Ancestral Lineage-Chapter 296: Knights of the Dawn Cross

Regnare strolled toward the newly built arena, each step calm but laced with a quiet menace. His dark blue eyes glowed with cold determination—the kind of chill that whispered of the abyss and things forgotten beneath it. Long white hair, now tipped in a deep, shifting blue like ink in water, trailed behind him as if stirred by an unseen current.

He wore a sleek, form-fitting combat suit of obsidian weave, reinforced at the joints with layered nano-plates. At each hip hung a curved dagger—twins in design, but different in presence. One shimmered with a cold, silver edge etched in runes that pulsed faintly with light; the other was jet-black, matte and silent, drinking in the surrounding light like a void. Their hilts were wrapped in dark serpent hide, and from each pommel dangled a single sapphire shard—rumored to be crystallized drops of regret.

These were not mere blades—they were silent oaths, crafted for precision and blood. And Regnare, ever composed, was their perfect wielder.

The arena loomed ahead, carved into the heart of Veltraxis Prime, a towering metropolis where neon veins pulsed across skybridges and air traffic shimmered like schools of metallic fish. The newly built structure rose like a blackened coliseum of glass and alloy, its outer shell glinting under the pale sun, absorbing both sound and light in a way that made it feel separate from the rest of the world.

Sleek pillars spiraled toward the sky like spears, humming with internal energy as shields flickered faintly over their surface. Massive holo-screens buzzed to life above the arched entrances, displaying countdowns, combatant stats, and glitchy sponsor logos in a dozen languages. The air was thick with anticipation, charged by the thrum of reactors beneath the ground and the distant roars of a gathering crowd. This was the hub of the army of Anbord, and the new arena was rather the stronghold of the newly established Knights of the Dawn Cross.

Inside, the arena was a chameleon. Its floor could shift, reshape, and simulate nearly any environment—wastelands, city ruins, zero-gravity chambers, or pure elemental chaos. Today, it simmered with a glowing grid over cracked stone and jagged steel—a blend of ruin and order, designed to test resolve as much as skill.

And in that charged silence before the match began, as artificial wind swept across the open floor and flickering lights cast long shadows, Regnare stepped forward like a storm contained in human skin.

"Welcome, Prince Regnare!"A chorus of booming voices echoed around the arena's lower hall, their salute ringing out like ritual thunder.

Regnare stepped into the center of the briefing chamber, the lights above casting stark shadows across his sharp features and glinting off the twin daggers at his side. He nodded once, curtly.

"Mm. Hope you're all good?" he asked, his voice calm—casual, yet edged with the same chill that made even seasoned warriors straighten up.

"Yes, my Prince. Thanks for asking," replied a tall vampire with short black hair, stepping forward with practiced grace. He bowed his head slightly."Yamal," Regnare addressed him directly, eyes narrowing. "Are you ready for today's test?"

"We are, Prince."

"Good," Regnare said, then turned to the others. "This one is... different. It comes from the Emperor himself."

That drew quiet murmurs. Even hardened fighters stilled when orders came directly from the Emperor.

"We'll be traveling back through simulated time—a perfect reconstruction of one of my father's greatest battles. But we won't just be watching it. We'll be fighting in it. And not with him. We'll be standing where he stood... facing what he faced."

Silence fell.

"The enemy is known as Tyrant. It's comparable to a B-Class Machabeast—or stronger. It once killed King Lamair outright. My father had to raise him as a ghoul just to bring him back."

Gasps rippled through the twelve warriors. Even Yamal tensed.

"The test is simple," Regnare continued, voice low and even. "Survive. If you manage to kill it? That's a bonus. But survival is enough to earn something better—training with the Emperor himself."

He let that sink in before adding the final weight.

"If we fail... then this will become our recurring challenge until we overcome it. One way or another."

He glanced at his weapons briefly, then back at the men.

"And keep this in mind. Tyrant wields Destruction Magic. Not chaos, not decay—Destruction. The only person I've ever known to touch that domain is my grandmother, Madeleine."

There was no false bravado in his voice—only clarity. The quiet that came before storms or death.

"Get ready," Regnare said at last. "We step into legend today. And call me Commander when we meet for official matters."

As Regnare's words faded, the twelve warriors straightened in quiet unity. Their expressions ranged from stone-cold discipline to faint sparks of anticipation. Each of them had bled in battle, survived trials beyond reason, and now stood poised to face a legend reborn.

At their center stood Yamal, the vampire lieutenant, tall and commanding. His jet-black hair was slicked back, revealing high cheekbones and cold crimson eyes that shimmered with focus. Unlike many of his kin, Yamal bore no armor—just a fitted obsidian jacket stitched with blood-threaded runes, and blades sheathed across his lower back. Calm and analytical, he was the planner behind the punch.

To Yamal's right stood the dwarven twins, Darak and Vorr, towering at nearly Regnare's height. Their skin was rich bronze-dark, veins glowing faintly with earthen energy. Golden-brown ram-like horns curled majestically from their foreheads, marked with battle scars and ceremonial gold etching. Darak wielded a massive poleaxe slung across his back, while Vorr gripped twin hammers hung low on his hips. Both radiated grounded ferocity.

Near them loomed Brayk, the third dwarf—this one with blood-red horns, darker skin, and glowing tattoos running across his arms like molten veins. Quieter than the twins, Brayk's silence wasn't submission—it was calculation. He handled explosives and alchemical tricks with unnerving precision.

Standing apart, dressed in shifting shadowcloth, was the dark elf, Nyarelle. Her silver-white hair flowed down her back like water, and her amethyst eyes glimmered with otherworldly intellect. A pair of crescent-edged daggers hung at her sides, and her movements were serpentine, precise. Nyarelle spoke rarely, but when she did, silence followed.

The sole human, Kalev, was no less impressive. Broad-shouldered and tan, he bore cybernetic augmentations on both arms, lines of blue energy pulsing through his tattoos. He carried a kinetic rifle and a grin that never quite faded—even in moments like this. A daredevil and optimist, Kalev's loyalty was only matched by his reckless brilliance.

Then there was Rhask, the ghoul. His skin was pure obsidian-black, eyes glowing like dying stars—red and hollow. His hair was thick and gray, twisted into short locks. He stood still, gaunt and expressionless, a silent sentinel of undeath. Yet no one questioned his presence. Rhask was King Lamair's student once. Now, he was the Emperor's weapon.

The rest of the unit rounded out with three vampires and two more dwarves—each distinct, each bearing weapons etched with ancestral marks or experimental tech. One vampire, Maelis, wore a blood-stitched blindfold and fought by sound and scent alone. Another, Vekran, kept a constant smirk and two curved blades always within arm's reach.

Toval and Grun, the last dwarves, looked almost like opposites—Toval lean and fast with a glaive crackling with storm energy, and Grun armored like a walking forge, his beard braided with bits of molten steel.

Together, the twelve were a lethal blend of power, magic, and trust—shaped and now ready to meet death or glory.

Regnare looked over them once more, nodding slightly."No speeches," he said. "Just blood and survival."

And with that, the arena lights shifted, the simulated environment beginning to hum—forming the ancient battlefield where the Tyrant once reigned.

...

Simulation Initiated: BEAST PLANE — 3171th Culling Ground.

The world shimmered. The polished floors of the arena dissolved beneath their feet like smoke retreating from fire.

With a sudden roar of heat and wind, Regnare and his twelve stood on cracked, bloodstained stone, surrounded by a savage expanse of wilderness that stretched as far as the eye could see. A red moon hung low in the sky, its rays cutting through the permanent dusk with a molten hue. The air was thick, not with smoke — but with something worse: the scent of ancient death, the remnants of battles too brutal to fade even after centuries.

Jagged cliffs loomed around them, covered in the blackened remains of ancient titans and beastkind. Trees with bark like bone twisted skyward, pulsing faintly as if alive. Pools of stagnant, glowing ichor bubbled between shattered rocks. In the far distance, a carcass the size of a city lay dormant — one of the beasts that had perished in the old wars. Its ribcage had become a mountain range.

Kalev muttered, "...This place gives hell a bad name."

"Stay sharp," Yamal warned, drawing his crescent blades. "It's not the air that kills you here. It's the silence before the roar."

Regnare took a step forward, one boot crushing scorched bones."This is where Father fought the Tyrant," he said, scanning the terrain. His daggers gleamed at his hips—curved obsidian blades with glowing runes of null-essence and soul-siphoning metal, the hilts wrapped in voidthreaded leather.

"Where is it?" Vorr asked, his hammers humming faintly.

As if in answer—

A shockwave erupted from the canyon ahead.

The ground broke open. The trees bowed backward. Winds howled as something monstrous stirred.

From the shadow of a bone-ridden ravine emerged Tyrant.

It did not roar—it breathed, and the sound alone cracked stones.

A staggering twenty meters in height, its form was a blend of nightmare and flesh-forged destruction. Horns like obsidian towers curved from its elongated skull. Its body was plated in natural armor that shimmered with corrupted magic, and its claws left trails of decaying energy with every step.

"That's not a beast..." Maelis whispered, her blindfold fluttering. "...That's a calamity."

"Focus!" Regnare barked, already racing forward. "Flank it! Dwarves hold the line, Nyarelle and Rhask—circle for its heart!"

Tyrant charged, and the world screamed with it.

The test had begun.