Morning arrived.
The dorms were still bathed in soft shadows when a sudden blast of loud, energetic music erupted from the speakers—jolting every Dominor awake. Groans echoed through the halls as beds creaked, blankets were kicked off, and confused curses filled the air.
Today is the day.
None of them knew exactly what was waiting inside the Dome. Only that Seren had called them. And when he called, you showed up.
Cael blinked away the blur of sleep and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. With practiced ease, he changed into his training uniform, buttoning it up as his thoughts wandered. There was no excitement in his face—only the usual calm. Routine. Focus.
Opening the door, he was met with a familiar sight: Lucen, leaning against the wall just beside his door, arms crossed, eyes closed. Like always. Waiting.
Cael stared at him for a second and sighed. "Always early," he muttered to himself, brushing past him without a word.
Lucen didn't flinch. Didn't move. He simply followed—silently—as he always did.
Down the corridor, others had already begun filing out of their rooms, walking in groups or alone, all headed in the same direction: the Dome.
It was everyone's first time seeing it.
The structure loomed ahead like a sleeping beast, round and seamless. A massive geodesic dome with a silver-blue sheen that caught the early morning light. It looked like it didn't belong to this world. Futuristic. Imposing. Beautiful.
Stepping inside, Cael instantly noticed something strange.
Silence.
As though the world outside had been cut off. The usual buzz, footsteps, or distant voices—gone. The Dome swallowed all sound, wrapping him in a heavy, uncanny stillness.
His eyes scanned the interior.
What material is this? he wondered. Is this a thin shell structure? Or something else?
Before he could think more, a door on the far side hissed open.
"Heyo! It's me again!"
Seren's voice sliced through the silence, startling a few.
He walked in with a casual strut, hands in his pockets, his ever-present smirk on his face. And beside him—Davor, standing tall and unreadable as ever.
As soon as the two entered, the atmosphere changed.
The Dominors—more than thirty of them—began instinctively shifting, giving space. Even with the Dome's massive size, they slowly formed a loose circle, eyes wary.
Seren halted at the center of the dome, letting his presence soak into the silence like oil on water.
"Are you guys curious about this place?" he asked, his voice echoing softly in the enormous space.
"Yes, sir!" the Dominors responded in unison.
Seren's grin widened—not the comforting kind, but the kind that made your gut twist. There was something behind it.
"As you can see," he began, turning slowly in place, "this dome is quite large. Look around—rows of seats circling you from above. And right now, you're all standing in the center."
He paused, letting their eyes wander.
"Does it feel familiar?" he asked.
Confused murmurs passed between them. Some exchanged uncertain glances. It felt like a stage. A pit. But for what?
Seren snapped his fingers. "It looks like an arena, doesn't it?"
Now all eyes locked back onto him.
"Exactly," he said. "Because that's what it is. This dome was designed to be an arena. A place for battles. This is the only dome on the entire training grounds, and it's shared by two divisions: you, the Dominors, and the Aetherion Division—the Luminars."
Someone whispered behind Cael, just loud enough to be heard, "Don't tell me we'll fight the Luminars here..."
"Yeah! You are!" Seren's voice cracked like a whip, his head snapping toward the whisperer. He smacked his baton into the palm of his hand with a sharp thwack.
"How'd you guess that, huh?" he asked, tilting his head, still smiling—but the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes.
The room went still. Even the air seemed to freeze.
Fight the Luminars? That wasn't a joke. That was suicide. The Luminars had powers—abilities that bent the laws of nature. The Dominors? They had nothing.
It wasn't just unfair.
It was madness.
"You're all thinking it's unfair, right?" Seren said, reading their minds like an open book. He tapped the side of his head with the baton. "I get it. Believe me, I do. Which is exactly why I called you here."
He took a step closer, his voice growing a bit more serious.
"You're not going to fight them with nothing."
Now that sparked interest.
Murmurs broke out again. Cael narrowed his eyes, while Lucen, who stood at the very back—watched Seren like a hawk, unmoving.
"What does he mean by that...?" someone whispered.
Seren raised a finger. "You've spent weeks breaking your bodies down and rebuilding them. Obstacle courses, strength drills, conditioning—those weren't just for show. You needed a foundation. Because now..."
He grinned again—this time with something almost sinister behind it.
"Now, we begin the process of unlocking your Dominion Potential."
And all around, every Dominor stood a little straighter—because whatever Seren meant... it sounded like the beginning of something very real.
"Lucen, come here," Seren called, casually gesturing him forward.
Without hesitation, Lucen stepped out from the edge of the dome and made his way toward Seren with his usual silent obedience, like a soldier responding to a command hardwired into his bones. He stood beside Seren, still as stone.
Seren threw an arm around Lucen's shoulders, grinning at the crowd. "I guess you all know who this guy is."
Everyone nodded or murmured quietly. Of course they did.
"This guy," Seren said, voice loud and firm, "is like you."
He let the silence hang.
"Powerless..." he paused, then smiled wider.
"Yet powerful."
With a tap of his baton, he pointed at Lucen's side—specifically, the weapons strapped to his belt. A sleek, coiled whip. A worn, battle-scarred kampilan.
"This," Seren said, "is his power."
Some of the Dominors leaned forward, intrigued.
"He doesn't have supernatural abilities. He doesn't glow or summon fire. What he has—are tools. Weapons. Skills. And today..."
He stepped away from Lucen, back to center.
"...you'll be receiving your own."
Whispers erupted instantly.
"And starting tomorrow, you'll begin to master them."
A hand shot up from the crowd. Seren raised an eyebrow and nodded.
"U-Um... about the tools, the weapons... do we have to buy them? Like, with our own money?" the trainee asked hesitantly.
Seren snorted a laugh. "Ah—no, no, no."
He wagged a finger and turned his body slightly to the side, grinning like he'd been waiting for that question.
"Here."
All heads turned as the sound of heavy panels sliding open echoed from the side of the dome. And then—they saw them.
Laid out in long, black velvet-lined tables were weapons.
Rows upon rows.
Glinting steel. Matte-black firearms. Elegant bows with intricately carved limbs. Twin daggers with curved blades. Brutal-looking axes. Exotic spears. And more no one could even name.
"Go ahead," Seren said. "You can come closer if you want to look. Just don't touch anything—yet."
The Dominors surged forward like moths to flame, their earlier fatigue forgotten. Their eyes sparkled with wonder and awe. For a moment, they weren't just trainees. They were warriors in the making.
Cael moved with the rest, scanning the selection. He caught his breath.
This is insane... he thought. This is real.
He didn't know whether to be nervous or excited.
"Alright, that's enough!" Seren called.
One by one, the Dominors stepped back, returning to their places, eyes still darting to the weapons behind Seren. The atmosphere had shifted completely.
Gone was the doubt.
Now—there was a spark.
Excitement. Anticipation. Purpose.
Seren turned to Davor, who had remained silent at the side like a sentinel. With a respectful nod, Seren stepped back, giving the Marshal the floor.
Davor stepped forward, clearing his throat. His voice was deep, steady—one that demanded silence without needing to raise it.
"There's no training today," he began. "Today, we focus on your soon-to-be weapons."
The buzz of excitement stirred again, only to falter at his next words.
"You are not choosing them. The weapon chooses its master."
A ripple of uncertainty moved through the group. Some trainees exchanged anxious glances.
What if I get something I don't like?
What if it doesn't match me?
"Each weapon knows your strengths, your weaknesses... even skills you haven't discovered yet. It sees who you are beneath the surface."
He crossed his arms. "I'm not one to talk too much—unlike this guy behind me." He threw a dry look over his shoulder.
Seren dramatically rolled his eyes. "Oh, please."
Seren stepped forward again, holding a tablet with names and notes. "Well, someone's got to speak or we'll be here all day."
He smirked as he scanned the first name on the list.
"One by one, I'll call your name. I'll tell you what we've observed about you over the past month—your behavior, instincts, and personality. We've been watching you closely, even when you thought no one was."
Some Dominors shifted nervously.
"Based on that," Seren continued, "we have a weapon in mind. But again, whether it accepts you is not guaranteed. So don't cry if you get a dagger instead of a sword."
A few awkward chuckles broke the tension.
"Alright..." he lifted the tablet higher. "Let's begin."
He called the first name.
A young trainee stepped forward, stiff with nerves. Seren glanced at his notes.
"You're quick to react. Tactical. You adapt fast. Not much of a talker, but you analyze everything around you," Seren recited.
He pointed at a pair of short, sleek daggers resting on a velvet stand.
"These. Try them."
The trainee stepped forward, reaching out cautiously. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the blades shimmered—barely noticeable, but there. A pulse.
They accepted him.
Gasps and murmurs spread around the dome.
"Lucky," someone whispered.
And just like that, the selection began.
One by one, names were called. Traits were described. Weapons shimmered, pulsed, or rejected.
Some Dominors were elated. Others were clearly shaken when the weapon they wanted passed them by—only for a stranger one to glow in their hands.
While Seren continued calling names and guiding trainees to their weapons, Davor's sharp eyes scanned the crowd.
Something felt... off.
He kept checking each face, mentally taking attendance.
Someone's missing.
His brows drew together. His gaze swept across the dome one more time before he exhaled sharply, the realization settling in.
The Verault boy.
Davor muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening.
Did that damn child run away?
After the training hell he put him through yesterday, he wouldn't be surprised.
He exhaled sharply, trying not to curse aloud.
But then—
"Am I late?"
The voice echoed through the open dome like thunder dipped in mischief. Heads turned.
There he was.
Darain Verault, sauntering into the arena with hands behind his head and a smile that could piss off a monk. His coat flared with every exaggerated step, hair wind-tousled, eyes gleaming with the confidence of someone who believed rules were made to be bent—then laughed at.
The trainees stared in silence.
Davor's eyes locked on him like a hawk spotting a rodent.
Darain paused at the attention, raised a brow, then laughed. "What now? Is my aura too good? Relax, I showered."
A few chuckles. Most just looked away, embarrassed on his behalf. Davor, however, rubbed his temples.
"I swear by the Old Flame," he muttered, "this one will be the end of me."
Seren cleared his throat. "Shall I begin his assessment, sir?"
"Please," Davor said, waving a hand. "Before he explodes from ego."
Seren stood straighter, scrolling through the records on his tablet. "Darain Verault. Noted to possess high agility, unpredictable combat rhythm, adaptable instinct, and... questionable discipline."
Darain gave a mock bow. "Why, thank you."
"Recommended for weapons that allow mid-range control and reactive movement," Seren continued, raising his voice over his antics. "Something that matches his improvisational—"
Before he could finish, a sharp clang rang out from the weapon racks.
A long bayonet-rifle—sleek, forged with polished steel and engraved with dormant runes—suddenly trembled. Without warning, it shot from the rack like a bolt of lightning.
Gasps filled the dome.
Darain turned just in time as the weapon flew toward him—blade-first.
His body reacted on instinct. He reached up, one hand gripping the cold barrel, the other steadying the bayonet edge before it kissed his throat. The rifle hummed in his grasp, not with violence—but with recognition.
Silence gripped the room.
Even Cael, watching from the back, raised an eyebrow.
The weapon... chose him.
As if it had been waiting all along.
Darain blinked, then looked down at the weapon now firmly in his hands.
"Oh," he said, a slow grin spreading on his face. "So you like me, huh?"
Even Davor couldn't hide his surprise.
He exchanged a sharp glance with Seren, who looked completely thrown off.
"What the hell..." Seren muttered under his breath, staring at the weapon now humming softly in Darain's hands.
A rifle.
Not just any rifle—but one of the long-range relic-grade pieces, high precision and heavy damage. Something nobody expected to respond to someone like him.
A weapon of focus and discipline... choosing the most unpredictable trainee in the dome.
Seren's mouth was slightly ajar. This has to be a mistake.
He rubbed his face, clearly distressed. "A rifle? Seriously?" he whispered to himself. "What if he just—shoots a vending machine for snacks?"
Davor, silent but visibly tense, seemed to be thinking the same thing. The entire council had records of Darain misusing his family's relics and this... this could be a disaster.
But the dome remained still. The rifle's glow faded into calm submission in Darain's hands.
The weapon had made its choice.
Davor's voice sliced through the tension. "Please. Continue."
It was more command than suggestion.
Seren flinched, pulled out of his spiraling thoughts. He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the next name on the list.
"Cael," he called out, voice steadier than he felt.
The crowd shifted slightly.
Cael stepped forward.
He didn't say anything, didn't try to hide the distant, unreadable look in his eyes. He stood still, like a shadow. Watching. Waiting.
Seren hesitated.
He glanced at Davor again, then at Ezren—who sat silently behind the dome's observation glass, hands twitching with unease.
"This one's tricky," Seren began. "We don't have much on him. Barely any emotional spikes, no recorded triggers. Honestly? Kid's a mystery wrapped in fog."
He scratched the back of his head, awkward.
Whispers rippled across the dome.
Cael looked calm. But Seren could see the weapon display in front of him flickering like a confused heartbeat. Some hilts vibrated. Some blades shook slightly. A few glowed, then dimmed again.
"They don't know who you are," Seren said quietly, not mockingly. More like a warning. "And that scares them."
The silence deepened.
Then—
A soft clack.
Something moved at the edge of the display.
Not glowing. Not humming. Not dramatic.
Just a pair of simple, plain-looking arnis sticks sliding across the floor.
The crowd stared.
They weren't even polished. Worn edges. No carvings. No energy pulsing. Just... sticks.
"Wait... that's it?" one of the trainees muttered.
Even Seren looked confused. "Is that—?"
The sticks stopped at Cael's feet.
No glow. No magical effect. Nothing impressive.
Cael looked down at them. Then up again, expression unchanged.
The silence in the dome stretched.
Seren's lips parted. "Okay... um... Cael. That's yours."
He tried to sound composed, but it came out unsure. "Congratulations?"
Some snickers from the crowd.
Davor didn't laugh. He stared at the sticks. Hard.
Something about them... feels old.
Ezren, watching from above, leaned forward with a frown.
Seren scratched the back of his neck. "Well. That's... unexpected. But hey, you don't need flashy to be deadly."
Cael finally picked them up.
The moment his fingers closed around the arnis sticks, the temperature in the dome dipped. Just slightly. Barely enough to notice.
But Davor noticed.
And so did Seren.
That shift.
That warning.
The sticks may not have glowed, but something woke up.