For a while, they just sat — no words, no distractions.
Then Kieran broke the silence.
"Is it today we start?"
Roy looked out the window.
"Tis the day, today."
Kieran nodded once… and then stood up suddenly, cracking his neck like a boxer entering the ring.
"No better way to greet destiny", he said, "than with a dance-off."
Before Roy could register what was happening, Kieran had already kicked the centre table aside, rolled up the rug in one motion, and struck a dramatic pose with one hand in the air like he was summoning lightning.
Music blasted through the house a moment later — something loud, something with bass that could wake the dead — and with a deep breath, he launched into motion.
He committed. He started walking straight to Roy.
Roy stared from the couch with a shadow over his face.
"... Oh? Are you approaching me? Instead of running away, you're coming right at me?" replied Roy ominously
Keiran answered, "I can't beat the shit out of you without getting closer."
Roy sighed like a man preparing for battle.
He cracked his knuckles, jumped up and down to loosen up, and began with a sarcastic, half-hearted two-step.
But Kieran countered with a body roll so outrageous it could've been considered a war crime in some countries.
Roy understood that he had to get serious.
The living room turned into a battlefield.
A warzone of footwork and unchecked ego.
Roy was sharp and deliberate, slashing the air with crisp movements like each beat owed him money. He slid across the wooden floor in his socks, shirt untucked, face dead serious.
Kieran was chaos incarnate — unpredictable, limbs flailing at times, then suddenly still and focused, pulling off a clean pirouette like he'd trained in a past life.
They kept going.
Track after track.
Hour after hour.
Sweat began to soak their shirts, hair stuck to their foreheads, the air inside the house thick with heat and breathless energy.
By the time the clock hit 12:07 AM, they collapsed on the floor — limbs tangled across cushions and stray socks. The music still thumped softly in the background, like a heartbeat reluctant to fade.
Laughter gave way to silence. The kind of silence that filled a room like fog — still, heavy, meaningful.
And beyond that silence… the world continued to turn.
Known by most, it turned because someone made sure it did.
Across the continent, there was a force, a force that protected the land.
The Celestial Watch.
Ten divisions.
Ten seats of power… that vow and work under the king.
Each division held its own dominion:
First Division Commander — Liora Sunfall — The Vanguard: Masters of frontline combat and defence, the shield against any invading force.
Second Division Commander — Drax Ironfist — The Recon: Scouts and spies, gathering intelligence and moving unseen through enemy lines.
Third Division Commander — Selene Valtor — The Enforcers: Specialists in law and order, dealing with internal threats and maintaining discipline.
Fourth Division Commander — Fenrir Kaeioul — The Healers: Guardians of life, skilled in restoration and protective magic.
Fifth Division Commander — Rowan Atkinson — The Shadows: Experts in stealth, assassination, and covert operations.
Sixth Division Commander — Amara Solis — The Artisans: Masters of magical weaponry and enchantment, creating tools of war and defence.
Seventh Division Commander — Kaelen Vyrn — The Sentinels: Watchers of borders and boundaries, preventing incursions before they begin.
Eighth Division Commander — Graham Rose — The Scholars: Keepers of knowledge, strategists, and advisors, guiding decisions with wisdom.
Ninth Division Commander — Orrin Vale — The Judicators: Judges and mediators, balancing justice with mercy.
Tenth Division Commander — Thane Morr — The Warden: Custodians of prisons, magical seals, and containment of dangerous forces.
The rain has stopped. A hush falls over the city like the breath before a scream.
Roy, still soaked from the earlier storm, stands motionless beneath the stars. He closes his eyes.
– NIGHT – ROOFTOP
Fwsshh.
The same breath escapes Roy's lips, but now the backdrop has changed: he's crouched on the edge of a crumbling tower, cloak fluttering behind him like a shadow with purpose.
Below, a decaying mansion pulses with life—windows flickering with dirty yellow light, laughter and screams leaking out like poison. Once a noble estate. Now a drug den, crawling with traffickers, mercs, and the remnants of a fallen noble family who sold their soul for coin.
Beside Roy, silent and sharp-eyed, face obscured by a half-mask, stands Kieran—taller, wrapped in a darker cloak. If Roy is the ember, Kieran is the smoke.
They don't speak.
They don't need to.
Behind them, shapes materialise from the dark: cloaked figures, armed but silent, eyes glowing faintly with mana runes. Men and women once cast aside—orphans, slaves, fallen knights—reborn as something more.
Roy stands, the wind tugging at his cloak as he draws his dagger. His voice is calm, quiet—barely audible over the city's murmur.
With that, the Nova moves.
A blur of black dropping from the tower.
The war drums are silent.
But in the hearts of those below—
Judgement day has arrived for these fools.