A Novel Concept - A death a day, MC will live anyway!

One of them controlled the flames.

Those butterflies hadn't been random, and one of those strangers had just wiped out the horde with what had to be a Mythic Skill.

As fire shielded the group, spiraling around it like the eye of a storm, more movement broke from the trees. A twenty-strong cavalry unit galloped toward the camp. They slowed near the flames. All but one.

A golden-haired woman drove her horse straight into the inferno. The archer opened his mouth to shout… only to choke on his shock. The beauty passed through untouched. Behind her, the disciplined warriors followed after a brief hesitation.

Less than a minute later, both groups stood beneath the gate. One of them raised a hand—and the firestorm froze. Then, like an obedient pet, it rushed back into his palm, leaving only glowing coals and smoldering embers in its wake.

The archer broke into a cold sweat. That fireball in the stranger's hand held enough power to erase a necro legion. If Braato hadn't been standing there, he would have turned and run like hell to find his chief.

The man pressed the blazing sphere to his chest, and his misty robe streaked with lightning-like fire. Lifting his head, he smiled at the archer.

"Oasis delegation, requesting entry to the Tribal Tournament."

"Empyrean delegation, requesting entry to the Tribal Tournament," added a knight from the second group.

Only then did the Aelbe realize he stood right next to the gate controls. His orders were clear: keep the gates shut. He opened his mouth to apologize, then locked eyes with the bear.

Until this moment, the beast had gone unnoticed, overshadowed by the fire mage's grandeur. Now the archer realized their eyes were level. The creature had to be at least five meters tall, and its jaws were bloody.

His feline instinct whispered that the ursine was considering eating him. A small voice noted that its fangs were longer than his forearms.

The archer swallowed. He wasn't paid enough to deny entry to a Fire Champion and his bloodthirsty pet. In fact, he wasn't paid at all.

The Aelbe turned toward Braato, who nodded.

"Opening the gates!"

"The First, his Shadow, the Warrior, and the Author just arrived," Ophis announced as he ducked into his mother's tent.

Sna didn't glance up. Her draconic mind could split attention three ways—but all three were locked on the cauldron in front of her. "The gu trial will be ready by tomorrow."

"That won't fix the real problem. The Aelbes are cooking something nasty. They say we are the snakes, but they're worse."

"I know what they're planning."

"You do?"

"They came to me. Asked for a synthetic oxytocin catalyst."

Ophis blinked. Sna sighed.

"A love philter. Less effective than a social spell, but more… organic. Harder to trace."

"Rohan and who?"

"The High Marshal will bring at least two apprentices. If one's a girl, and Rohan gets to marry her, he'll join the Empire's nobility."

"An elf would never marry a Tier 0."

"Unless she's carrying his child."

Ophis cursed. It was a good plan—elves were infertile enough that they'd never reject the father of a child, even a half-blood.

"And you agreed to brew the potion?"

Sna handed him a crimson vial. "I just need one last ingredient. A drop of your blood."

"You want to poison them? Their shaman will test it."

The shaman raised an eyebrow. "A drop of your draconic blood. For fertility."

"A dragon's fertility only affects it—"

Realizing what his mother had in mind, Ophis burst out laughing.

"That was awesome! We've gotta name that move…" Osiris frowned, thinking hard. "How about… Unstoppable Rain of Deathfire?"

"Why not make it even longer?" Rose snorted.

"You think so? I mean, I guess it would be a pain to shout mid-fight…"

"Announcing your attacks isn't exactly the smartest strategy," said Louis.

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"Hmm. Fair. But still—naming them makes it easier to tell the story afterward!"

"What about Flight of the Fire Butterflies?" offered the old man.

"Not punchy enough." Jasmine clapped her hands. "Scorching Swarm!"

Priam chuckled as he looked around. The Aelbe camp had changed a lot since his last visit before Back in Time. Gone were the tents, huts, and makeshift shelters of wood and cloth. Braato was leading them down a street buzzing with life and vigor. Bright lanterns and fluttering banners adorned every shopfront, casting a festive, vibrant glow. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling meat wafting from grillhouses, while the next shop lured passersby with lilting music. Stained-glass windows gleamed in every hue imaginable—some enchanted to display animated scenes tied to the merchant's trade.

A scent of herbal tea caught Priam's attention. Turning his nose toward the fragrance, he spotted a café, where a young Gaesert was clearing a terrace table.

"No one wants to miss the High Marshall's arrival," Braato explained.

That explained why the whole crowd was flowing the same way. On Earth, that many bodies would have jammed the streets, but in Elysium, even crafters eventually unlocked Micro. People drifted past one another like fish in a school, sliding without so much as brushing shoulders.

The street opened onto a packed square. Thousands were gathered, blocking the way forward.

Letting out a sliver of his Aura, Braato strode forward. Before the towering giant, the sea of bodies parted like Moses through the Red Sea. The Gaeserts—recognizable by their tall stature, broad shoulders, and thick body hair—moved aside faster than the slim-bodied Aelbes with sharp nails. Only the pale and hairless Snaherts stepped back begrudgingly.

Braato stopped before the main platform.

"Wait here," he ordered, settling them in the front row. "And keep your heads down. Elves are sticklers for etiquette. The treaty only protects you so much."

With that, he climbed the steps and joined six other Tier 4s on the stage.

"The treaty?" Jasmine asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Priam glanced left, where Empyrean soldiers flanked Esmée, Aydan, and a middle-aged man who stood too straight to be just a politician. Ignoring the officer and the prince, Priam raised an eyebrow at his rival. She had leapt into his flames without flinching, confident in his mastery of Pyro. Did she trust him that much, or had someone forced her to walk through fire to open a path for her team?

The princess noticed his stare. Turned gracefully, she dipped into a flawless curtsy. Priam replied with a charming grin.

"Close your mouth before a bug flies in," Rose muttered.

Priam turned just in time to catch Osiris blushing. The sight of the beautiful princess had not left him indifferent.

"She's probably using a charm skill," he mumbled.

"She's a princess," Louis shrugged. "She could show up in socks and sandals and you'd still fall for her. Hell, if she were sixty years older and I hadn't met Mirscella…"

Priam opened his mouth to comment, saw Jasmine's look, and shut it again. Sometimes, the best way to win was to retreat with dignity.

"Do you know why she is here?" Kazuki asked.

"She's not dressed for battle, that's for sure," Jasmine muttered. The princess's silver-and-purple gown was stunning, but utterly impractical. "Unless she's aiming to distract her opponents. Her perfume smells like catnip."

"They're probably here for the same reason we are," Priam said. Rohan hadn't said anything about rival groups, but Priam had kept Arnold's presence in his own team under wraps, too.

"You—"

A loud clap and a wave of gasps cut Jasmine off. At the front of the stage, a homunculus appeared.

"What the hell is he doing?" Priam growled.

The Tyrant scanned the seven Tier 4s with bored disdain before locking eyes with his rival.

"Priam."

"Arnold," the Juggernaut replied. The Transcendants' burning stares didn't comfort him, but he couldn't back down now. Honestly, the Tyrant scared him more than all the tribes put together.

"How did you bypass the teleportation wards?" Gryphe hissed. The Aelbe shaman was livid… and maybe a little afraid.

The homunculus ignored her, turning instead to one of the trees brightening the square.

"Guardian."

A bud swelled on a branch. Within a breath, it bloomed, bore fruit, and dropped. Midair, the fruit grew, eclipsing the tree that bore it. Dishnu landed smoothly.

"Tyrant," murmured the drya, his voice rustling like wind through leaves.

A wave of killing intent swept the platform, drawing Priam's eyes to Gryphe, now red with fury.

"YOU WILL ANSWER. HOW—"

"Enough," said Léo. His shaman deflated. "We'll settle this later. He's coming."

The Aelbe chieftain pointed to the sky. For ten heartbeats, nothing happened. Then, the canopy of a world tree appeared in the heavens. As if Yggdrasil itself grew just over the horizon with its trunk just out of sight. Still, its branches stretched over the entire Wandering Islands.

A golden leaf detached from the phantom tree, which vanished. Falling faster than a meteor, it passed through the force field and crashed in a burst of light at the stage's center. Priam blinked to clear the flash. When he looked again, an elf was surveying the crowd.

Taller than Kazuki but shorter than Arnold, he nevertheless dominated the gathering. Clad in a black coat, a mask concealed his identity. Still, Priam didn't doubt for a second who stood before him. This was no conman. The elf was Justice incarnate. A Tier 5, one of Knaya's imperial elite.

Behind violet lenses, a pair of eyes were peering straight into his soul. The Juggernaut felt his sins laid bare, and he could only wait, helpless, for judgment.

The moment passed. Priam regained control of his body, but said nothing. Where Wang Lin, the Mercenary King, commanded a respect tinged with fear, the elf inspired fear laced with respect.

As expected from an Elysian warlord.

A translucent portal opened on stage, and two more elves stepped out. The girl regarded Dishnu, then Arnold, and Priam, and smiled faintly.

"High Marshall Hekthorn, Executor of the Ministry of Justice and Blade of the Empire," announced the two young elves.

"Demiurge, it's an honor." The Tier 4s bowed deeply.

"Demiurge, it's an honor!" echoed the tribes, dropping to their knees.

Priam gave a respectful bow. His pride allowed respect, not groveling.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the others mimic him, Arnold included. The Empyreans kneeled. Dishnu merely closed his eyes.

"So these are the descendants of Gaesert, Snahert, and Aelbe…" A voice as soft as death rang out. "I once fought alongside your ancestors long ago. Today, I come to arbitrate your disputes. Two sanctioned territories will be granted at the end of the tournament."

The announcement dropped like a guillotine. Priam felt the atmosphere tense as everyone realized one tribe would leave empty-handed. During the Necro Event, that meant death.

Nevertheless, no one protested. It would have been futile, and such behavior was not how the people of Elysium were brought up.

"High Marshal, allow me to lead you to the arena," said Ophis. The Snahert leader was wearing a servile expression. "We built it especially for—"

"The Necromoon is watching, and his henchmen learn," Hekthorn cut in. With one hand, he gestured to the translucent portal behind him. "The tournament will take place in my internal world."

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