THE CALL PART 2

The plaza fell silent as Varun stepped forward, his mere presence demanding attention even before he uttered a word.

His cloak danced gently in the breeze, the sigil of the Hollow shimmering softly in the glow of the lanterns. He raised a hand, and the restless whispers of the crowd faded away, leaving only the distant tolling of the bells that had called them together.

“Brothers, sisters, citizens of the Hollow,” his voice resonated, deep and measured, reaching the farthest corners of the square.

“I appreciate you answering the call and gathering here tonight. We stand on the edge of a new era, one that holds both danger and hope.

The world outside our walls is shifting, and we cannot turn a blind eye to the tides of fate. It is here, in the very heart of our city, that we must choose how to confront what lies ahead.”

A wave of unease rippled through the crowd, but Varun pressed on, his voice steady.

“For generations, the Hollow has survived when others have crumbled. Not by mere luck."

"Not by kindness. But through unity, vigilance, and the sacrifices made by those who came before us."

"Every stone in these streets was placed by hands that believed in our survival. Every drop of blood spilled on these walls has been for our future. And now, that future calls us to action once again."

The torches lining the plaza flickered, casting long shadows over the statues of ancient warriors. Varun shifted slightly, his eyes scanning the council seated behind him.

“You’ve all heard the whispers. The Draconic Dimension a place where fire and death intertwine, where treasures and terrors await. It’s not just a myth. It’s not mere rumor. It’s the truth. And that truth calls for courage. This dimension doesn’t open often, and when it does, it doesn’t wait for anyone. We must heed its call… or be left behind in the ashes of those who were too afraid to act.”

A wave of murmurs rose, some filled with fear, others buzzing with excitement. Shimei caught snippets of conversation around him: glory, doom, riches, and despair. Tsarra’s eyes flitted around, searching the crowd for any sign of danger, while above, Liora remained silent among the council, her expression unreadable.

Varun’s hand slammed against the stone railing in front of him, pulling everyone’s focus back.

“But courage without wisdom is just recklessness. And so, after much debate and careful consideration of strength, skill, and fate itself, the council has made its decision. The Hollow cannot send an army into the jaws of dragons. Too many lives are at stake, too much risk involved. No—this mission requires precision. It requires determination. And it demands those who can shoulder its weight without wavering.”

The pause that followed was heavy, stretching, the entire square holding its breath.

“And so,” Varun declared, voice cutting through the tension, “only four shall enter the Draconic Dimension.”

The crowd erupted—shock, protest, disbelief. Some cried out for fairness, others demanded more fighters. A few shouted names, desperate for their champions to be chosen. The uproar shook the plaza until Varun raised his hand again, and gradually, like a storm breaking, silence fell once more.

“These four will not be chosen by favoritism, nor by bloodline, nor by whispers in the dark. They will be chosen because they are the ones our fate demands. Their selection has been weighed, judged, and decided.”

The silence thickened, brittle and tense. Somewhere in the back, a child whimpered. Shimei felt his own grip tighten on Yoshiimune’s sheath as his name hovered unspoken, the weight of inevitability pressing in.

The plaza felt like it was holding its breath. Even the crows, who had been restless just moments before, now sat quietly on the rooftops.

Varun’s voice resonated with the weight of stone.

“After countless nights filled with counsel, debate, and sacrifice, the decision has been etched into the very fabric of fate. Four will represent us in the Draconic Dimension.”

A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd—gasps, prayers, and sharp whispers that cut through the air like knives. The councilors exchanged glances: some were sharp, some weary, while others wore expressions of smug satisfaction.

Varun raised a hand, demanding silence.

“The first name.”

He let the pause stretch, building the anticipation to a near-breaking point.

“Jett Hughes, wind-walker of the mountain clans.”

The plaza erupted in chaos. Some cheered with wild enthusiasm, chanting his name, while others groaned, grumbling about favoritism. A tall figure with a scarred cheek pushed through the throng, raising his fist in pride, as the mountain clans roared in unison.

Varun’s voice sliced through the noise once more.

“B’shara Mosley, dual-blade tactician, slayer of an elder beast.”

The cheers shifted—this time sharper and more intense. The warriors in the crowd stomped their feet in approval. Somewhere, a rival spat on the ground, muttering curses under his breath. B’shara herself simply lowered her head in quiet acknowledgment, her blades glinting in the sunlight at her side.

Varun took a deep breath, letting the pause linger.

“Ilan Dross, blind seer of mana flow.”

A hush fell over the crowd. Whispers turned reverent, even fearful. The man himself, a white cloth tied across his sightless eyes, inclined his head slowly. Those nearest to him instinctively stepped back, as if the air around him shifted in a different way.

Then, silence. The final name hung in the air, heavy as a drawn blade.

Varun’s gaze swept over the crowd, then the council behind him. He lifted his hand once more.

“And last…”

Every ear strained to hear. The plaza felt like it was bending inward.

“Shimei Kureha, the youngest in the Hollow’s history.”

And then, the world exploded.

Gasps, shouts, and laughter filled the air, a mix of disbelief and outrage. Some in the crowd cried foul, accusing others of corruption, while others jeered “Outsider!” from the safety of their numbers.

But there was another feeling weaving through the chaos: awe, murmurs of fate, and whispers suggesting that the Hollow had chosen its shadow.

Shimei could feel the weight of dozens, maybe even hundreds, of eyes boring into him. It wasn’t admiration or warmth he sensed—no, it was something much sharper. Scrutiny. Expectation. Hatred.

Next to him, Tsarra tensed, shock evident on her face. In the council chamber above, Liora’s eyes narrowed, her calm facade cracking for just a moment.

The plaza had turned into a tempest, and Shimei found himself standing right in the eye of it.

The syllables rolled through the crowd like a stone disturbing a still pond. First, there was silence—a heavy, palpable silence before murmurs broke out, sharp and disbelieving.

“Impossible.”

“He’s just a child!”

“They would risk the Dimension with him?”

Varun stood firm, his robes fluttering gently in the breeze, his voice slicing through the chaos like a knife. “I hear your doubts. But understand this: every name spoken here was chosen with great care. These four embody not just strength, but balance—each selected for a specific role in the trials of the Dimension.”

He gestured toward the first. “Jett Hughes, the wind-walker from the mountain clans. His speed and mastery of the skies will guide the group across terrains that no one else could conquer.”

A roar of approval erupted from a group of mountain folk gathered at the edge of the Plaza, their chants rising like the winds of a storm.

“B’shara Mosley, a dual-blade tactician and slayer of an elder beast. Her survival instincts and battle-hardened discipline will keep the group steady amidst chaos.”

Those closest to her erupted in applause, bladesmiths lifting their steel in tribute to her victories.

“Ilan Dross, the blind seer of mana flow. Though he cannot see, his insight into the unseen currents of the world is unmatched. He will be the anchor for the group, guiding them through the ever-changing madness of the Dimension.”

From the back, the old seer bowed his head, the faint glow of his eyes behind the blindfold flickering in the torchlight. The crowd fell silent in reverence.

Finally, Varun let the weight of his voice settle, slow and deliberate. “And Shimei Kureha. Yes, the youngest in Hollow history. An outsider to many, a question mark to most. Yet those who dismiss him forget that raw flame often starts as the smallest spark. He symbolizes not what has been proven, but what is possible.”

The crowd stirred again, louder this time anger, shock, disbelief. But among the noise, a few whispers of curiosity emerged. “The Hollow chose him?” “Could he really…?”

Varun pressed on, his voice steady and unwavering. “Four. No more, no less. Each one chosen for the journey ahead. Together, they don’t walk as rivals but as one hand, one edge, one shared destiny. The Draconic Dimension shows no mercy for weakness—but it also doesn’t favor strength alone.”

He opened his arms wide, momentarily quieting the clamor around him. “Don’t question the choice—only wonder if fate will show them mercy.”

The Plaza erupted, a cacophony of mixed reactions—some filled with wonder, others with anger. And through it all, Shimei remained still, unyielding, as the crowd’s gaze pierced through him.

The plaza buzzed with voices, a whirlwind of disbelief and wonder, but the chosen four were already being ushered away. Guards clad in ceremonial armor pushed back the crowd, carving a narrow path through the throng like a knife slicing through butter.

Shimei trailed at the back. He could feel the weight of countless eyes boring into him from all directions some filled with disdain, others with curiosity, and a few laced with barely concealed hatred. “Just a nobody,” he heard someone hiss from behind. “A Hollow trick.” But another voice chimed in: “He’s the youngest ever. Maybe he’s just what we need.”

Tsarra tried to catch his gaze from her spot in the crowd, but Shimei kept his eyes forward. His expression was calm and unreadable, but inside, his blood raced in time with the horn that had called them all together.

They moved beneath an archway at the plaza's edge, entering a long corridor dimly lit by torches embedded in the stone walls. As they progressed, the noise of the crowd faded to a distant murmur, then fell into silence.

At the end of the passage, a set of bronze doors stood, adorned with ancient dragon sigils, their wings elegantly arched. A council guard pressed his palm against the door, and with a groan, it swung open.

Inside was a circular chamber, devoid of windows, the air cool and filled with reverence. Four seats carved from obsidian formed a half-circle around a raised dais. The only illumination came from a pool of glowing blue flame at the center—mana-fire, alive and restless, casting flickering shadows across their faces.

“Chosen,” the escort announced with a bow. “Enter and get to know one another.” Then the doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, sealing them in.

For a moment, silence reigned. Only the crackling of the mana-fire broke the stillness.

B’shara Mosley sat there, arms crossed and eyes sharp, every muscle in her body tense as if she were ready to spring into action, even in this sacred space. “Save the swagger,” she muttered. “We’re not comrades yet. Not until we make it out of that place.”

Ilan Dross, the blind seer, remained perfectly still, his posture unwavering. His white eyes seemed to reflect the flame, as if they could see more than anyone else in the room. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, yet it carried a weight that hushed everyone else:
“The threads of mana weave together oddly here. One of us will not return.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Even Jett’s smirk faded, if only for a brief moment.

Shimei was the first to break the stillness. He stepped closer to the flame, its light glinting off his jawline, the determination in his eyes unmistakable. “Then we make sure it isn’t us,” he said flatly.

For the first time, the four chosen truly regarded one another—not just as names on Varun’s lips, not as titles or legends, but as individuals bound together by a journey that no one else could undertake.

The flame hissed, flaring up for a moment, as if it recognized the start of their shared trial.

The iron gate slammed shut behind us with a finality that made Ilan tilt his head, his blind eyes flickering as if he could still sense the lock sliding into place.

The air was thick, heavier than anything outside mana pressed against our skin like a predator sniffing out its prey.

This arena was no ordinary chamber. The walls seemed alive, shifting with scales of obsidian stone, faint dragon patterns glowing in the cracks. The ground pulsed beneath our boots, as if we were standing on the back of some ancient beast buried deep below.

Jett cracked his knuckles, a smirk playing on his lips. “Guess they wanna see if we’re gonna kill each other before we even get in.” His voice dripped with arrogance, but the way his eyes flicked to the shifting shadows revealed his nerves.

B’shara’s blades slid free from their scabbards with a whisper. “Good. Less dead weight means better chances.” Her tone was sharper than the steel she wielded.

Ilan stayed quiet, his fingers hovering over his staff as if tracing invisible lines in the air. He wasn’t looking at us; he was focused on the flow of mana, the veins of power threading through the chamber.

And me? I remained still. Silent. Just watching.

The truth was pretty straightforward: they didn’t want four people stepping into the Draconic Dimension. They were more interested in seeing who could survive long enough to earn that right.

Suddenly, the ground cracked, and a horn-like sound sliced through the air.

The trial had officially begun.

The stone beneath us pulsed again, and a low hum filled the chamber, rising sharply, as if the very air was challenging us to make the first move.

Jett didn’t hesitate. With a rush of displaced air, he shot forward—his fist cutting through the space like a battering ram. I barely managed to tilt my head just enough for his knuckles to graze my cheek, the force of it shattering a stone scale behind me.

At the same moment, B’shara sprang into action. Her twin blades glinted in the dim light, silver arcs weaving like a pair of fangs closing in. She wasn’t aiming for Jett or Ilan. No, her target was me. Direct, efficient, and utterly merciless.

Smart move. She understood that the quiet ones are often the most dangerous.

Clang! Sparks flew as her blade narrowly missed, striking the iron pillar where my head had just been.

“You dodge pretty well,” she hissed, her voice low and feral. “Let’s see how long you can keep it up.”

Jett growled, “Back off, he’s mine!” and swung at her, his arrogance boiling over.

Her gaze flicked sideways, and for a brief moment, it was like two predators sizing each other up. Then their blows collided—steel against flesh, both reinforced by raw mana. The chamber shook.

And in that split second of distraction, Ilan finally made his move.

Not with a step or a strike, but with a whisper of his staff gliding across the stone floor. The shadows quivered. The air thickened. Threads of mana tightened in the chamber like a spider web ensnaring its prey.

Ilan’s blind eyes didn’t need to see. He had them all trapped.

“…Test of survival,” he murmured, his voice steady, but his mana surged like a tidal wave, ready to pull everything under. “Only one will leave this place standing.”

The scales embedded in the walls shifted, glowing brighter, resonating with his spell. The arena craved blood.

And me?

I finally took a step.

One foot forward, a coin dancing between my fingers, my gaze icy. My voice sliced through the chamber, flat yet sharp enough to silence even the hum of mana:

“Then I’ll choose who that one is.”

The dust hung thick in the training hall, interrupted only by the shallow breaths of three prodigies who had never been pushed this far before.

Jett’s wind had lost its edge; his chest heaved with effort.
B’shara’s dual blades quivered, chipped from endless deflections.
Ilan, though blind, gripped his staff tightly, his mana-sense buzzing with disbelief.

Across from them stood Shimei, unmoving. Calm. His chest barely rose and fell. His dark, unblinking eyes carried the weight of someone who had long ago ruled over kingdoms.

The floor bore the scars of battle: shattered stone where his heel had turned, streaks of blood where fists and blades had grazed him—but never brought him down.

Slowly, he slid his sword back into its sheath.

“Enough.” His voice was low and steady, a command rather than a suggestion.

The three tensed, bracing for another strike but the silence that followed made the truth clear. None of them could advance. None could stand against him as he was now.

Then Shimei moved.

He shifted into a stance that none of them had ever seen before martial arts, sure, but from a different realm entirely.

His footwork was sharp, coiled with deadly intent. His fists moved in perfect harmony with the phantom weight of his sword. It was a blur of steel and hand-to-hand skill, seamlessly woven into one fluid dance.

In a flash, he closed the distance to Jett, one hand deftly redirecting the wind-walker’s strike while his elbow slammed into Jett’s ribs with crushing precision.

Jett stumbled back, the breath knocked out of him like a candle snuffed in an instant.

With a swift turn, he faced B’shara head-on, their blades locked in a fierce struggle. But then his knee shot up, hitting just the right angle to force her to the ground. She hit the floor hard, her blades clattering loose around her.

Finally, Ilan struck with an instinct guided by mana. Shimei spun, his sword flashing in a half-arc that didn’t even graze Ilan’s staff just brushed the air.

The sheer pressure sent Ilan sprawling, the blind seer’s staff clattering away from him.

Silence fell.

All three lay there, beaten not dishonored, not humiliated, but utterly convinced.

And Shimei, standing tall, let out a breath. “If this is the company I’m to keep in the Draconic Dimension,” he said, his gaze shifting between them, “let it be known—I won’t carry you. But I will stand and fight beside you.”

For the first time, the others didn’t see him as the “outsider” or the “youngest Hollow.” They saw the man behind the name one who had lived, ruled, and whose spirit was forged from blood and conquest.

Jett pushed himself up and let out a breathless chuckle.
“Hell… I’ll follow that.”

B’shara smirked through the pain as she retrieved her blades. “Worthy, then. More than worthy.”

Even Ilan bowed his head, his unseeing eyes shining with respect. “The flow of mana whispers truth… and it whispers your name.”

The four stood there, battered but united. For the first time, they were no longer strangers. They were chosen.

And deep inside, Shimei felt it—the faintest echo of his emperor’s throne returning, piece by piece.

The dust cloud hung thick in the air, and the torches along the walls flickered violently, as if they were afraid of the killing intent still crackling around them.

Jett wiped blood from his lip, staring at Shimei with wide eyes. That footwork… that blade speed… it was like fighting a phantom.

B’shara, still catching her breath, lowered her twin blades. The arrogant smirk she wore earlier had vanished, replaced by something sharper—respect.

Even Ilan, the blind seer, tilted his head and offered a faint smile. “So that’s the weight of your spirit…” His voice was low, almost reverent.

Shimei didn’t gloat. He didn’t even pant. He simply slid his sword back into its sheath with the calm precision of a man who had done this a thousand times across lifetimes. His stance was relaxed, but the silence that followed felt heavy, suffocating.

The three of them realized it at the same moment.

He wasn’t just some nameless outsider.

He was someone forged in battles they couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Jett was the first to laugh, breaking the silence. “Hah… damn it. I thought I was good. Guess I was wrong.”

B’shara crossed her arms, nodding once. “Fine. You’ve earned it. But don’t think for a second I’ll follow your lead.”

Ilan simply bowed his head. “The Hollow’s youngest… and perhaps its sharpest blade.”

For the first time since entering the chamber, the tension eased. The four of them stood together—not as enemies, but as chosen warriors. Not friends yet, but not rivals either.

The echoes of their clash lingered in the walls, but from this moment on, they were united.

At its heart, Shimei isn't just an outsider a warrior that everyone else has to reckon with.