The day had finally come.
The day when people from all over the world gathered in one place.
A day that comes once every three years and changes the fate of entire nations.
The opening of the Nurino Festival.
The City
I didn’t expect this.
The capital was… different.
Not the one I remembered after chaos and blood.
Now it was boiling with life, like a gigantic living organism.
Thousands of people.
Tens of thousands.
Hundreds of thousands.
The streets groaned under the weight of footsteps.
Flags of every kingdom.
Clan symbols.
Emblems of elemental orders.
Banners of magical academies.
The smell of roasted meat, spices, sweets.
A roar of voices, laughter, music, the pounding of drums.
Mages created illusions right in the air—
colorful fountains, sparks, mini-dragons, dancing figures of light.
Fire mages performed fire shows.
Wind mages set up aerial obstacle courses.
Samurai demonstrated sword techniques on wooden dummies.
Knights showed raw striking power.
The city looked like a gigantic festival hive.
And in that crowd, I saw them.
The Meeting
“ZENHALD!!”
I turned and saw familiar faces.
Seteya adjusted her cloak, squinting at the sun.
Haras carried a huge flask, already half empty.
Norris, as always, was composed, though he tried to look relaxed.
We greeted each other.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Norris’s eyes lit up.
“We’re participating. And you?”
Everyone—Seteya, Haras, even passersby—turned toward me.
I nodded.
Haras laughed loudly.
“Then maybe we’ll meet in the final, boy.”
Seteya snorted.
“You won’t even make it to the semifinals, he’ll blow you away with one gust.”
I smiled.
Mira, standing beside me, just rolled her eyes.
“Don’t listen to them, Zen. They’re just nervous.”
We went our separate ways, but I noticed something:
even in this crowd, people looked at me longer than at others.
Fear.
Interest.
Respect.
Distrust.
All mixed together.
The Gathering of Peoples
Farther in, the city became even stranger—in a good way.
I saw:
Giant highlanders
Nearly two meters tall, with axes the size of doors.
They laughed so loudly the stalls shook.
Samurai from the Eastern Archipelago
Their blades were thin as beams of light.
Their steps silent.
Their faces calm like a still lake.
Desert mercenaries
With sand tattoos and three curved blades at their belts.
Mages of the Ashen Steppes
Their eyes glowed like embers.
Windborn nomads
Whose clothes fluttered as if they carried their own wind.
Runic wandering smiths
Each with a sword covered in living, glowing runes.
A clan of minotaurs
They walked so heavily the stones trembled beneath their feet.
Free dagger masters
From afar, they looked almost… like ninjas.
A massive bear-beastman
Carrying a tree on his shoulder. Just a tree.
And each of them…
each had come to claim their fate.
Each wanted to win.
Each wanted to become a legend.
Registration
We reached a massive square.
Dozens of tables stood there.
Behind each—mages, officials, examiners checking power and documents.
Lines stretched along the streets.
Flags waved.
A magically amplified voice boomed over the crowd:
“Registration for the Nurino Cup participants!”
“Fee—twenty gold!”
“Name! Age! Element! Mana level!”
A man with a stone-hard face stood before me.
He examined everyone as if seeing straight through them.
“Next!”
“Name.”
“Zenhald Helvard.”
The man’s hand twitched.
He looked up.
First—surprise.
Then—caution.
Then—respect… and a hint of fear.
“Age?”
“Eleven.”
The crowd behind went silent.
Eleven?
That Zenhald?
He’s participating?
I saw hands tremble.
Some began whispering prayers.
Others lost all hope of advancing.
The man swallowed.
“…Very well. Power?”
“…Enough.”
He flinched again.
“Registered.”
“Participant number 2371.”
“Category: Open.”
“Placed under observation.”
I nodded.
And around me, whispers spread:
“He’s participating…”
“That’s the one who tore apart a demon army…”
“They say he’s a monster…”
“They say he’s a hero…”