint venture of the highest order between the Legions and the Royal Court, with the most precious of rewards as the wager for those who survived.
"I've spoken to many of you over the passing hours, but I'll state it once more with full formality! I am Captain Mordant. Welcome, every brave soul ready to join our crusade against the demonic horde! This is the grandest purging operation of the year! This is the Bloody Hunting! You're here to carry forth fame and glory, alongside the honour of your lineages! You're more formidable than the millions who lack the mettle for what must be done. I salute every one of you with the most sincere conviction!" Mordant declared, a sharp smile etched upon his face.