"All of this that you are… is nothing but the result of your vile actions, of defying your masters, and of turning yourself into a completely failed experiment. And now you are imprisoned in this place… my waste that did not deserve to be shaped by my hand."
The echo of the words reverberated through the stone cell as if the walls themselves were repeating them with cold mockery. Dampness seeped through the cracks, and water dripped drop by drop in a rhythm resembling the countdown of a worthless life. The chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles were heavier than any metal or shackle; they were saturated with curses, feeding on pain, tightening into the flesh whenever he moved even a fraction.
The chained man slowly raised his head with deliberate slowness. His eyes, drowned in a darkness like a moonless night, held neither pleading nor hopeonly accumulated resentment, a hatred fermented through years of repeated slaughter upon the arena floor. He looked at the one before him… at his "father," his maker, his master, and his jailer.
The sorcerer stood there in black robes embroidered with silver threads that glimmered like open scars, and a thin smile split across his pale face like the cut of a blade. His name was whispered among warriors as though it were a charm of dread: Arkanon Zafryel, Lord of Cursed Souls and Weaver of Lost Maledictions.
Arkanon spoke in a voice soft as melted poison.
"But… that act of yours brought joy and excitement to our dull days. You illuminated our darknessyour screams… your fractures… the sound of your bones striking the arena floor. And we hope from you… a little more resistance for the sake of our goal. So rise, and fight… again and again… until you fall. Then rise again. If you grow tired, we have not. And if you surrender, we reject that will of yoursmy brothers and I. We are the ones who possess the right to grow weary… not you."
His voice was like a malicious caress, passing over wounds without touching them, yet leaving them bleeding more.
Despite the thick darkness suffocating the cell, despite the creaking of the chains that sounded like the moans of the buried dead, Elia rose. He rose not because he wished to… but because something within him refused to kneelsomething they had not yet managed to break. He took a step forward, and the iron scraped against flesh, a wet and revolting sound.
He approached Arkanon until their breaths nearly collided.
The scent of blood clinging to his skin was not his alone; it was the remnants of opponents who had fallen beneath his fists, remnants of creatures who had screamed as he screamed, then fell silent as he too would someday fall silent.
"Damn you… all of you."
His voice was hoarse, torn like a throat forced to scream for too long.
"Remember this… all of this. For the day when you succeed. Only then will you realize how foolish your idea was… and how your end will be wrought by your own hands. Me? I will fight. Yes, I will fight… but not for you. I will fight to see the day when you succeed, so that you may understand that what destroyed you was not your enemies… but the very goal for which you devoted your lives."
His voice rose, broke, nearly choked within his ribs. But he clenched his jaw until the grinding of teeth could be heard and forced himself under control. He would not grant them the pleasure of seeing him break.
Arkanon did not grow angry. He did not retreat. He remained standing, calm as a statue carved from diseased pride. Then he released a short, quiet laugh devoid of warmth.
"Your boldness… truly entertaining. But how long will you endure? How long will you live? Let me tell you simply, in a manner fitting your limited mind: all of this… is our decision. Your life, your deatheven your body and your soul… belong to us."
He stepped closer until the tip of his metal staff touched Elia's forehead, and beneath the skin dark lines appeared as though something were moving within him.
"We will reward you today. Fight… unarmed. Without sword, without armor, without fabricated humanity. Fight with your body alone. In return, you will be granted power beyond the humans who were born and fell without ever being remembered. You will be a valuable instrument to us. That soul of yours… we created it from hundreds of souls. Their screams… part of you. Their tears… your fuel. And we would be more than pleased to reclaim them. But… let us allow it to grow a little more. To harden. To rot within pain. Until you join them, and your body becomes a vessel for our era… the era of the god, our godthe one we created."
A moment of heavy silence followed.
Then… a deep creak.
The iron doors opened slowly, like the jaws of some ancient beast. Moonlight slipped insidecold, silver, mocking. It was not a merciful light; it was a silent witness to the massacre to come.
Elia bared his teeth.
Who said he was unarmed?
His body… was the weapon. Every scar upon him was a mark of resistance. Every bone that had broken and healed had become harder than before. His muscles were not built for display, but for tearing flesh. And his mind… had become clearer under pressure.
He stepped toward the light.
Each step was a declaration of war.
He knew the arena. He knew its smella mixture of sweat, blood, and soil soaked with unburied remains. He knew the screams of the crowd… the laughter of the sorcerers in the upper balconies… their wagers on how many minutes he would last.
This time, he would fight unarmed.
Yet he did not feel naked. He felt free.
"I am not your tool…" he muttered to himself as the restraints were unlocked one after another. "I will be the witness to people who believed they knew what they were doing."
He cast one final glance at Arkanon.
In his eyes there was no longer only hatred…
but a promise.
A promise that the earth swallowing his blood today may swallow his masters tomorrow.
He stepped into the arena, and the cold air struck his bare chest.
He clenched his fists.
He shouted, and his foot stepped onto the ground that was soaked with old blood, dark as though it were the dye of night spilled and left to dry upon the concrete. The air was heavy, suffocating, thick with the smell of iron, sweat, and rotting flesh from battles that had come before. The stands rose higher and higher, torches hanging from them, burning by the will of that person, casting flickering light that made everything seem as though it moved even while still.
Elia stepped to the center of the arena.
He carried nothing.
He needed nothing.
His bare chest rose and fell slowly, and his old and new scars were a map of an endless war. His fists closed until the joints whitened, and his teeth pressed against each other with a faint sound.
The scrape of metal split the arena.
Then his opponent emerged.
A creature with the head of a black crow, its beak long and sharp, red droplets hanging from it that had not yet dried. Its eyes were yellow, lidless, staring steadily. Its body was huge and human, its muscles swollen as if they had been forcefully injected with the power of hundreds of stimulants. Its right arm ended in a massive metal clubnot held… but fused with the bone, as though the flesh had swallowed the iron and made it part of itself. The other arm was natural, dark and tense, its fingers long, ending in thick dark nails.
Whispers spread through the crowd.
"The executioner crow…"
"Let's see how many minutes he lasts today."
Laughter. Bets. Fingers pointing. Cups raised.
Elia did not look.
He is a soldier.
And the soldier who dies without achieving his goal… is a disgrace to his honor.
The crow shrieked, a sharp cry piercing the air, then charged.
The metal club fell like lightning.
Elia rolled aside at the last moment, and the iron struck the ground. The floor exploded and fragments of stone scattered like rain. The arena trembled under the blow, and Elia felt the vibration climb through his legs.
The creature did not give him a chance.
It spun its heavy body with unexpected speed, sweeping the air with a sideways strike. The club smashed into Elia's ribs. A muffled cracking sound was heard, and his body was thrown to the ground, writhing for a moment like a fish pulled from water.
The crowd roared as that thrill spread among its rows.
Elia coughed blood. He tasted it. Hot, salty, familiar.
He rose slowlybut the crow approached with steady steps, its beak tilting as though it could not wait for the dinner before it.
"Finish him!" someone shouted with a laugh.
The club rose again.
But this time, Elia did not retreat.
He lunged forward.
The iron strike fell and slammed into his shoulder. Flesh split open. Bone shattered. Yet he continued advancing, as though pain were merely an idea that did not concern him.
He grabbed the metal arm with both hands.
Heat ran through his skin from the friction of iron. The faint smell of burning.
He pulled.
The crow shrieked with a sound closer to a hysterical caw and struck him in the face with its natural fist. Elia's nose shattered and blood burst forth, but his grip did not loosen.
He raised his knee with all the strength he had left and drove it into the creature's stomach. He felt muscles tearing beneath the impact. Then he suddenly released the arm and shifted aside, causing the crow to lose its balance for a fraction of a second.
A fraction enough.
Elia leapt onto its back.
His arm wrapped around the creature's neck, his fingers digging beneath the feathers, searching for flesh. The crow spun wildly, slamming him against the ground, trying to crush him beneath its weight.
Elia struck the shattered floor once… twice… three times.
Something inside him tore.
But he did not let go.
Instead, he opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the creature's neck.
A sharp scream tore through the air.
Blood surged outthick, dark, with a bitter burning taste. Elia did not pull back. He bit deeper. He tore a piece of flesh with his teeth, spat it aside, then drove his fingers into the open wound, searching for something… anything that could be torn out.
The metal club struck his back.
Once.
Twice.
The sound of bones breaking like dry branches.
But his hand had reached it.
He seized the throat.
Pulled.
A wet tearing sound.
The executioner crow fell to its knees.
Elia slid before it, his face covered in blood, one eye half closed from swelling. He looked at the black head, at the yellow eyes that were beginning to dim.
Then he gathered what remained of him… and smashed his forehead into the crow's forehead with everything he had.
A cracking sound.
The beak broke.
Another strike followed.
And another.
Until the creature collapsed without movement.
A short silence.
Then the stands exploded with applause.
Cheers. Laughter. Shouts of admiration.
Elia stood… barely.
His legs trembled. His chest bled. His shoulder was torn open. His nose shattered. His back covered in bruises. Every breath that entered felt like knives.
But he did not fall.
He did not fall.
And suddenly…
He felt heat.
In his back.
At first like a sting.
Then like embers placed beneath the skin.
He screamed this time.
Involuntarily.
Light burst from the torches, glowing lines beginning to draw themselves upon his back, as though an unseen hand held a sword of fire and carved it into his skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the arena. The crowd clapped in a steady rhythm, as though witnessing a coronation ritual.
The lines formed.
A long blade stretching from his shoulders down to his lower back.
A hilt carved along his spine.
A sword.
A sword of fire and flesh.
Elia fell to his knees, his fingers digging into the cracks, his screams turning into a dull rasp.
Then the light went out.
And the mark remained.
A burned, charred tattoo in the shape of a sword.
Slow footsteps approached.
A metal staff touched the ground with a calm rhythm.
Arkanon bent slightly, grasped Elia by the hair, and lifted his head for everyone to see.
"Well done… my son."
His voice was warm in a terrifying way.
"You were savage. Filthy. Desperate… and that is what we love about you."
He extended his hand and ran a finger over the burned mark. Elia's body trembled despite himself.
Then, with a deliberate motion, he stripped away the remnants of his torn clothes, exposing his wound-riddled body before the hungry eyes.
He lifted him by the arms as though displaying a prize.
Turning toward the crowd, he raised his voice:
"Another knight… has been created, my people!"
Cheers erupted.
Arkanon smiled, his teeth gleaming beneath the torchlight.
As for Elia, he remained silent.
His body was burning.
His soul was on the verge of surrender
and in his depths, he laughed.