The Rising Sun

High above the festivities, in the same room where Noah's memory was wiped, the thundering noise of the Taiko drums was muffled by thick, enchanted glass. The Headmaster's Office, which was usually a sanctuary of solitude, was currently a cage of tension.

Chernobog himself stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out at the masses pouring into the academy. But today, he was not the highest authority in the room.

Sitting in his heavy oak chair, the throne of the Academy, was the Queen, looking like she had conquered the castle of Sol Academy.

Standing before her like a set of whimpering, scolded, children, were the Four Principals of the 32nd Degree, the pillars of the Academy, who directly oversaw the instructors of the 31st Degree.

On the left most side was Callie, the Principal of Healing, who clutched her staff nervously, fidgeting with it every so often. Next to her was Amon, the Principal of Curses who stared at the floor, his God Complex crushed under the weight of the Queen's presence. Next to him in the middle was Donovan, the Principal of Weaponry, who stood with his jaw and fists clenched, his warrior’s pride demolished at the mere thought of being ordered around by a foreign monarch. And finally on the right most side stood Balor, the Principal of Necromancy, who usually smelled of the grave, but today smelled of fear.

"It is finally time," Chernobog murmured, breaking the silence and causing the Principal's to breathe a sigh of relief as the Queen's attention shifted from them towards Chernobog.

"I hope it won't be a dull affair. Do not bore me, Chernobog." The Queen’s voice cut through the room like a silk whip as she lifted a delicate ceramic cup, sipping the steaming brew prepared especially for her. She paused, relishing in the taste, her eyes narrowing.

"At least this tea tastes tolerable. Have you by chance enchanted it?"

"I do believe our chefs are aware of the consequences if your taste buds aren't satisfied, your majesty" Chernobog chuckled, though the sound lacked authenticity or mirth. "We have a team of royal tasters hired specifically for this purpose. They filtered the options until only perfection remained."

"How trivial," the Queen sighed, placing the cup down with a sharp clack. "If they cannot get it right the first time, they are useless. Why don't you have them executed if they perform badly? It would encourage the others to try harder."

The question was horrifying, yet delivered with a playful tilt of her head , causing Callie to let out a small, terrified squeak as Amon stiffened in his place at the thought of her majesty's insane ramblings.

"Surely you jest, Your Majesty," Chernobog replied, keeping his face neutral. "But we shall look into... revising our methods. For now, let us descend. The event is about to start."

Himiko stood up, ignoring him, and walked toward the Principals, looking first at Amon, then at Donovan.

"This land is saturated with mana," Himiko whispered, her voice dripping with disdain. "It flows through the soil, through the air, even through the veins of these... commoners. And yet, you savages use it for parlor tricks."

She gestured to the window, to the cheering students below.

"We, the children of the Sun, have to forge our magic through steel and discipline because the Gods did not bless our blood. And yet, you let them run wild. Undisciplined. Wasteful. This is the reason why the life of a Japanese is more valuable than a white blood. Make sure you remember that."

"The students are training hard, Your Majesty," Donovan grunted, defending his department.

"They are cattle," Himiko corrected, livid at the audacity of Donovan to speak up, turning her back on him. "Fattened up with magic so that we, the Empire, may harvest the cream of the crop. That is the only reason the Empire allows this school to exist. To filter the filth until we find something useful."

"Where is Vincent?" The Queen asked abruptly, cutting off any rebuttal. "I cannot descend into the filth of the public without the Head Priest warding off the evil eyes of the filth. I must not present myself to the heathens until that is done and I am forced to breathe the same air as those cretins."

As if summoned by her disdain, the heavy doors slid open and Pope Vincent entered, causing the air in the room to grow heavy with the scent of incense. He was dressed in lavish white silk robes that shimmered with iridescent thread, golden fabric embroidered with scripture draped over his shoulders and his overall apparel was bedazzled with jewels that cost more than a small city. In his hand, he carried a golden staff which was topped with a cherry red cross, a massive ruby encrusted at the intersection like a bleeding heart.

Behind him, following him like a pack of school children, was his entourage of silent monks, one of them hastily wiping a small, serrated scalpel with a white cloth, shielding it from view as it was stained red with fresh blood.

Chernobog saw it. He said nothing.

"I apologize for the delay," Vincent said smoothly

"Welcome" Chernobog replied "Please, perform your duties so we can be on our way."

"Do not speak for me, Chernobog," the Queen snapped. "I can command him all on my own. Know your place! "

"Leave us!" She commanded the Principals, monks and guards. "I wish to speak to my Priest alone."

The Four Principals, along with everyone else, scrambled out of the room like rats fleeing a sinking ship and soon the room was empty and silent, the sound of the fabric rubbing against the chest, as a result of breathing, audible enough to be heard in the silence.

"Why do you let those cockroaches follow you around, Vincent? Aren't you afraid their filth will rub off on you?" The Queen joked, watching as the Pope began to wave his staff in a circle around her.

He chanted a blessing in a low, guttural tongue, weaving a barrier of light to repel the evil eyes of the commoners.

"The shepherd must walk among the sheep to cull the weak, My Queen," Vincent replied, "God’s work is often messy."

Chernobog watched them, their relationship an enigma, a twisted knot of power and madness.

I'm counting on you, Silver. Keep the chaos contained.

Just outside the heavy oak doors, two figures stood guard, leaning against opposite walls of the corridor. They were the apex, the untouchables; The current 33rd Degree Mages.

On the right stood Ophelia. Sworn to the Pope, she was a statue of terrifying piety, wearing heavy, layered vestments of white wool that trailed on the floor like a pool of milk as she floated an inch off the ground, her bare feet never touching the “impure” floor and her face completely obscured by a silk blindfold embroidered with golden scriptures. She did not move, levitating in place, quietly murmuring religious verses to herself.

On the left stood Musashi. He was the Queen’s blade. He leaned against the wall, a creature of lethal vanity and even though he did not wear the robes of a wizard. Instead, he wore a modified Haori woven not from fabric, but from thousands of tiny, razor-sharp shards of enchanted glass that chimed softly when he moved. It didn't have a reflection; rather, his suit reflected the world around him, making him look like a walking fracture in reality. He held a single blue rose, plucking its petals one by one, only for them to turn into butterflies and flutter away before dying.

"She is in a foul mood today," his voice a melodic tenor as he checked his reflection in his own sleeve. "I can hear her heartbeat spiking. If the tea wasn't to her liking, I suppose I'll have to execute the chef before the opening ceremony. A pity. He made excellent soufflé."

At his hip rested a Nodachi sheathed in white lacquer.

"Her mood is irrelevant," Ophelia whispered in a voice that didn't sound like it came from a throat but rather a hollow choral echo that was emitted from the walls "Only the Will of God matters. And the Will demands blood today."

Musashi rolled his eyes, a gesture caught by the shifting mirrors of his collar. "You are so dreary. It’s a festival! There are drums! There is joy! Can’t you pretend to be human for one afternoon?"

"I shed my humanity when I took the Vow," Ophelia replied flatly. "As did you, when you let the Queen carve her sigil into your tongue."

Musashi touched his lips. "Jealousy does not become a Saint. My tongue serves the Empire, and it serves it very well."

He pushed off the wall, walking to the balcony window that overlooked the masses below. He watched the thousands of hopeful students, his glass suit glittering in the sun.

"Look at them," Musashi mused, crushing the remains of the blue rose in his hand. "Thousands of magical batteries, waiting to be used. They rely on their wands, on their chants. They have no idea that true magic lies in the Self."

He tapped the hilt of his katana.

"The students of the Dojo are ready, my students. They will show this school the difference between a Wizard... and a Warrior. The Japanese steel will shatter their little wooden sticks."

"They seek power," Ophelia said, drifting to his side, her blindfolded face turned toward the sun, causing the outline of her eyes to appear through the tiny holes in the fabric. "They do not know that power is just another cage. One of them will replace us, Musashi. Or perhaps... both of them will die trying."

Musashi laughed, a sound like breaking crystal. "Let them try. My blade is thirsty. I haven't met a 'White Blood' yet who could survive my first form."

"My chains weep for a meal," Ophelia murmured just as the heavy doors to the office clicked open behind them. Almost instantly, the theatrical banter between the two vanished. Musashi straightened, bowing low with a flourish, his glass-shard Haori chiming softly whilst Ophelia lowered her head in silent reverence, refusing to touch the impure floor even in the presence of her master as the Queen and Pope Vincent emerged.

"Musashi," the Queen ordered, stepping past him without looking. "Entertain me today. Show these savages what real perfection looks like."

"With my life, Himiko-sama," Musashi grinned, his eyes promising violence.

"Ophelia," Vincent intoned, clutching his staff. "The herd requires culling."

"Thy will be done," Ophelia whispered as the two 33rd Degree Mages fell into step behind their masters, descending toward the arena.

BOOM.

A final, earth-shaking beat from the Taiko drums silenced the crowd of thousands. Aureli stood in the center of the arena floor, dressed in a flamboyant suit of crimson and gold, his voice amplified by magic.

"Ladies! Gentlemen! Creatures of the Night and Day! Welcome to the Decennial Solstice Tournament!"

The crowd roared.

"We have scoured the lands! We have tested the brave! And today, we present to you the future of magic!"

As Aureli hyped the crowd, high above in the VIP box, the Queen leaned forward. She rested her chin on her hand, her eyes scanning the students below like a predator scanning a herd.

She wasn't smiling as the Pope stood on her left side and Chernobog on her right.

"Let the culling begin," she whispered to herself.

Vincent raised his staff. Chernobog raised his hand, and on this cue, with a flash of magical fireworks that turned the sky into a canvas of fire, the Tournament began.

The darkness had arrived. And it was wearing a festival's mask.