The sky above Zantrayel shimmered with divine pressure.
From every corner of the realm, the chosen of the pantheons marched toward the Colosseum of 99, their weapons blessed, their names now whispered in every village, fortress, and temple.
Above them, their gods watched—some from cloud palaces, others from rivers of time, from stars, from wind.
And every god had the same warning for their chosen:
"Do not lose."
Not to Bassoon.
Not to mortals.
Not to the Lwa.
The Pride of the Pantheons
The Zianzhou pantheon, cloaked in thunder and red silk, moved like dragons born of wind. Their chosen arrived in formation, their emblems painted in jade and gold across the chest.
The Nine of Egypt, sons and daughters of Isis and Osiris, arrived in silence. No fanfare. No boasting. But when their feet touched the earth, the wind grew still.
The Twelve Adityas, radiant as the sun, descended with gentle song and saffron fire, yet behind their eyes burned the memory of countless wars.
From Norse realms, warriors bore runes and ravens on their shoulders. Their laughter echoed, but even they eyed the stone with a quiet, careful respect.
The Persians, wrapped in fire veils, moved with regal disdain. They spoke little, but their eyes scanned the names etched in the stone.
Even gods of cultures beyond the stars whispered to their chosen:
"This is not a game. This is Bassoon."
The Silence of Ginen
While divine voices cracked the sky with pride and pressure, Ginen remained silent.
No dream.
No sign.
No prophecy.
Only one sound broke the stillness—Tijan Petro's laughter, rising from deep within the Colosseum, wild and echoing like drums gone mad.
"Nouvo Lakay! Lakay se pa pa yo ankò!"
(This new home… it's not theirs anymore.)
It was not a laugh of cruelty, but of feral joy.
Of a god who knew the test had begun.
Nouvo Lakay: The Gathering
From the rivers of Kasa's flame country, to the mountain peaks of Kalonji's deep people, to the windswept deserts of Ayira's domain—they came.
Zantrayel answered.
They came barefoot and bloodied.
They came with staffs and spears, spells and scars.
All 99.
Some rode beasts.
Others walked beside their kin.
One was blind. One was only eleven. One had no hands—but her voice made stone tremble.
They did not come for honor.
They came for each other.
For Zion.
For Nouvo Lakay.
And when they entered the arena, the earth beneath the colosseum pulsed like a heartbeat.
Zion stood at the highest tier, looking down not just at the gathering, but at the watching gods above.
He did not shout.
He did not bow.
He whispered only one thing:
"Now you see who we are.