The Emberdome stands as the beating heart of Ardholm, a city forged in combat, where warriors gather to prove their strength, their skill, and their will to dominate. No magic. No elemental forces. No divine intervention. Only pure weapon mastery. Eclipseborne and other magical divinants ignore this contest—they see it as primitive, unnecessary. Yet for the warrior divinants, this is sacred. To battle in the Emberdome is to honor the legacy of pure combat, the art of blade and blood, the dance of steel against steel. This is where legends are made. And none stand taller than Ragan, the undefeated champion—a colossus of muscle and battle experience, known not just for his victories in the west, but for his dominance in the arena.

  As the emcee's voice booms across the Emberdome, the crowd erupts with cheers for Ragan, their champion, their warlord of the ring. But today—a new name echoes through the arena. "And now, a challenger! Unknown in name, unknown in origin, but unshaken in his purpose! The self-proclaimed Champion of Justice—RAZE!" The audience murmurs, curious yet eager. Who is this warrior? Then, he steps forward—and the roar of the crowd shifts.

  Raze's presence fills the air, a living embodiment of heroism. His aura radiates an undeniable magnetism, pulling the gazes of everyone around him. The women in the crowd swoon at his sculpted form, his effortless grace, and the warriors eye him with intrigue, recognizing something rare, something dangerous. He cracks his neck, his knuckles, rolling his shoulders as if savoring the moment before battle. Excitement glows in his gaze. This is what he lives for.

  "Raise your weapons!" the emcee announces. Ragan, towering, monstrous, lifts his two-handed axe, his stance firm, unwavering. Raze, smiling, lifts his massive two-handed sword—effortlessly, with one hand. Gasps ripple through the crowd, whispers of disbelief echoing through the seats. He isn't just here to fight. He's here to dominate.

  Warriors fight with respect, and neither Ragan nor Raze are exceptions. They nod, acknowledging one another. Ragan smirks. "You look strong, young one. I hope you won't hold back—I certainly won't." Raze grins, his confidence unwavering. "I will be the champion. You need not hold back, nor be ashamed of your inevitable defeat." Ragan laughs, amused yet impressed by his bravery. "Bold words. Let's see if you can match them." The crowd erupts—this will be a battle worth watching. And thus, the duel begins.

  The battle between Ragan, the undefeated warlord, and Raze, the self-proclaimed Champion of Justice, was beyond anything the Emberdome had ever witnessed. The air in the arena crackled with the raw force of their blows, smelling of ozone and stirred dust. The sky itself trembled as their weapons clashed, sending waves of raw, physical force rippling through the protective barrier. The sound of steel on steel was a deafening symphony of destruction, a rhythmic clang that vibrated through every person's bones. The crowd erupted in pure awe—this was a battle worth witnessing, a moment etched into history.

  With the fight at its peak, Ragan unleashed his ultimate technique—his Warrior Divinity projected into a colossal avatar, a titan of battle, wielding his mighty two-handed axe, radiating the presence of a true battlefield god. But Raze was not done. He stabbed his two-handed sword into the ground, summoning his own divine projection—a towering image of himself, a champion sculpted from sheer will and combat mastery. Two legendary forms stood against each other. And then—they charged.

  Steel met steel, force met force, the impact shaking the earth itself. Outside the dome, winds roared, buildings trembled—this was beyond mortal battle. And then—silence. The dust settled. Two figures stood in the center, both their divine forms dissipating, leaving behind two men, panting, exhausted, but undefeated in spirit.

  Raze reached out to Ragan, offering his hand. For a second—Ragan hesitated. Then, he accepted. With a firm grip, he held onto Raze's hand, a silent acknowledgment of defeat. There was no shame in this battle—only honor. And as Ragan rose, standing beside Raze, the crowd erupted—cheering not for a single champion, but for the warriors who had given them a spectacle beyond imagination.

  And then—the emcee raised his voice, announcing the final verdict. "The new Champion of the Emberdome is—RAZE!" The cheering surged, overwhelming, deafening—Raze had done it. And now—his adventure continued.

  The Emberdome is the heart of Ardholm, but beyond its towering arena lies a city of contrasts—a place where glory and suffering exist side by side. The upper district thrives on commerce, luxury, and prestige, while the lower district, riddled with hardship, is where crime festers. The smells of roasting meat and fine perfumes from the upper city bleed down into the lower, where the air is thick with the scent of damp earth and unwashed bodies. For the spectators, this city is a destination, but for its people, life here is dictated by survival.

  Though he could bask in his glory, Raze chooses differently—he shares his winnings with orphans and struggling youth, ensuring they receive aid. He didn't come for wealth—he came for the title, the challenge, the proof of his strength. His victory is not for himself, but for the idea he represents—justice, honor, the will to fight for the weak. His name begins to spread, whispered among the lower district—a warrior with no home, no origin, but an unshakable devotion to the people.

  Raze's visits to the orphanage were a routine of honor—a tradition that followed every victory, where he shared his winnings with the children, ensuring they could eat well, sleep safely, and dream freely. But this time—something was different. The laughter was quieter. The usual faces were missing. A child, small yet brave, approached him with hesitant words, wide eyes filled with quiet fear. "They're gone, Champion."

  It wasn't just here. Even in the wealthy districts, nobles whispered in fear, their children vanishing just as easily as the poor. Famous names—sons of renowned figures—were among those taken, and yet no pattern was clear, no suspect was known. But the truth was undeniable—the city itself was bleeding. Now, faced with those empty beds, those fearful eyes staring up at him, Raze couldn't ignore it any longer. "Children are the future of this continent. If this has gone on for so long, I must put an end to it. I will find them. I will bring them home." This wasn't just a job. It was a duty. His fight would not be for glory this time. It would be for justice. The fury in his heart was a cold flame, an oath he had made long ago, now burning brighter than ever. And so—the hunt begins.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  After hearing about the missing children at the orphanage, Raze couldn't ignore the feeling—this wasn't an isolated tragedy, it was spreading across the city like an unseen plague. He spoke with the nun at the orphanage, who told him it had been happening for months. He questioned the city guards, who were reluctant to speak openly, warning him that whatever was behind it was "bigger than common investigations." He even consulted the Luminaries, some of whom were vague and dismissive. "This is not a simple matter of justice, Champion. Some threads are not meant to be pulled," they told him. "There are forces at play beyond what you comprehend." Raze ignored the dismissal—justice isn't something he waited to be granted. He took it upon himself.

  From all his questioning, one location stood out—the school. A place where several children had gone missing, yet no guards were stationed there. Suspicious. So he made his way there, and in a vacant classroom, he saw him. A young man, watching the children, scanning names on a list—his movements too cautious, too deliberate. The moment Raze's gaze locked onto him, the man tensed, his eyes darting toward the exit—and then he ran.

  Raze lunged forward, instinct kicking in. He wasn't just escaping, he was avoiding being questioned. Through the crowded streets, over market stalls, between the rooftops, they raced. The city whirred around them, a blur of faces and colors, but Raze's focus was absolute. This wasn't just a desperate fugitive. This was someone trained, someone who knew how to escape pursuit. The man's agility wasn't raw speed; it was calculated efficiency, almost like a scout, an infiltrator... maybe even an assassin.

  Then, suddenly, the man stopped. Not out of exhaustion, not out of defeat. He chose to stop in an empty alleyway, where no one could interrupt what came next. Raze halted, his muscles tense. "Who are you?" he demanded. The man smiled.

  The alleyway was silent, tucked between forgotten streets. Raze held his stance, blades at the ready. "Do you have anything to do with the missing children?" The young man, lean and composed, let out a quiet breath. "So that's what this is about," he murmured. The weight of his words, the way he carried himself—everything about him felt calculated.

  Raze's mind raced, piecing together the clues. The list of names. The faint blood smear. The insignia around his neck: the eclipse moon. That was it. The final confirmation. His jaw tightened, a hard knot of raw emotion. He had seen this insignia before, in a darker time, and his refusal to join its ranks still felt like a burn in his memory. "I see..." His voice carried cold certainty. "That group has finally given in to its corruption. You're recruiting them now, aren't you? Children, taken, turned into killers. I knew it." His fury ignited. "I will not let this happen. It has to stop—now." And without hesitation—he attacked.

  Inside the classroom, Emmet leaned against the desk, scanning the list of missing children with narrowed eyes. The air was still and dusty, the afternoon light streaming through the windows casting long shadows across the empty desks. Five missing. Three of them from this school. It was unsettling—too clean, too precise, almost as if whoever was behind this had planned everything perfectly, leaving no trace beyond the names left behind. He lifted his pencil, marking each child he had confirmed missing, crossing the ones already investigated.

  "No patterns yet. Just children... disappearing."

  He sighed, rubbing his temple—this was becoming messier than expected.

  Then—the door creaked open.

  A muscular figure stepped inside, a towering warrior, sword fastened to his back, eyes sharp and focused. The man's presence was heavy, a tangible weight in the room. Emmet froze, instinct kicking in—his mind quickly analyzing the situation. City soldier? Investigator? Not good—don't want to get tangled in their mess.

  He avoided eye contact, subtly tucking the list back into his coat. This wasn't worth an interrogation.

  And so—he ran.

  Emmet moved fast, slipping through halls, pushing out into the streets—but the warrior followed. Persistent. The thud of his boots was relentless, a constant drumbeat of pursuit. Jumping across rooftops, cutting through tight alleyways, he tried every escape route possible—and yet, his pursuer never gave up.

  "This guy is fast."

  Despite the chase, Emmet's mind raced—he wasn't guilty, he wasn't a criminal. "Why is he still after me? Don't tell me he's one of those investigators."

  Perhaps the warrior was an investigator too—but either way, Emmet didn't have time to waste on formalities.

  Until finally—he stopped.

  An empty alleyway, quiet, still, untouched by crowds.

  "Enough."

  Time to clear this up.

  Emmet turned, facing the towering figure who had pursued him so relentlessly. His expression was calm, composed, ready to explain—But then—he saw it. The warrior's stance was tense, his gaze sharp, his grip tightening around his swords. Not curiosity. Not caution. Judgment. Certainty. "Who are you?" The warrior's voice was low, edged with accusation. Emmet sighed, already feeling the weight of misunderstanding. "Alright, fine. I'll explain—" Then—he noticed his pants. The red stain. "Ah. Eanne spilled ketchup on me earlier—should've cleaned it off." His fingers moved to dust it away—but the warrior's expression darkened. Then—his eyes shifted to Emmet's necklace. The Eclipse Moon insignia. And suddenly, everything clicked. For Raze, this wasn't an innocent pendant. This was proof of allegiance to a corrupted organization—an organization Raze had once rejected, an organization he believed had now turned to kidnapping children. And Emmet—just realized how bad this looked. "I see..." the warrior murmured, voice laced with conviction. "That group has finally given in to corruption. You're recruiting them now, aren't you? Taking the children, forcing them into killers. I knew it." Emmet blinked. "Wait—what? What are you talking about?" "I will not let this happen. It has to stop—now." The swords were drawn. And just like that—the fight had begun.

  Emmet barely had time to react before steel rushed toward him, the force behind Raze's strike enough to shatter stone, a direct assault meant to end the battle in an instant. The sound of the blade cutting through the air was a sharp whistle, a sound of unbridled rage. But Emmet was faster. With an almost effortless shift in stance, he sidestepped, redirecting the blow, causing Raze's sword to carve a deep gouge into the stone wall. The impact sent a spray of pulverized rock into the air. "You're mistaken," Emmet said, voice still eerily calm. "You're not even looking for the right answers. You're just swinging wildly in the dark." Raze snarled, refusing to listen. His fury had clouded his judgment, and he attacked again, faster this time, a flurry of strikes that were more emotion than strategy. "You ran. You carry a list of their names. You wear their insignia. All of it points to you." "Then fight me, Champion," Emmet muttered, finally taking his stance properly. "Let's see if blind fury helps you find the truth." And just like that—the alley became their battlefield.