Sanctuary: Safe Haven

The saint of Clan Varran stood firm, his gaze shifting toward the darkening sky. The air was thick with the scent of rain, but this wasn't any ordinary storm. His eyes narrowed as the first few droplets fell, the storm building ominously above the arena. He had lived a long life as a warrior and had faced countless threats, but the moment the rain began to fall, he knew something was wrong.

The man standing before him, the one with white hair, exuded a calm, almost casual energy, but the storm building around him was anything but. As the rain intensified, the saint's eyes locked on Canna, his instincts flaring. And then, in a flash of blinding light, a bolt of lightning struck Canna directly, the sound so loud and sudden that the entire arena erupted in shocked screams.

Most of the crowd instinctively shielded their eyes from the intense brightness, startled by the deafening thunderclap that followed. But there were two people who didn't flinch—Varya and the saint. Their eyes remained locked on the scene, their expressions grim.

As the lightning dissipated, the crowd slowly began to lower their arms, their gazes returning to the center of the arena. What they saw left them in stunned silence.

Canna, standing tall in the center of the strike, was unchanged—but everything around him had shifted. Gone were his simple traveling clothes. In their place were the sanctuary robes—the unmistakable white, intricately designed robes adorned with gold trim. The elegant patterns of the robes reflected his authority, each detail screaming power and leadership.

His hood was up, and in his hands, he now held a scythe, the blade covered in arcs of crackling lightning.

But it wasn't just his new attire that shocked the onlookers. Behind him, hundreds of water arrows floated in perfect formation, each arrow shimmering with a faint coating of lightning. The arrows hummed with a deadly energy, their sheer number staggering.

Varya's eyes widened, unable to fully comprehend what she was witnessing. She had faced many powerful beings in her life, but nothing like this. Water arrows—a basic spell in its normal form—now crackled with lightning and hung in the air like an impending storm.

And more disturbing was the fact that new arrows seemed to materialize with each passing second, adding to the already overwhelming barrage.

In a distant memory, Canna recalled his battle with Grakthar, the disaster-ranked orc. During that fight, Canna had relied solely on controlling the massive storm that spanned over kilometers, too preoccupied with striking down his enemies to show the full extent of his abilities. But today was different. There was no storm to manage, no massive battlefield to protect.

Today, he could unleash his power without restraint.

As Canna's arrows filled the sky, the saint watched in silence, his eyes betraying only the slightest hint of unease. The sheer amount of mana in just one arrow was absurd, and there were hundreds. On top of that, the storm brewing above them continued to grow stronger, feeding on Canna's rage.

The saint shifted his gaze toward Varya, his tone calm but urgent. "Alert my son to return to the guild immediately. Call back all of our clan members." He hesitated, his eyes scanning the storm above, before continuing, "Contact the other clans, the saints, the royal guards, and even the king. A harbinger is in our midst."

Varya's blood ran cold at the mention of the word "harbinger." She had heard tales of such beings—warriors and sorcerers who could bring devastation simply by existing, their power so immense that they shifted the balance of the world. Without another word, Varya pulled out her communication device and began issuing rapid orders.

Meanwhile, the saint returned his attention to Canna. He took a deep breath, then clapped his hands once. A massive barrier erupted from the ground, encasing the arena in a shimmering dome of energy. The storm's rain now splattered harmlessly against the barrier, unable to penetrate its defenses.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"I have never fought a harbinger before," the saint said, his voice filled with quiet determination. "But I will ensure that you do not leave here until every warrior in this kingdom is ready to face you."

The arena fell silent again as the saint assumed a fighting stance, his fists raised in readiness. He wasn't the type to wield weapons—his power lay in his fists, honed through decades of battle. The crowd looked on in awe, waiting for what would come next.

Canna chuckled, his voice echoing through the arena like rolling thunder. "You really don't understand, do you?" He raised his scythe, its blade still sparking with electricity. "You think I'm trapped here with you?" He paused, the smile fading from his face, his eyes narrowing. "It's you who's trapped here with me."

With that, the storm intensified. The winds picked up, howling around the arena with increasing ferocity. The rain hammered against the barrier, as if trying to force its way in. The lightning-charged arrows behind Canna began to glow even brighter, their energy building with each passing second.

The saint watched carefully, his fists tightening. He had been in countless battles, faced untold numbers of enemies, but this was different. This man—this harbinger—was unlike anything he had ever seen. He wasn't just powerful; he was controlled, deliberate, and worst of all—confident.

The saint took a step forward, his muscles tense. "I will not let you leave this arena, harbinger. I will keep you here until my people are ready to fight you."

But Canna wasn't intimidated. He simply nodded, the storm clouds above reflecting in his eyes as he prepared to unleash his next move. "Noctis," he called out, his voice calm amidst the chaos, "advise the shock troops to retreat and bring the people over to the sanctuary. Maggi is in the stands as well."

Before the saint could react further, the wind around the barrier began to pick up, howling even louder as it fed on the storm. The winds tore at the arena, rattling the stands and sending a chill down the spines of everyone watching. The storm wasn't just growing stronger—it was becoming a force of nature, a manifestation of Canna's wrath.

Canna raised his scythe, the lightning on its blade crackling even more fiercely as he leveled it toward the saint. "You may have trapped yourself in this arena, old man," Canna said, his voice low but filled with power. "But I hope you're ready to face the consequences."

As the storm raged above and the water arrows hovered ominously in the air, the winds of battle began to shift. The saint, for all his power and experience, was beginning to realize the truth: He wasn't just fighting an ordinary warrior. He was facing a force of nature—one that was only just getting started.