[The Outskirts of the Capital – 6:00 AM]
Dew still shrouded the coarse grasses of Draka in a layer of cold moisture, while the morning air lashed at my lungs with every deep breath I demanded. I was swinging my heavy blade for the thousandth time that morning; a blade that was no longer a mere piece of steel, but an extension of my unyielding will. I hadn't tasted sleep since the assassination mission ended two hours ago, but my new body—this vessel forged in the hell of Draka—refused rest. Instead, it craved further challenge, as if trying to forestall the catastrophe I felt approaching in my very bones.
"Don't you ever tire of this sterile dance with the air?"
The voice came from behind me; it was calm, cold, and wrapped in a tone of exhaustion characteristic of professional killers. It was Jina. She stood there in her black attire, nearly vanishing into the dawn shadows, her tired eyes watching my movements with the precision of a dissector. "You train like someone racing death, Ray... or like someone trying to escape the fact that they are already dead. What do you hope to gain from shattering tree branches at this small hour?"
I stopped abruptly, the scarf covering my face dripping with sweat mingled with the dust of training. "The tournament is today, Jina. In a world as merciless as Draka, I don't want to simply show up or participate like the rest of the herd. I accept nothing less than absolute dominance over the arena."
Jina let out a muffled laugh, but it was devoid of her usual mockery; it was the laugh of someone who had seen many "heroes" turn into corpses rotting in the mud. "In Draka, physical strength is only half the truth, perhaps less. There are monsters here who can shatter stone with a touch, but 'reputation' and blood are what always settle the conflict."
I furrowed my brows, feeling the rough grip of the sword. "How? The fight is settled by the blade that pierces flesh, not by stories told in inns, nor the blood that runs in the veins of nobles."
Jina took a single step forward, radiating the scent of dyed leather and iron. She whispered with an inexplicably sharp, trembling voice: "If you fought one of the nobles, or faced a guard from the Royal 'Sura' squad, even if you were on the verge of crushing his skull under your boot... the judges, the crowd, and even the unwritten laws would find a way to disqualify you. You would be considered the loser not because you are weak, but because you dared to insult the 'sanctity' of their blood with your filthy hand. In this arena, you aren't a free fighter, Ray. You are just a slave in their eyes; your job is to entertain them with your death, not your victory."
I smiled coldly beneath my scarf and looked at the blade of my sword, which reflected the pale dawn light like a mirror of death. "I will show you today, Jina... how a 'slave' can tear apart the illusions of their sanctity and turn their arrogance-stained blood into pools for the crowd to swim in."
Jina yawned lazily as she retreated into the shadows once more. "I'm going to sleep; perhaps I'll dream of a less bloody future. Good luck, you massive slave. Just try not to die in the first round; your death would be a significant loss to the gold budget we plan to collect."
[Noon – The Peak of Physical Harmony]
My training continued until midday, and the scorching sun was merely an additional factor to temper my strength. It was then that I felt something strange seeping into my perception; I no longer needed to summon the "Original Sin Eyes" to predict the path of the next strike or to analyze gaps in the air. My body, my muscles, and my senses—rebuilt in this world—had become sensitively, terrifyingly sharp. I began to hear the vibration of air molecules around the blade before it even moved. Power in Draka no longer came solely from obscure magic or forbidden eyes; it had begun to emanate from this steel, which I felt merging with my bones, transforming me into a complete killing machine—one that does not err and does not hesitate.
[Afternoon – The Grand Arena]
The screaming in the Draka arena was deafening—a cacophony of barbaric cheers and the cries of those thirsty for blood. Thousands of humans, hybrids, and monsters were huddling in the dilapidated marble stands. I passed by the old man's shop for the last time; he gave me my new combat attire—a light harness of tanned leather that did not hinder movement—and my blade, which he had sharpened until it could slice a falling hair in the air with a terrifying silence.
"Don't return to me without the bag of gold, Ray... or don't return at all," the old man said, patting my shoulder. His sunken eyes carried a warning his tongue did not speak.
I entered the dark fighters' passage, where the stench of rot and fear lingered. I stopped at the grimy registration desk. The clerk looked in astonishment at my massive physical build, which seemed to fill the corridor. "Alias?"
I looked at him from behind my mask and spoke a single word, heavy as a tomb: "The Wraith."
[The Waiting Room – The Silence Before the Storm]
Inside the vast, dark room, the atmosphere was charged with the scent of feverish sweat and imminent death. The fighters were divided into easily sorted types:
There was the ferocious kind, trying to hide their terror by shattering wooden pieces with their bare fists, and the annoying kind, prattling about their illusory skills to convince themselves they would live to see tomorrow's sun.
And in the darkest corner... there was the quiet kind.
My eyes stopped on him instinctively. It was him—the Sura guard I had witnessed slaughtering "Brock" at the inn with mechanical coldness. He sat in a poised position despite his complete stillness, his gaze piercing through everyone to settle on me with a suspicious scrutiny, as if he smelled a familiar scent in me—a scent that did not belong to this tainted world. I ignored his provocative stares and sat in the furthest possible corner, closing my eyes and adjusting the rhythm of my breath to the pulse of the arena outside.
Suddenly, a total and abrupt silence fell, as if life had been sucked out of the room in the blink of an eye. The massive wooden door opened to admit a person radiating an elegance that seemed alien and repulsive in this filthy place. His attire was a stark, pristine white that did not fit Draka's bloodiness. His features were terrifyingly human, to a degree of perfection that made one feel nauseated. He wore spectacles that reflected the surrounding lights, hiding his true gaze behind a cold, glassy brilliance.
All the fighters stood immediately in a collective movement of submission, bowing their heads as they chanted in a tone mixing veneration with lethal apprehension: "Welcome, My Lord... second son of King Baron... His Highness Cyril."
I stood with them, not out of submission, but so as not to draw attention prematurely. However, my eyes remained fixed on his behind the glass of his spectacles. He did not look like one of the primitive monsters of Draka; he looked like a refined, cultured, and organized human from my old world. This specifically made him seem more terrifying and dark amidst these impulsive freaks. He represented the "brain" that operates the "guillotine."
Cyril smiled a filthy smile—a smile that did not reach his cold eyes—and spoke in a voice as smooth as silk: "Oh... what fierce and interesting fighters you are. I truly hope to see a fair and enjoyable competition for the great audience..." Then he paused for a moment, and the tone of his voice changed to something darker and deeper, as if coming from an abandoned well: "But you know the law well... don't you?"
They all replied in a single, submissive, and broken voice: "Yes, My Lord!"
Cyril let out a fabricated laugh as he exited the room, leaving behind an aura of coldness that would not fade: "Good luck to everyone on their journey toward immortality... or oblivion."
I remained standing in my place, my pulse racing in my veins like a distant war drum. A single question gnawed at my mind: What is this cursed law that makes these seasoned killers tremble like children before a man who seems physically weak? And what is Cyril hiding behind those perfect glasses?
I felt the grip of my blade hidden beneath my cloak and realized the tournament was no longer just a fight for gold; it had become a confrontation against an entire system of injustice wrapped in elegance. Today, "The Wraith" would not be content with passing through... he would carve his name into Draka's memory with the blood they claimed was sacred.
The doors of the Grand Arena swung open, and the white light rushed in to blind the eyes. The moment had arrived. There was no longer any room for retreat. I stepped toward the scorching sands, the voice of "Original Sin" whispering in my depths with utter clarity:
"Slaughter them all... and let the law be written by your blade."