Chapter 448: The Stage Is Set
This was Leo’s first time standing in the presence of a God, a true God, and what he sensed nearly shattered his understanding of reality.
When his eyes met Soron’s, he didn’t feel as though he was staring at another man.
No, there was no heartbeat of kinship, no shared sense of species.
Soron wore a human shell, yes, cloaked in black robes and seated with mortal posture, but everything about him screamed of something else. Something Leo’s mind wasn’t built to comprehend.
There was a rupture in logic the longer he looked. The throne was there. Soron was seated on it. That much Leo could see. But for some reason, his instincts refused to accept it as truth.
It was as if the figure he saw was only a projection filtered through the limits of his senses.... an illusion crafted not to deceive, but to protect him.
Because the real presence behind those eyes, behind that shape, was something far too vast... far too alien... far too immense for human perception to hold without breaking.
Leo couldn’t even be certain of the distance between them.
Soron felt both close enough to reach and impossibly far away, like his body existed in the space between atoms.
Even the way light played off his form, those subtle shades of black and silver, seemed to carry hues Leo had no words for, colors that didn’t quite belong to this plane.
And that gaze...
It didn’t look at him. It looked through him. Not like reading his thoughts, but like flipping through every page he had ever lived, casually browsing the narrative of his soul as though it were a minor footnote in some ancient tale already written.
Leo’s instincts screamed that he wasn’t witnessing Soron’s true self.
He was only being permitted to see a sliver—a safe fraction—of the God’s true presence, carefully distilled into something survivable.
A shape that his mind could parse without unraveling.
And still, even in this diminished form, Soron’s very existence pressed down on him like the sun’s gravity.
Unmeasurable.
Inescapable.
Undeniable.
It wasn’t fear that rooted Leo in place. It was awe. Pure, primal awe in the face of something so fundamentally beyond him that even standing upright felt like an act of defiance against the natural order.
Yet he stood.
He held Soron’s gaze.
And somewhere, beneath the weight of it all, Soron let him.
"Introducing next," Joe announced, his voice booming through the arena speakers, "the prodigy of prodigies... the youngest warrior in Cult history to ascend to the Transcendent Tier at the age of just twenty-three, shattering every record held before him..."
A dramatic pause followed as the camera panned slowly across the crowd, tension spiking.
Dana finished the sentence, voice rich with reverence. "The chosen candidate of the Fourth Elder... Aegon Veyr!"
The tunnel opposite Leo’s lit up with a sudden blast of pale white light as Aegon Veyr stepped forward, cloaked in quiet confidence, his presence instantly seizing the eyes and breath of everyone watching.
While Leo had emerged like a storm held behind glass, calm and coiled, Veyr arrived like a firebrand forged to be seen.
His bare arms, shoulders, and collarbones were wrapped in ink— dozens of tattoos layered over one another, crawling up his skin in beautiful, ominous patterns that shimmered faintly under the spotlights of the Lewis Hamilton Arena.
The designs were ancient and intricate, sect sigils intertwined into one cohesive canvas, as though his body itself told a story meant to be studied by the masses.
A walking painting.
A living masterpiece sculpted for battle.
The audience roared as Veyr raised one arm, grinning wide, feeding off their energy with ease. He waved with practiced charm, basking in the adoration, before turning his gaze upward toward the Elder VIP boxes.
It didn’t take him long to spot the Fourth Elder, seated with arms still folded, his gaze firm but faintly approving.
With a sharp smile, Veyr gave him a mock salute, more cocky than respectful, but not without weight, before turning back to the field as Captain Max approached.
"Hold still," Max said with a nod, scanning his form with the same mana-checking device he had used on Leo, verifying every piece of gear and weaponry against the registered entries. His expression remained neutral, professional.
But Veyr didn’t share the same focus.
Because the second Max stepped close, Veyr’s instincts stirred.... something was wrong. Something massive loomed nearby.
He turned slightly, eyes narrowing toward the edge of the arena.
And then he saw him.
The man seated upon the throne of stone.
Cloaked in black. Hair draped long. Posture unmoving.
Soron.
The shift in Veyr’s expression was immediate.
His grin faltered.
His shoulders stiffened.
The crowd may not have noticed, but Max did. And so did the cameras.
A thin ripple of fear passed through Veyr’s pupils as his body reacted before his mind could catch up, resisting the deep, visceral urge to kneel—no, to prostrate entirely.
His lips parted. "Who is that...?" he whispered, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry past Max.
Max didn’t look away from his scanner but he smiled as he said, "That’s our divine protector,"
"That’s Lord Soron."
Veyr said nothing more.
But the moment stuck with him.
He continued to observe Soron for several seconds more, his jaw tense and breathing steady but shallow, before finally turning toward Leo, who smiled at him cockily... something that Veyr had not expected.
It wasn’t the grin of someone ignorant or blind to the stakes. Nor was it the false bravado of a weaker fighter trying to act tough in front of a crowd.
No, there was something unnervingly sincere in Leo’s expression, as if he truly believed he had a shot, even standing opposite a Transcendent.
Veyr narrowed his eyes.
There was no fear in Leo. Not a drop.
Only focus... and a strangely infectious calm that felt almost unnatural in this sacred arena.
Their gazes locked.
And just like that, the noise of the crowd, the shine of the overhead lights, and even the presence of Soron faded into the background.
It was just the two of them now.