Night fell like a heavy shroud over the city of Endareth. The wind, once gentle across the hills, now dragged the scent of ash and rust through the narrow alleys. The entire city seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence.

In a dim alley lit only by the fading glow of an abandoned forge, a lone figure moved like a whisper. Ava.

Wrapped in her dark cloak and masked face, she slipped through the maze of backstreets like a shadow with purpose. Her sharp gaze swept over shuttered windows, locked doors, and stone walls marked in red ink:
“Don’t trust the light.”
“They are watching.”
“Ruin begins with the strong.”

She had received a lead. A shipment of medicinal herbs had gone missing near an area controlled by the Veilborn, a mercenary group that claimed to protect the poor… for a price. Usually blood. And obedience.

She vaulted over a low wall and landed silently in the yard of an old workshop, where the only sound was the occasional metallic clink. Someone was inside.

With feline grace, she climbed a wooden beam and watched from above.

Two men, both armed—one wearing the symbol of the Veilborn—were dragging a cart under a stained tarp. When one of them stumbled and the cloth slipped, Ava saw herbs glinting in the torchlight… mixed with something darker.

Blood.

She dropped down behind them without a sound. One man collapsed unconscious before he could scream. The other found a blade at his throat.

“How many carts have you moved?” Ava’s voice was low, cold.

“Th-three! They’re all headed to the central warehouse! I just follow orders!”

She knocked him out with a sharp jab to the temple, turned, and disappeared into the dark.

No time to waste.

Elsewhere in the city, Miguel was stacking rice sacks in the back of a creaky old tavern. His hands, rough from years of manual labor, still carried the precision of a fighter. But here, he wasn’t a warrior. Just Miguel. The helper.

“Hey, boy! Don’t forget the covers! Rats are starving out there!”

The bark came from the tavern owner—a man so grumpy he probably chewed nails for breakfast. Miguel nodded without replying, wiping sweat off his brow with his forearm.

And then… something was off.

The ground trembled. A low, dull thoom, like something massive had struck the earth.

Miguel climbed to the roof, eyes narrowing.

From the east, a thick black cloud rolled in fast—and from within it, the shriek of winged creatures.

Three of them.

“Of course,” Miguel muttered, “they had to come during my shift.”

He vaulted down, cutting across alleys. His destination: the orphanage. He wasn’t letting those kids face this alone.

Inside, little Lira stood trembling near the window.

“You’ll protect us… right?”

He stepped in front of her without hesitation.

“Always.”

Meanwhile, Oliver walked through the old quarter with his father, Raul, searching for medicine. Every apothecary had shut its doors. The streets were nearly silent, with tension so thick it wrapped around their necks.

“Son… if anything happens, you run.”

“Dad, come on. We’ve been through worse.”

“Yeah, but not with monsters.”

Oliver rolled his eyes but smiled.

“We’ll find the herbs. Worst case, I’ll invent a potion with sawdust and tears.”

His father snorted a laugh, coughed… and winced.

Then the ground shook.

A sharp crack echoed through the city, and part of an old stone tower exploded in the distance. From the rubble, a beast emerged—skin warped like melted wax, eyes blazing.

People ran. Screamed. Fell.

Oliver didn’t move. He stepped in front of his father and picked up a rusted pipe from the street.

“Guess we’re testing my ‘no training required’ combat theory.”

High above the city, in the tower of the central district, a cloaked figure stood before an arcane mirror. Madame Valerious.

She observed not individuals, but the growing instability. Fires. Creatures. The signs she had feared were now undeniable.

“Everything is in motion. The city is shifting… they’re ready.”

Behind her, a hologram of a symbiotic armor pulsed gently—awaiting activation.

“Let the Tournament begin.”

She pressed her hand against a glowing crystal, and a wave of bluish energy erupted into the sky, forming a radiant ring above Endareth.

It wasn’t just an invitation.

It was a declaration of war.

That night:

Miguel held a child’s hand amidst the chaos.
Ava vanished over the rooftops with stolen blood on her blade.
Oliver rammed a pipe into a beast’s neck, muttering:

“Next time… I bring a real weapon.”

Three paths.
Three hearts.
Three Guardians yet to awaken.

And far above, eyes of ancient evil slowly opened—watching.