The commander stood like a mountain carved from iron.
His armor—unyielding, scoured by hundreds of battles—reflected the dim sun with a dull gleam. Not polished. Weathered. Real.
Beneath his helmet, barely visible, two piercing eyes burned like coals—eyes that saw nothing but felt everything.
He was enormous. Towering. Almost twice Caelvir's height. His arms bulged like sculpted stone. His legs, thick as tree trunks, braced into the sand like roots.
And then—there was the blade.
The claymore.
It hummed with the sound of shifting sand, like something ancient whispering through metal. Etchings carved down the length of the blade—spiraling, alien, unreadable—wriggled faintly in the heat.
The edge was jagged, slightly bent, as if it had broken reality more than once and returned sharper for it. Even from a distance, its sharpness could be felt. Like the idea of death itself had taken form.
It looked less like a sword and more like a relic that had slaughtered kings and been left behind by gods.
In front of him, Caelvir barely stood.
His lower face hidden behind a torn rag, soaked with sweat and blood. His right arm was swaddled in tight layers of belts and cords—hastily wrapped, desperately bound.
It didn't help much.
Blood still seeped.
He hunched, ribs cracked—each breath a whimper between clenched teeth. The armor he'd stolen from the dead hung off him awkwardly, too loose, too loud. The helmet tilted when he moved. He looked like a child in a soldier's clothes.
They stood twenty feet apart.
That gap felt like an eternity. And yet, far too close.
Around them—the arena lay littered with corpses. Some sprawled like broken dolls. Others clutched at torn throats or twitching limbs. Swords half-buried in sand. Daggers glinting dully in the dust.
Silence pressed in.
A suffocating, anticipatory stillness.
No cheers. No cries. Even the nobles—silent. Leaning in, breathless.
All eyes… on them.
The commander tilted his head slightly.
"You've come far," he said. His voice—deep, grounded, like a drum roll before execution. "Name. Tell me your name."
Caelvir hesitated.
His throat ached. His lungs screamed. But he stood a little straighter.
"…Caelvir."
A beat.
Another.
Then the commander laughed—a rich, thundering laugh that rolled through the arena like thunder.
"Ha," he said. "Not even bothering to ask my name back? Quiet little thing, aren't you?"
He grinned, teeth flashing beneath the helmet's edge.
"Well. Doesn't matter."
He rolled his shoulders, lifted the claymore.
"You won't live to remember mine."
The wind shifted.
A strange wind—cold brushing in from one side, heat from the other. A paradox wrapped in sand and tension.
The commander stilled.
He sniffed the air. Tilted his head. Heard the rasp of breath, the weight of footsteps, the memory of movement.
He moved.
Fast.
Blindingly fast—for something so large. His footsteps thundered as he charged, closing the distance like a landslide.
Caelvir blinked—
Too late.
The commander was within ten feet.
Caelvir twisted, trying to circle—injured, limping, vision dimmed.
But the commander turned with him.
He didn't need to see.
Just five feet.
That's all he needed.
The claymore came down like lightning.
WHHHRACK!
Air split. Sand exploded. The ground shook.
Caelvir staggered back, blind—sand in his eyes, in his mouth. His head spun. His mind flickered. Blood loss had stolen too much. He couldn't think. Couldn't plan.
He moved on instinct—dropped low, aiming to strike at the commander's legs from where he last remembered them.
But the commander kicked.
CRACK.
One rib. Two. More.
Caelvir was launched backward, limbs flailing, lungs gasping.
He crashed into the ground.
The pain was white. Burning. Endless.
The commander didn't stop.
He planted the claymore tip into the ground, angled to skewer him like prey.
Caelvir rolled.
Sand flew.
The sword missed by inches.
Another roll—another thrust. Again, again, again.
Whud! Chhk! CRASH!
Steel bit sand, not flesh. Each strike came closer.
Caelvir's roll stuttered, his limbs giving out.
And then—a shift.
The commander dropped the claymore.
A new tactic.
He lunged forward, massive hands wide.
He reached exactly where Caelvir rolled next.
Grabbed his chest.
Fingers pressed over ribs. Then down. To his throat.
"So this is you," he muttered, voice low. Curious.
He felt the boy's frame.
"So skinny. So soft. Barely bones and bruises. And yet you killed them all…"
A cruel grin curled under his helmet.
He tightened his grip.
Caelvir choked, legs kicking weakly. His blade-wielding hand twitched—
Stomp.
The commander's foot crushed his wrist.
Another crack.
Another bone shattered.
Both arms—useless now.
The commander, with one massive hand, lifted Caelvir high, choking him midair like a ragdoll.
Then he turned, reached for his sword.
"I'll do this properly," he said. "A death by blade. A warrior's death. You earned that much."
He raised the claymore with his free hand.
"Would be nice to hear some final words," he added. "But I can't loosen my grip. You understand."
His smirk widened.
"Still. You should've talked more in life. Made better use of the time you had."
He lifted Caelvir even higher, positioning the claymore for one, clean—
SHNK.
A sudden sound—wet, sharp.
A blade pierced through the commander's left hand.
Straight through the palm holding Caelvir.
A sickening jolt.
The commander's fingers loosened instinctively—too slow to clench again.
Caelvir dropped.
Thud.
He hit the ground, coughing violently, gasping, throat torn from pressure.
The commander staggered back, swaying, his arm twitching as the dagger jutted grotesquely from the center of his palm.
He snarled.
"You—"
Realization came slow, crawling through the haze of pain.
That blade—he had carried it in his mouth.
Tucked between his teeth since the moment he realized he had no hands left to use. Through the grit, the wind, the near-death.
The entire time—through the sandstorm, the silence, the chokehold—he'd kept it there, clenched in his jaw like a mad dog guarding its last weapon.
Waiting for the one chance to strike.
The blade hadn't missed.
It had gone clean through the commander's hand.
Still lodged. Still trembling.
Still bleeding.
The commander growled low, his voice cracked with pain and fury.
"If you won't take a warrior's death…"
He turned his head toward the fallen boy.
"…then you don't deserve one."
Caelvir rolled again, pushing his battered body with all the remaining strength he could summon.
His ribs screamed in protest, his throat burned, but he had no choice but to keep moving.
Every breath felt like fire, but he knew if he stopped, it was over.
For a fleeting moment, there was a spark of hope.
The sand no longer clouded his vision. His eyes, stinging from the previous blindness, began to clear, though the world around him remained a blur.
He was partially blind, but the blood pouring down his face—the same blood from the commander's strikes—had mixed with the sand, helping clear his eyes.
It wasn't perfect, and his vision was still clouded, but he could see shapes again.
He forced himself to hold back the coughs that racked his chest, but the sound of his rasping breath slipped past his control.
It echoed in the silence, betraying his location.
The commander was already closing in.
There was no time. Caelvir's gaze locked onto a cluster of broken weapons scattered across the sand—a sea of blades.
The jagged edges could be his salvation if he could just get there.
Caelvir's body was a wreck, but he pushed himself toward the blades, rolling with what little strength was left.
He hoped the commander's fury would cloud his judgment.
And it did.
The commander's massive boots thundered across the arena floor, charging blindly toward the sound of Caelvir's struggle.
With a sickening crunch, the commander's foot slammed into the blades.
The sand around him seemed to tremble as the jagged steel tore into the commander's flesh.
The roar of pain was enough to make the earth itself shake, but the giant didn't stop.
No amount of damage could slow him.
He snarled and fought through the agony, though his steps were slower now, each one sending waves of pain up his legs.
With every movement, the commander grew more cautious.
His gait had shifted from a relentless charge to a careful, calculated pace.
He scanned the sand, testing each step before taking it, but he was still coming for Caelvir.
Caelvir flexed his right hand, the one that was almost useless from blood loss and injury. His fingers barely moved. But he spotted something, hidden beneath the sand, and grabbed it with what remained of his strength.
The commander's presence loomed above him. Caelvir felt the weight of his shadow before he saw the massive figure kneel over him, his hands searching for the helmet.
The giant's fingers closed around it, gripping it with unnatural strength. Even with the pain, his hands didn't shake. The force was enough to crush the helmet, to destroy everything it touched.
The commander's voice echoed, deep and cold. "You're going to face a much harsher death than you deserve... no honor for you."
Only a moment. That's all it took. The looseness of the helmet worked in Caelvir's favor. He slipped out of it just as the commander's hands tightened, ready to crush it into the sand.
In that instant, Caelvir pushed what was left of his strength into one final act.
With his wounded arm, he thrust the jagged shard of metal into the commander's throat. The impact was sickening, and blood spurted immediately, staining the sand beneath them.
The commander froze.
For one brief moment, everything stopped.
Caelvir didn't hesitate. He drove the shard deeper, carving through the giant's throat, and watched as the life drained from him.
The commander's massive body began to go limp.
Caelvir didn't stop.
He struck again, and again, and again.
His vision was still blurry, but his instincts drove him.
His wounds burned, but he kept going.
The giant's blood poured out in thick streams, pooling around them both.
Finally, the commander's massive form collapsed, his enormous weight threatening to crush Caelvir beneath him.
Caelvir scrambled free, dragging himself away from the fallen behemoth. He barely avoided being crushed by the commander's lifeless body.
Caelvir pushed himself to his feet. Every muscle screamed in agony, but he forced himself upright, shaky and barely conscious.
The commander's body lay on the sand, bleeding out, but the fact that he was still breathing—barely—amazed Caelvir. The giant was unyielding to the very end.
Caelvir looked down at him, his throat still raw, his breath ragged and stained with blood. He barely had enough energy to speak, but he forced the words out.
"It's rude of me… not to ask your name," Caelvir croaked, his voice barely audible.
The commander's lips parted. His throat gurgled, a rasping sound that was almost a whisper. But it was impossible to understand. His voice was wrecked, shattered by Caelvir's strikes.
The commander tried again. A strange sound emerged, something garbled and disjointed. It didn't make sense, but the tone was haunting:
"U-ehh...grr..."
Caelvir strained to listen, but it was unintelligible.
The commander's name was lost in the blood that pooled in his throat.
Then, with what little force remained, the commander touched his claymore. His hand shook as he struggled to speak.
"Ah ift... fom som oh puh shush... to me... ple... otek uh..."
But the words were almost inaudible, lost in the gurgling of his blood and the faint rasp of his breath. Caelvir caught only fragments.
"Pr...tec... it..."
The commander's eyes flickered, and his chest heaved in one final, desperate breath. "Ah... see... a li—"
And the light in his eyes faded.
Then—eruption.
The silence cracked, split open by deafening roars from the stands.
Cheers rose like a wave from the southern balconies—voices of gamblers who had bet on the boy no one believed in.
Others stayed seated, stunned, their expressions soured and stiff.
Their money had gone with the fallen twenty. Some shook their heads in disbelief. A few spat. Some simply looked away.
"So much for the cannibal guy not eating anybody," someone muttered from the noble tiers, half-sneering, half-stunned.
Above, in the noble box draped in crimson silk, the five watched.
Venara's lips curved, slow and graceful. "Now, many will want him," she murmured, fingers toying with the edge of her goblet. "The boy may become a fine ornament in a noble's collection. A centerpiece of their bloodsport gallery."
Masquien scoffed, leaning back with a lazy smirk. "Or he got lucky. Even beggars find gold once."
Talen's eyes were narrowed, the line of his jaw tight. "It wasn't luck. The twenty were careless. The commander even more so. He should've crushed the boy when he had the chance. Instead, he played."
Faron gave a quiet hum of approval. "Maybe. But the boy took the only path he had—injured, disoriented, outnumbered. He seized it. The others didn't. That's not luck. That's instinct."
Venara tilted her head slightly, that smile softening. "He's very... intriguing." Her voice was low, silk against steel. "There's something else in him. It glimmers, just a little, under all that blood."
The old noble, shifted forward. His voice was like creaking stone. "There is only so much the blind can do." His gaze remained locked on the arena sands below. "Trusting voices, seeing no light. That is not strength—it is a kind of faith. And faith breaks."
Down below, Caelvir stood still amidst the wreckage. The arena spun faintly around him. His blood had stopped running—mostly. His breath dragged like iron across his throat.
And then he felt it.
A pull.
In the sand, buried and forgotten beneath the churned dust and red smears of battle—Seren's blade. Used to be her blade, but now it belonged to him.
It called to him. Not with words, not even a sound. Just a quiet gravity, like something remembered in a dream.
Caelvir turned toward it.
Step by step, he moved, slow and broken. His knees shook with each stride. His fingers, caked in red, twitched faintly as he reached—
The edge of the blade caught the light, dull and waiting.
But before he could grasp it, his vision swam.
The ground beneath him melted and twisted.
He blinked, once.
Darkness bled in from the edges.
His legs buckled.
And then—he fell, silently, with nothing left to give.