The whole city fell suddenly silent, as if the very air had stopped. I was shoved through corridors, the collar weighing on my neck like an inescapable fact. The arena opened before me like a hungry mouth: raised platforms, harsh lights, an audience masked by shadows, clapping in a terrifying hush. Every face there was a mirror of appetite for blood. The smell of iron, sweat and smoke choked the wind.
The city's owner stood at the forefront, his cloak swaying gently, his smile crawling across his lips as if it were devouring the air. He raised his hand, and a metallic voice from the arena speakers echoed his words:
— "People… we bring you true entertainment. An Ethim from Earth — strong, cunning, weighed with rotten hope. We will grant him three chances. The first — a lesson. The second — a warning. The third — an end. Let us watch."
The collar was finally locked in place; a small ring inside its mechanism pulsed with red measurements. I felt a jolt of electricity run through me, searing the taste of restraint into my lungs. Any escape attempt? One word from the owner — and an internal blast would shatter my spirit.
I was pushed toward the center of the ring. Beneath my feet the floor was cracked iron, marked with circles and red lines—symbols of past battles and unspoken ends. Before me, my opponent emerged from thick smoke: a massive shadow, sheathed in metal plates, his eyes burning with cold malice. The announcer named him to the crowd: the Threshold Conqueror.
The audience quieted. The blood in my ears pounded like war drums. When the referee's whistle blew, the Threshold Conqueror charged without greeting; his first strike hit my shoulder and sent a wave of pain reminding me of old breaks. I tried to maneuver—my Dual Shadow formed and sent an offensive body to strike him—but my foe dodged in a single motion as if he read shadows like an open book.
The opening all favored him: rapid blows, lifts that puppeted my body like a toy in an angry child's hand, a crushing strike to my chest that stole my breath. My eyes swam, and the ring's light fractured into endless sparks.
And then—an old memory-poem ignited: the vision of an old woman, a rough hand, a cold look full of insult and grim wisdom. Echoes of incomplete words danced in my head: "…never trust two-faced light…" then faded into whispers with each new blow.
Pain began to take from me—not only flesh, but an inner tone. I muttered in a strangled voice: "The curse… no… not like this." But the voice that followed wasn't mine; it sounded as if the Void itself whispered a name: Son of Shadow.
I did not speak it—yet it fell from me like an ancient call. Darkness surged into my chest as if reclaiming rights: a mass of black poured from my left hand, extending into an arm of teeth and shadow. It was more than a weapon; it was a devouring storm. A half-mask of shadow formed on my face, and, in a surreal echo, my vision split into two poles: one real, the other the mirror of madness.
Before I could regain full control, the darkness began to consume parts of me—memories here, a feeling there. Each time power gripped my body, something of me quietly collapsed. Still, the crowd was enthralled; no one breathed except to await the scene's end.
The Threshold Conqueror faltered for a moment — I had entered his mind somehow, not with visible words but with a scream that struck to the senses. For a brief instant he paused, then snapped back and lunged with greater ferocity. His assault struck at my shadow, but I could not fully control it—the collar limited my bond to the shadows; each pulse sent a wave of pain that shortened the reach of my power.
In one final moment the killing blow came: a massive axe fell, half of it driving into my chest wall, cutting short my resistance. Blood poured; my view of the world collapsed into a red spiral. I tried to scream, to gather what skill remained, but the fall was swift.
I collapsed on the plank, and the crowd roared like a tide devouring the shore. My eyes were soaked with blood; the image splintered. Amid the violent fog I saw a face—I could not tell if it was woman or man—but it resembled a tank-like old matron: cheeks like stone, a look that carried a thousand cruelties. She whispered, "The curse…" then vanished like a smoke torn by wind.
I did not scream. No words escaped. Only an inner murmur: if I die now, I will return; yet a part of me will be lost forever.
I rolled my eyes toward the sky, and sorrow crept like a snake: "No… not like this." But the Pleasure Collar on my neck was the owner's will; its mechanism hammered a cold warning inside me: any unauthorized escape — I will be erased even from memory.
Then, before the vision finally ebbed, I heard a word inside me — not fully mine, but proclaiming a new fate: Year of Silence.
Darkness closed in, the uproar faded, the arena vanished, and my spirit sank into a world of iron and smoke.