The king's eyes were grey, like stone weathered by time, and a heavy aura clung to the room like smoke after a fire. Aron stepped forward, his footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor. The king's laugh rolled out, strange and unsettling, bouncing between the high pillars of the chamber.
The hall was decorated as one would expect for a ruler of such power—golden carpets embroidered with ancient patterns, massive chandeliers that glowed with silver light, and royal chairs carved with symbols of forgotten wars. Every corner screamed of wealth and authority. Yet, despite the beauty, the air was suffocating, thick with something unseen, something pressing down on Aron's chest.
The king raised his head, eyes narrowing.
"Ah… so you are the one I've heard of," he said slowly, his voice neither kind nor cruel, but edged with curiosity. "I will not waste your time. Your match decides whether you will fight Redreign or not. But before that…" His lips curved into the faintest smirk. "I only want to know your name."
Aron froze. My name? Why does he need that? He glanced at the king, then at the banners swaying slightly above. His heart thumped in his chest, each beat heavy.
"My name…" he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, "My name is Kron."
The king's eyes narrowed further. "Are you sure?" His stare carried pressure, a force like a storm pressing against Aron's very soul.
Aron clenched his jaw. "Yes. It's my real name."
Silence stretched between them. Finally, the king stood, robes trailing like shadows across the floor.
"Then… I have no reason to waste your time. You may go."
The words were dismissal, but they didn't feel like it. Aron turned his face toward the great exit and began walking. Step by step, the vast hall seemed to retreat behind him, its weight lessening with every pace. At last, the massive doors groaned shut with a thunderous echo. The king was gone, leaving only questions swirling in Aron's mind.
He wanted my name. But why? What do they gain by knowing it? His thoughts were sharp, restless. I must protect it. If they discover the truth, everything will collapse. I must act, and soon… before it's too late.
"Mr. Kron! It's your battle!" the referee's voice cut through his storming thoughts. Aron's eyes shifted forward.
He stepped onto the path that led into the arena, barehanded once again, stunning the crowd. Whispers rippled through the stands, disbelief and curiosity mingling in the air. Chains rattled as the great iron gate creaked open, dust swirling into sparkles beneath the sunlight. The golden rays poured onto Aron's face, striking his eyes with blinding warmth.
He entered the battleground. On the opposite side, his opponent appeared—tall, long hair flowing like black fire, a gleaming sword resting on his shoulder. The man's aura was calm, but sharp, like a blade hidden beneath silk. The referee raised his hand.
"Begin!"
This time, Aron moved first. He charged forward with a burst of speed. The man's blade whistled through the air, slicing toward him, but Aron twisted his body and leaped upward. The crowd gasped as he soared above the strike.
The swordsman spun, meeting him mid-air, his long sword flashing like lightning. For a moment, the clash seemed inevitable—the cold steel about to pierce flesh. But Aron's eyes locked onto the blade, his hand rising instinctively. With his left palm, he caught it.
Then—crack!
The sound exploded through the arena. The sword shattered into pieces, fragments scattering like shards of light. The crowd fell into stunned silence. The opponent's eyes widened in disbelief. His treasured weapon—broken as if it were glass.
He froze. He knew. One more move, and Aron would end him instantly. Slowly, with trembling hands, the man lowered what remained of his sword and placed it on the ground.
"I… withdraw," he whispered.
The referee hesitated, then nodded with warning, before finally declaring: "Victory goes to Kron!"
The arena erupted in cheers, disbelief, and murmurs. Aron simply stood still, his chest rising and falling, but his mind was far from the noise.
Far away, in a place hidden from light, another scene unfolded.
A body hit the ground with a dull thud, lifeless, bones snapping beneath its weight. A beast crouched over it, teeth tearing into the flesh. Its form resembled a wolf, but far larger, darker, and twisted.
"Man… you're eating too much again, aren't you?" A voice spoke casually. Zeiris leaned back in his chair, watching the beast devour its prey.
The wolf raised its blood-soaked muzzle, eyes glowing crimson. "It makes me stronger. These humans… they were never meant to survive. Weakness has no place in this world."
Zeiris chuckled softly. "Calm down, Rogard," he said gently, though his tone carried hidden delight. Nearby, the commander of the watch stood frozen, horrified. Two murders had occurred in the city already, and yet not even he could predict them. Zeiris smiled. "What a beautiful moment."
He leaned forward. "The next one will be simple. You must face the Eagle. He belongs to a royal family. Killing him will disrupt the higher-ups—and even the government. Isn't that perfect, wolf?"
The beast ignored him, ripping deeper into another corpse. Blood splattered on the stone floor, staining it black. The room was filled with lifeless bodies, waiting to be devoured.
Zeiris sighed, shaking his head. "Ah… you really do love eating humans." His eyes gleamed. "But the best part? Wingman City. The backbone of all cities. The strongest of them all. And if that boy wields that sword… then it will be very, very difficult. Stones alone won't be enough. That's what makes this interesting."
Back at the arena, Aron prepared himself again. The match to qualify for the finals had ended swiftly—his opponent beaten into the ground with little effort. Now only one name remained before him.
Redreign.
The stadium buzzed with anticipation. Aron sat on the stone stairs as the other contestants filed out, those defeated carrying their shame like chains. Alone, he let the silence seep into him.
His mind wandered. My field… it's been so long since I watered it. My goat… the one that man gave me. A sign of peace. A new beginning.
The memory burned warmly in his chest, but it also cut deep.
"Why… why did I choose this path again?" he whispered, eyes on the dying sun. "Why did I fight?"
He looked down at his palms, the hands that had broken countless blades, the hands that carried destruction. Am I only fighting to prove power? Is this really my new beginning? Or am I only repeating the past…
His thoughts were broken when the referee's voice echoed.
"Kron! Prepare for your battle!"
Aron stood slowly. His shadow stretched long under the crimson sky. He walked forward, each step heavier than the last. The chains on the gate rattled, rumbling like thunder. With one final groan, the iron doors split open.
The light of the arena poured over him. The final battle was about to begin.