In after the wastelands haze, Myke rides through it, and arrived at the vast wall. The Daen. Myke then search the gate to enter, he gave his hologram ID card, and as he had a permit to enter, he drive into the town full of grand, elegant building. The civillain's outfit seems like rich people, and the rhythm is calm, warm, and bright. All of them smile, dance, laugh harmonically.
Myke rode through the grand town, making a few quiet stops. Eventually, he pulled up to a tailor shop nestled between marble towers and archways draped in banners. Inside, he was greeted with a warm smile.
“Mr. Myke, what a pleasure to see you again,” said Joshua, the tailor, bowing slightly. “Tell me—what’s your request this time, my friend?”
“Elegant. Versatile... deadly,” Myke replied, eyes scanning the fabrics.
“Ahh... fitting for your attitude,” Joshua chuckled. He turned, walked over to a cloth bundle, and unrolled it with careful precision.
“I call it Phantom Weave. Made by my own hand. Precise threads and refined needles. A dark, matte-threaded silk infused with nano-mesh layers underneath. It appears like a nobleman’s fabric under sunlight—flowing, luxurious—but hides interwoven flex-armor just beneath the surface.”
He held it up to the light. The pattern shifted faintly, like shadows caught mid-dance.
“For the outer layer,” Joshua continued, “a long, high-collared asymmetrical coat, with shadowy embroidery that shifts as light moves. Slits and folding lines near the thighs and shoulders for flexibility.”
He pulled out a second piece—sleek and close-fitted.
“Underneath, a charcoal turtleneck vest. Breathable. Temperature-adaptive. Mesh-lined and stitched to move with your pulse. As for the lower set—tapered, dark gray combat-formal trousers. Custom boots, matte-gray leather. Silent soles. Blade slots at the calves. You’ll feel like wind itself.”
Myke raised a brow. “How much?”
Joshua smiled softly. “For a friend? Enough to pay me a visit, Mr. Myke.”
Then, Myke spot a glove, and he stare at it. Soon, Joshua break the silent after noticed Myke's eye. He walks to the glove and hand him. "Acknowledge it as a gift," he said.
"I appreciate that."
Soon after, Myke stepped out of the tailor shop. The Phantom Weave fit like memory—silent, exact, unforgiving. He climbed onto his bike and revved the engine. Then he rode toward the city’s core—his destination: Telkha Arena.
It was the time of year again. The Annual Arena Concord, where every team gathered under one roof. To watch. To bet. To make war... with rules.
Inside the locker room, Myke changed into the suit completely. The coat settled over him like second skin. He pulled off his glove.
His left hand—scarred, blistered, seared. At the base of one finger, a ring, melted and fused into his flesh. It had no shine now. Just a symbol burnt in silence.
Myke exhaled. He closed his eyes. Cleared his mind. Switched to a new glove. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, smoothed his tie, and stepped out.
Telkha Hall. A wide, open chamber where banners drifted like prayers and laughter echoed from every corner of the fractured world. Teams from every arena, every region. Hosh. Methra. Geil. Zein.
“And the match-up for the three Rising Suns—Korha against Yevha.” The match-maker’s voice rang out, light applause following from the scattered seats.
Myke made his way toward registration.
At the desk stood a female elf, tablet in hand. She spoke without looking up. “Name of your team?”
“Valirion,” Myke replied.
“Members?”
“Myke Yarh. Mingwara Jifu. Jugginal Orlath. Hennah C. Holfen. Ying...” He paused.
The elf finally looked up. Her brows rose. “Ying... Yingli F. Hesky?”
A beat of silence. “…Yes,” he said.
“Opponent?”
“Jashash.”
“Location?”
“Geil Arena. Tala, Jarta.”
She tapped a few glyphs, and the ticket printed out with a low hiss. “Your registration is complete. Please wait in the outer rows until confirmation.”
Myke nodded and moved to an empty seat near the far corner of the hall. The lights dimmed. The announcer’s voice floated across the high dome.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
“Dorian against Valhalla’s Fire…”
And then… He closed his eyes. And drifted.
Hours passed. The hall buzzed in low murmurs and shifting glances.
“2722.”
The number echoed across the chamber.
Myke stirred awake, still half-asleep. He stood, straightened his coat, and walked the long alley toward the Hosh table. He moved like a shadow stitched into elegance.
He took his seat quietly. Other teams had already gathered—among them, the Crimson Crowns, with Jana Holfen seated at the center like a crimson thorn.
“You look fabulous, Myke,” she said, her voice smooth but sharpened by intent.
Myke said nothing.
Not long after, the match-maker’s voice returned to the hall.
“In the Calendar of Deyra, on the Four Rising Suns and Two Drowning Moons… Crimson Crowns versus Honor Veil. Location: Methra Arena, Sela, Selalhaja.”
Light applause followed.Myke clapped politely—detached, controlled.
“Any objections?” the match-maker asked.
“None,” said the leader of Honor Veil.
“Nein,” Jana replied.
“Then good luck, and may fortune rise among thyselves.”
“Amen,” replied many across the room—including Myke.
Then the next pairing was called.
“Valirion and Jashash—present?”
Myke raised his hand. So did AyLex, the leader of Jashash.The match-maker nodded.
“Lower your hands. State your members.”
Myke spoke first, voice calm as stone.“Jugginal Orlath. Yingli F. Hesky. Mingwara Jifu. Hennah C. Holfen.And myself—Myke Yarh, leader of Valirion.”
AyLex followed, voice more animated.“Kana Solva. Dhark. Grug. Sonnie Forger. And myself—AyLex Yarh, leader of Jashash.”
“Ranks?”
“Twelfth,” AyLex replied, pride in his tone.
“Thirteenth,” Myke answered flatly.
There was a beat of silence before the Elders' verdict was declared:
“In the Calendar of Deyra, on One Rising Sun and Two Drowning Moons… Valirion versus Jashash. Location: Geil Arena, Tala, Jarta.”
“Any objection?”
Both leaders shook their heads.
“Then may fortune rise among thyselves.”
“Amen.”
Meanwhile, Jug wore an apron, cooking Jarta-style fried rice—simple, yet rich with umami. Angry fire licked the wok as he flipped the rice expertly, his brow furrowed in concentration.
From a distance, Hennah watched in awe, her mouth slightly open.Ying sat nearby, equally stunned. She never knew Jug could cook.
“Hey! Make sure you add cheese on it, soft hands!” Hennah called out.
“NO! IT’LL RUIN THE TASTE, PINK HAIR!” Jug barked back.
Hennah pouted dramatically. Ying giggled.
She turned to Ming, who sat nearby sipping tea, maintaining her rifle with calm precision.
“So, Ming,” Ying asked, curious. “What are you good at… besides fighting?”
“Dancing. Writing poems. Debugging system code,” Ming replied evenly.
“Ooo, that’s interesting. I didn’t know you could dance.”
“Dancing Cinders is dancing too,” she said, her eyes serene.
“Really? What other kind of dancing?”
“I KNOW—SHE DOES BALLERINA!” Hennah blurted, jumping in.
“I don’t twist on my toes, Hennah,” Ming said flatly.
“Oh yeah? Then lemme show you how it’s done!” Hennah stood, lifted her arms, and did the worst ballerina impression imaginable.
Ying laughed softly as Hennah spun like a malfunctioning mop.
“That’s not ballerina,” Ming said, serious.
“Oh, it is for me~!” Hennah twirled like a maniac.
Soon, Jug slapped the back of her head with a firm palm.
“HEY! WHAT WAS THAT FOR, JUGGY BOY?!”
“Do you wanna get burned by this hot fried rice I just made?” he grumbled, serving it onto the table.
“I do wanna get burned! Burn me inside and out, rice daddy~!” Hennah yelled, then dashed off to grab four plates and spoons.She returned and dumped nearly half the rice onto her plate.
“HEY! LEAVE SOME FOR THE OTHERS, YOU GREEDY—”
“I’M STARVING, SOFT HANDS!” she shouted through a mouthful.
Ming quietly took a portion. Ying served herself next. Jug scooped what remained for himself.
“Well?” Jug asked. “How is it, girls?”
Ying took a bite, eyes lighting up. “It’s really good, Jug. I didn’t know you could cook like this!”
Jug gave a modest nod, clearly pleased. “Glad you like it.”
“Not bad,” Ming whispered, eyes still on her plate.
Just then, a small mechanical pigeon fluttered down and landed directly on Hennah’s head.
“HEY! GET OFF MY HEAD, YOU METAL CHICKEN!”
Ming stood calmly and retrieved the bird, pulling a small note from its leg.
“It’s from Myke.”
“What’s it say?” Ying asked, leaning closer.
Ming scanned the message. “It’s encoded. But I can read it.”
“…Geil Arena,” she said.
“Ah,” Hennah mumbled through another bite, “we’re going there soon.”
Once again, Ming bonked her.
“What does that mean?” Ying asked.
“We’re going to Tala,” Jug explained.
Outside Telkha, Myke stood beside his bike, about to rev the engine—when AyLex stepped into his path.
“You’ll regret not taking the money for Ying,” AyLex said, smiling like a man who thought he already won.
Myke’s eyes stayed on him, cold and unreadable.
“I don’t sell my own teammates.”
AyLex scoffed. “Really? I offered you a handsome price. You’re the type who wants more coin, don’t lie to yourself. Sell her to me, and I could teach her—properly.”
Myke was silent.
Then—calmly, almost too quiet—he said,
“I don’t believe you can… not after what you did to Mya.”
He revved the engine, then rode away—never once looking back.
AyLex watched him disappear into the haze.
“Heh… it was an accident,” he muttered, grinning.
