Fantasy book 

 

Chapter One – Arven

 

The smell of stew filled the small, wooden cottage, mingling with the faint scent of fire smoke and fresh herbs. Outside, the sun had long disappeared behind the eastern treeline of Wessex, leaving the village in the soft glow of lanterns and hearth fires. Inside, Arven sat at the table between his mother and father, stirring his portion with a wooden spoon while listening to the crackling of the fire.

 

“Arven, slow down with that,” his mother said, smiling as he nearly spilled the thick stew. “You’ll be wearing it before it reaches your stomach.”

 

“I can eat it faster than anyone!” Arven protested, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Even you, Father!”

 

His father’s stern gaze met him over the rim of the bowl, lips pressed into a thin line. “Bravery isn’t about speed, Arven,” he said quietly, voice low but firm. “It’s about knowing when to act and when to wait. You can’t rush everything.”

 

Arven huffed but couldn’t hide his grin. His father’s words always carried weight, even if he didn’t fully understand them yet. His mother reached over, ruffling the tips of his short, red mane. “He’s got your spirit, my love,” she whispered softly. “Always chasing the next thing.”

 

The boy’s ears twitched at that, pride swelling inside him. “Father,” he said suddenly, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “tell me again about when you traveled with the duke! The story about the ambush in the forest!”

 

The father’s jaw tightened slightly, but a hint of a smile flickered across his face. “You’re eager for danger tonight, aren’t you?” His deep voice carried the calm, steady tone of someone who had faced far more than a small boy could imagine. “Very well… but remember, these were not stories to boast of. They were lessons.”

 

Arven leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes wide.

 

“Years ago, long before you were born,” his father began, “I was a bodyguard for Duke Harreth. We traveled from town to town, keeping the duke safe. One night, in a forest much like those near our village, a band of thieves ambushed us. They thought they could take him by surprise… but I stayed calm, protected the duke, and we made it through without harm.” His gaze softened for a moment as he looked at Arven. “Courage is not about acting without fear. It’s about acting despite it.”

 

Arven’s chest puffed with pride. “I’ll be brave like you, Father! I’ll protect everyone too!”

 

His mother reached over, tugging lightly at his mane again. “And you will, in your own way,” she said. Her smile was gentle, full of warmth, the kind that made Arven feel safe no matter what. “But remember to be careful, little one.”

 

The boy nodded, imagining himself standing in forests, fighting off thieves and monsters with the same calm courage his father had described. He could feel it in his chest—a fire, a thrill that made him want to see what lay beyond the village borders. He barely noticed when his father returned to his stew, and his mother hummed softly, tidying the table.

 

Later that night, Arven lay on his small mat beside the fire, listening to the wind whisper through the trees outside. The memory of his father’s story lingered, and the thought of adventure teased at his mind. He rolled over, staring at the ceiling beams, feeling restless.

 

“I want to see it,” he whispered to himself. “I want to see what’s out there… just for a little while.”

 

And with that, he quietly slipped from his blanket, careful not to wake his parents, and crept toward the door.

 

?

 

By dawn, Arven had already slipped past the edge of the village and into the dense, overgrown swamps along the eastern border of Wessex. Vines clung to him as he pushed through mud and reeds, the smell of stagnant water thick in the air. His small paws squelched in the mud, and his tail flicked nervously as he navigated the shadows, alert for any sign of danger.

 

It did not take long for him to encounter it. From the shadows emerged a humanoid shape, scaled and crocodilian, with sharp teeth bared and eyes glinting with feral intelligence. Arven’s heart pounded, but he did not run. He was only seven, but courage and stubbornness ran through him in equal measure.

 

A clash followed. Arven ducked and rolled, striking with small but fierce swipes. He managed to drive the creature back long enough to escape, but in his haste to flee deeper into the swamp, he tripped over a root and tumbled down a steep cliff-side, landing in a tangle of reeds and mud at the bottom.

 

Pain flared in his shoulder, and he groaned, but he forced himself up. That was when he saw humans for the first time—not in the village, but traveling, armed, and carrying cages. His blue eyes widened as he realized their purpose: hunting beastfolk.

 

Curiosity and daring won over fear. Arven followed them silently for two days, hiding among the undergrowth, keeping out of sight. His first night alone in the wild, he curled under a thick root, shivering and hungry. His thoughts drifted home, to the warmth of his family, to his father’s calm voice and his mother’s gentle smile.

 

I wish Father were here, he thought, hugging his knees. He would know what to do. He’d tell me to stay quiet… to survive. I can’t be brave all the time by myself.

 

For four days, he stalked the humans, surviving on scraps and his wits. On the fourth day, hunger forced his paw; he tried to snatch some food from their camp. They caught him—but instead of striking, one of them offered him bread and meat. They were kind, gentle even, and told him they would take him home. Exhausted and hungry, Arven allowed them to guide him toward rest, believing he had found a new, unexpected friend.

 

But that night, he awoke in a cage. The air reeked of smoke and blood. The humans were burning down villages, slaughtering beastfolk left and right. Arven’s stomach twisted as he saw the carnage—the bodies of adults, the fire consuming everything in sight. Only children were spared, dragged screaming into cages like himself.

 

His heart froze. His mother… among the fallen. His father… no where to be seen. He had never imagined such devastation. His young mind could barely comprehend the scale of it.

 

Arven sat silently, clutching the bars of his cage, surrounded by eight other children and three teens, all trembling, all silent. His short red mane hung limply, blue eyes wide and haunted.

 

The adventure he had dreamed of—the bravery he had imagined—had led him here. But he would survive. He would not let his parents’ deaths be in vain. Somewhere deep inside, a small fire of resolve kindled.

 

And so, the silence of the cage was broken only by the whimpers of the children, while Arven’s mind spun with a single, unspoken promise: I will not be powerless. I will not let this happen again.

 

Chapter Two – Taken West

 

The wagons rattled through the tall grass as the last traces of morning mist clung to the wheels. Arven had barely slept. The night air had been cold, colder than he ever felt back home — the kind of cold that made his bones ache and his memories hurt. The humans traveling west toward the Wessex capital, Mercia, barely noticed the shivering beastfolk children huddled in their cages.

 

By midday, the caravan reached a sprawling camp set in an open field of long grass, each blade nearly seven inches tall and swaying softly in the breeze. As soon as they arrived, the cages were hauled off the wagons and placed among dozens — maybe hundreds — of others. It was a sea of rusted bars and frightened eyes.

 

Arven was pushed to a row near the center. The grass brushed his legs through the gaps in the cage as he was set down beside older teens, younger children, and even a few full-grown adults in larger cages.

 

A teen about thirteen sat beside him in the neighboring cage, knees pulled to his chest. He had the striped markings of a cat beastfolk, though dulled with dirt and fear.

 

“You cold too?” the teen whispered.

 

Arven nodded silently.

 

“I kept thinking… last night someone would find us,” the older boy continued. “Parents… warriors… anyone. I kept imagining I’d wake up and this would all be a dream.”

 

Arven swallowed hard. His blue eyes stayed fixed on the ground.

 

The teen sighed. “I just… I can’t believe they found our village. We’re not even close to the main roads. Why would humans do this? Why hunt us? It doesn’t make sense…”

 

Arven’s throat tightened.

He knew exactly how the humans had found them.

He saw the hunters days before — he followed them — and then he returned home. He brought danger behind him without even understanding it.

 

He hugged his knees tighter, wishing he could disappear.

 

After a long silence, the teen whispered, “I miss home. I miss my mom.”

Then after a moment: “What about you? You got parents?”

 

Arven opened his mouth… but no words came out.

 

Because every time he tried to speak, he saw his mother’s body in the flames.

And he couldn’t let the sound escape.

 

The hours crawled by.

The cages rattled when someone moved.

The wind whispered through the tall grass.

And then — shouting.

 

Humans approached the field, pointing at the cages one by one, selecting their “stock” for sale.

 

They stopped at a long cage filled with tiger beastfolk. Among them was a young white tigress, no older than Arven, with bright silver stripes and cold blue eyes. She wasn’t just rare — she was legendary among her kind. Even Arven recognized her — they had passed each other in the village once, though she had barely noticed him.

 

She stared at him now through the bars, tense and silent.

 

One of the hunters shouted, “Grab that one! The white! She’ll fetch a fortune!”

 

Another laughed crudely. “Aye — the nobles love trophies!”

 

The tigress hissed and backed up. When a man reached in, she slammed her heel down onto his boot, causing him to yelp and stumble. She spun and kicked the second in the groin — he dropped instantly.

 

And before anyone could blink, she made a break for it.

 

The tall grass rippled as she dashed through it, her small form weaving like a ghost.

 

“STOP HER!”

 

Their leader appeared as if from thin air, massive and armored. In one motion, he stepped into her path and clotheslined her with an arm like a steel beam. Her breath exploded from her lungs as she hit the ground, rolling to a stop in the dirt.

 

She tried to get up, gasping — but two hunters were already lifting her, dragging her away kicking and coughing.

 

“Take the little monster to the private tent,” one ordered.

“She’s worth more undamaged.”

 

From the crowd of humans forming near the camp’s central tent, someone muttered loudly:

 

“Keep her away from that pervert woman — she’s already eyein’ the kids again.”

 

Laughter followed.

Arven felt sick.

 

One by one, more beastfolk were dragged from cages. Some screamed. Some were silent. Some fought, and were beaten for it.

 

When the sun dipped low, casting long shadows through the camp, a hunter approached Arven’s cage.

 

“Your turn, little lion.”

 

He grabbed the cage and dragged it toward the large white tent at the camp’s center.

 

Arven’s heart pounded as he was hauled inside.

 

?

 

The Auction Hall

 

Bright lights flooded the interior, glowing with a power Arven didn’t understand—chi lamps, though he had no name for them yet. Rows of humans filled benches, their chatter loud and excited, like spectators awaiting a grand race.

 

Beastfolk were brought out one at a time and displayed. Some humans laughed. Some whispered. Some looked on with cold, calculating eyes.

 

Arven’s cage was set on a platform.

The door creaked open.

 

“Next up! A young lion boy — strong lineage, good build, rare red mane!”

 

A woman in a lavish feathered coat leaned forward immediately, eyes gleaming with a disturbing hunger. Her smile stretched too wide.

 

“I want that one,” she purred. “He’ll suit my estate beautifully…”

 

A man behind her scoffed loudly.

 

“Oh shut it, you pervert. Go back to your husband before he realizes you’re hunting children again.”

 

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

 

Arven didn’t understand all the words, but the tone made his fur bristle. He backed away instinctively, pressing against the far corner of the platform.

 

“Fifty!” the woman declared.

 

Then another bidder rose — a farmer with rough hands.

“Sixty! I need workers. Boy that size’ll grow strong.”

 

Before either could continue, a third person stood.

 

A towering man in fine black furs.

Broad shoulders.

Deep voice.

Eyes like winter stone — no warmth, no soul.

 

He stared at Arven in a way that froze his blood.

 

“One hundred.”

 

Murmurs spread.

 

The woman snapped, “One-twenty!”

 

“One-fifty,” the man replied without blinking.

 

The bidding escalated sharply, but in the end…

 

“Sold! To the gentleman of House Etrion!”

 

Arven was grabbed, pulled from the platform, and dragged toward a new carriage cell. His heart hammered as he was shoved into the back.

 

Inside were five others:

• Two lion boys, younger than him

• A baby orc, barely nine months old, crying softly

• One rabbit girl with bruised ears

• And in the far corner, curled and breathing heavily the white tigress from earlier.

She looked up at him.

Their eyes locked. No words spoken. But the fear, anger, and burning resolve in her gaze mirrored his own.

The carriage door slammed shut.

The journey west began.

 

Chapter Three – Debt of Blood

 

The journey west felt endless.

 

Arven dozed in short, restless bursts, jolting awake whenever the carriage wheels struck a stone or one of the other children whimpered. The white tigress sat opposite him, arms wrapped around her knees, silent but alert. Even breathing hurt her ribs after the leader’s brutal clothesline, but she didn’t let anyone see weakness.

 

When the carriage finally ground to a halt, the sharp voice of a guard echoed through the wooden slats.

 

“New recruits have arrived! Some lively ones in there, too. Should make for good entertainment.”

 

The words meant nothing to Arven yet…but the tone chilled him.

 

The cage door swung open. Harsh sunlight blinded the children as they were herded out in a stumbling line.

 

They had arrived.

 

?

 

House Etrion’s Arena

 

The estate was enormous — stone walls rising so high they blocked the sky. Tiled roofs, banners bearing a black sigil, and behind it all, a massive circular structure made of dark stone. The arena.

 

Arven’s breath caught.

Not in awe—

in dread.

 

The guards shoved the children forward, driving them toward a wide archway carved into the arena’s outer wall. It was wide enough that the entire carriage rolled inside behind them. The moment they passed beneath the arch, Arven felt swallowed by it — as if he had stepped into the mouth of a beast.

 

Beyond the entrance lay a long stone corridor, dimly lit by glowing crystals embedded in iron sconces. Voices echoed above them — spectators, gamblers, trainers, fighters.

 

Their footsteps followed a ramp downward until they emerged into an underground walkway stretching in a ring beneath the stands. To their right and left, the hallway continued seemingly forever.

 

It was narrow enough to make them feel trapped, yet wide enough for two carriages to pass. Weapons lined the walls: spears, blades, axes, shields — hundreds of them, some rusted, some polished, some stained with old, dried brown.

 

Rows of training grounds opened on the inner side — dirt circles where fighters practiced, wooden dummies, straw targets, and even chalk rings marking dueling squares.

 

The scale of it stunned Arven.

He’d never seen anything so vast.

Or so cold.

 

?

 

Collars and Porridge

 

“Off the wagon, mutts!” a guard barked.

 

One by one, the children were chained with heavy iron collars around their necks. Arven nearly fell when the weight first hit him — it dragged his head downward, forcing him into a hunched posture.

 

“This’ll make you manageable,” the guard smirked, tugging on Arven’s chain before locking it.

 

The white tigress snarled under her breath but said nothing.

 

They were led to a stone trough-like feeding area. Guards dumped bowls of gray porridge into their hands.

 

“Eat,” one ordered. “This is the only free meal you’ll ever get.”

 

It tasted like wet sand.

But Arven ate every bite.

 

?

 

The Induction

 

After a few minutes, the guards pulled them away from the feeding area and led them back into the training corridor. The clang of metal echoed as weapons rattled on the shelves.

 

A tall, broad instructor stepped into view, scarred from shoulder to jaw. He carried a thick wooden staff like a club.

 

“Listen well,” he barked. “Your lives don’t belong to you anymore. You are gladiators now. And gladiators earn everything—food, water, sleep, mercy.”

 

He tapped the staff against the stone floor.

A sharp crack echoed.

 

“You owe us for your lives. And you will repay that debt by fighting. If you live…” His lip curled. “You will have earned the privilege to fight again for another meal.”

 

He paced in front of them.

 

“You’re here to entertain humans. And if you disappoint—”

He flicked the staff toward a row of dried blood stains on the wall.

“You’ll end up there.”

 

Arven clenched his jaw but stayed silent.

 

“Choose a weapon,” the instructor snapped. “Now.”

 

The tigress moved first. She stepped forward deliberately, choosing two short, curved daggers. Her grip was perfect — natural — as though her hands were made for them. She turned and glared at him, poised to attack.

 

The instructor stiffened.

 

“You little brat—”

He swung his staff so fast Arven barely saw it.

The tigress barely dodged, rolling backward as the staff cracked the air above her head.

 

She landed in a crouch, glaring up at him.

 

“You are mutts,” he snarled. “And mutts obey. Disobey again, and I break every bone in those thin arms.”

 

She lowered her gaze, but the fury in her eyes didn’t fade.

 

?

 

The Bunny Girl

 

The rabbit girl from their carriage shook uncontrollably, ears limp, tears streaming down her cheeks. She tried to choose a weapon, but her hands trembled too much.

 

“Pick something,” the instructor said sharply.

 

She just sobbed.

 

“Last warning.”

 

She couldn’t stop.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t do anything but cry.

 

The instructor didn’t hesitate.

 

A single swing.

Sharp.

Wet.

Final.

 

The rabbit girl dropped to the ground.

 

No warning.

No mercy.

No pause.

 

Arven froze.

The older lion children froze.

Even the tigress flinched.

 

The instructor didn’t even look twice.

 

“Get used to it. Weak things die. Choose your damn weapons.”

 

Arven forced his shaking paws to move. He scanned the racks until he found a massive sword — far too big, with a thick leather-wrapped handle and a blade wider than his forearm. It took all his strength just to lift it.

 

It wobbled in his grip.

 

But he whispered to himself:

 

“…This is what Father would pick.”

 

He took it.

 

He didn’t look back at the rabbit girl’s body.

 

?

 

Training

 

Training began immediately.

 

Swords clashed.

Guards shouted.

Children cried.

Blood dripped.

 

Arven trained alone in the far corner, swinging the oversized blade until his shoulders burned and the collar choked him with every motion. Sweat soaked his fur. His hands blistered. His arms shook.

 

But he kept going.

 

Long after the other children had collapsed in their sleeping area — a stone hallway lined with straw pallets — Arven continued swinging.

 

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

 

He lost count after a hundred.

 

His vision blurred.

His fingers bled.

His arms felt like lead.

 

Still, he kept going.

 

Because he could not be weak.

Because he would not die like the rabbit girl.

Because he would not let his parents’ deaths be the end of him.

 

He trained until he dropped.

 

Then, before dawn, he forced himself up again.

 

This became his new life.

 

His new normal.

 

His new beginning

 

CHAPTER 4 — The First Week

 

Day 1

 

Arven woke before the others again, though he wasn’t sure he had actually slept. The stone beneath him was always cold, always damp, and the weight of the iron collar around his neck made even breathing feel like work. Still—he stood. He always stood. If he stayed down, he feared he might not get up again.

 

The training hall beneath the arena stretched endlessly in both directions, torches flickering in long rows, shadows shivering across racks of rusted weapons. Arven lifted the oversized sword—his sword now—feeling its weight pull at his wrist, his shoulder, his spine. Its leather-wrapped hilt was too thick for his hand, the blade too heavy for someone his size. That was why he chose it. It felt like something his father would’ve swung with ease.

 

He planted his feet and began a slow, clumsy swing.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

By the time the porridge call echoed through the hall, his arms trembled like leaves. As the other children shuffled toward the feeding area, Arven stayed behind a moment longer, forcing one last swing—one more than yesterday.

 

“That sword is going to crush you long before you lift it properly.”

 

Arven nearly dropped the blade. A guard stood beside him—the same one who enforced everything with that long, polished stick. The one the others feared most.

 

The guard nudged Arven’s shoulder with the tip of the stick. “Name’s Trout,” he said, casually, like introducing himself at a tavern rather than in a dungeon.

 

“…Arven.”

 

“Mm.” Trout gave a single nod, sharp as a blade’s edge. “Stop talking. Go eat.”

 

That was it. Their first conversation, as brief and blunt as an axe-head. But Arven held on to it all day.

Someone had said his name.

Someone had acknowledged he existed.

 

Even if it was the guard who beat them hardest.

 

?

 

Day 2

 

The next morning slid into the next evening in a blur of sweat and steel. Arven trained alone, ate alone, and collapsed alone. Nothing happened except the slow improvement in how long he could swing the oversized sword before his arms gave out.

 

Trout watched occasionally, but said nothing.

 

?

 

Day 3

 

The routine repeated.

Swing.

Eat.

Swing.

Sleep.

 

The others whispered among themselves—fears, rumors, memories of home—but Arven barely heard. His brain was a silent storm, focused only on one thing:

 

Get stronger, or die.

 

Nothing new happened that day.

 

But Arven’s swings were cleaner.

 

?

 

Day 4

 

On the morning of the fourth day, a guard Arven had never seen before approached—older, with a scar across his nose and eyes that seemed almost kind compared to the others.

 

“You’re Arven, yes?” the guard asked, tapping the collar around Arven’s neck.

 

Arven nodded.

 

“Well, little Arven,” the guard said with a grin that was too friendly for this place, “you’ll be sparring next week. Try not to die, alright? I’ve got high hopes for you.”

 

Arven didn’t know whether that was a threat or encouragement.

Maybe it was both.

 

The guard ruffled his hair—actually ruffled it—and walked away whistling.

 

Arven tightened his grip on his sword.

 

Next week…

He had to be ready.

 

?

 

Day 5

 

Training blurred together again until a voice cut through the monotony.

 

“You swing like you’re trying to chop your own feet off.”

 

Arven turned. The white tigress girl stood a few paces away—Silber. Her silver-striped tail flicked like an annoyed cat swatting flies. She held her new daggers with an ease that made it look like she was born with them in hand.

 

“What do you want?” Arven muttered.

 

“You’re sloppy,” she said bluntly. “You overtrain. And that sword’s too big for you.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“You should. You’ll die like that.”

 

He glared at her. “Get a grip on the situation. We don’t get choices here. I’m doing what I can.”

 

She clicked her tongue, dissatisfied. “Whatever. Don’t blame me when you get cut in half.”

 

They turned away from each other.

 

For now.

 

?

 

Day 6

 

The guards made an announcement at dawn, shouting down the stone corridor so loudly it rattled the torches.

 

“REST DAY. TOMORROW IS SPARRING DAY. RANKINGS WILL BE DECIDED. ENJOY YOUR LAST QUIET HOURS.”

 

Trout himself came to explain the system. He paced in front of them like a teacher addressing unruly students.

 

“Tomorrow,” Trout began, “you fight. Win, lose, or draw, you earn points. One point for losing, two for drawing, three for winning. Simple, yes?”

 

No one answered.

 

“So,” Trout continued, “after the first round, one will fight two, three will fight four, and so on. Rankings define privilege. Privilege defines survival. And survival is the only thing you all have left.”

 

He dismissed them.

 

As the others rested, Arven returned to the training racks. Even the torches seemed tired, flames dimmer than usual.

 

He saw Silber practicing across the hall.

 

But something about her movements today was… terrifying.

 

No wasted motion.

No hesitation.

Her daggers flowed like extensions of her limbs—step, twist, slash, pivot—every movement surgical and precise.

 

She didn’t even look winded.

 

Arven paused mid-swing, breath catching.

 

She’s… incredible.

 

Silber sheathed her daggers, flicked her tail, and left without noticing him.

 

Arven tightened his grip on his oversized sword.

 

Tomorrow, everything changed.

 

CHAPTER 5 — Sparring Day

 

They were shaken awake long before sunrise—metal striking metal, guards shouting, the rough scrape of boots on stone. Arven rose immediately; sleepless mornings had become his norm. The others, though, stumbled and blinked in confusion, still half-dreaming.

 

Trout entered the sleeping corridor with the confidence of a man who owned every breath in it. His stick tapped the floor once—sharp, commanding.

 

“All of you,” he barked, “will compete today in the ranking tournament. That means you’ll fight again and again—until we say stop. So wake up. Warm up. Prepare.”

 

Seven of them stood before him:

 

Arven

Silber

Two lion boys

One bear boy

One rabbit boy

 

Six beastmen and Arven.

 

“Wait,” muttered one lion boy. “That’s only six.”

 

Trout smirked. “Starting today, you have a new partner.”

 

He stepped aside—and a small figure waddled forward.

 

The baby orc.

 

Only a week ago he had barely crawled. Now he stood almost four feet tall, muscles dense and knotted, a wooden club clutched in his fist. Someone had already taught him to swing.

 

A murmur of fear rippled through the group.

 

Trout didn’t acknowledge it.

 

“Follow me. Matches begin now.”

 

?

 

Match 1: Silber vs. Rabbit Boy

 

The training hall cleared into a wide circle. Silber and the rabbit boy stepped forward.

 

“Begin!” a guard shouted.

 

The rabbit boy moved first—blindingly fast—darting behind her in a flash of pale fur. His hand reached out to grab—

 

—but Silber’s body twisted like a snake.

 

She seized his arm, flipped him overhead, and slammed him flat onto the stone. One smooth motion.

She placed her foot on his neck.

 

“Next.”

 

Arven couldn’t help it.

He was impressed.

 

?

 

Match 2: Lion Boy vs. Bear Boy

 

This one was a slugfest from the start.

 

No finesse. No strategy.

Just fists, claws, and brute strength.

 

Their blows echoed through the hall like boulders smashing together. Arven felt each impact in his chest. In the end, the bear boy forced the lion boy to his knees, pushing him down until he tapped.

 

“The win goes to the bear,” Trout announced.

 

?

 

Match 3: Arven vs. Lion Boy (the second)

 

Arven stepped into the ring, heart hammering but body steady. The lion boy was older, taller, faster—but Arven’s frame was broad, thick with potential. If they were the same age, Arven would’ve overpowered him easily.

 

But today, he wasn’t the stronger one.

 

The lion boy lunged immediately.

 

Arven dropped low.

 

Tackle.

 

They crashed to the ground, scrambling, rolling. Arven landed two quick blows before the lion boy sprang back and unleashed a spinning back kick.

 

It hit like a hammer.

 

Arven flew backward and skidded across the floor, barely catching himself.

 

He didn’t block. Couldn’t.

 

So he charged instead.

 

At the last second, he leapt—legs snapping around the lion boy’s neck, his arms grabbing the boy’s wrist. He tightened his grip, twisting, pulling, wrenching the elbow the wrong way.

 

A move he’d once seen a young warrior use against Arven’s father.

 

He had never dared to try it.

 

Until now.

 

The lion boy tapped instantly.

 

“Three points to Arven,” Trout declared.

 

Arven spotted the older human—the one who bought them—watching from a shadowed corner. He gave Arven a small, deliberate clap.

 

Arven didn’t know what that meant.

 

But it made his stomach twist.

 

?

 

Match 4: Silber vs. Baby Orc

 

This time, Silber stepped forward again. So did the orc.

 

The orc wobbled a little, still learning balance—but his eyes burned with a strange intelligence.

 

“Begin!”

 

For a moment, nothing.

 

Then—

 

The orc launched himself at the wall.

 

He hit it, pushed off, and shot toward Silber like a fired arrow.

 

The entire room gasped.

 

Silber barely dodged, flipping backward to gain distance.

 

The orc charged again, blind and furious.

 

Silber struck—quick jab to the throat, then a sharp teep kick to force him back.

 

She moved in with low calf kicks—one, two, three—each landing cleanly. The orc staggered, disoriented.

 

Then he caught her leg.

 

He roared and rag-dolled her around the arena, slamming her against stone again and again. Six seconds. Maybe seven.

 

He grew tired.

 

Silber slipped out of his grip, panting, bruised but alert.

 

“Instructor calls it!” Trout shouted. “Draw!”

 

The room buzzed with shock.

 

Even Silber looked shaken.

 

?

 

Later Matches (skipped)

 

They fought. They bled. They survived.

 

And eventually…

 

Arven was called again.

 

?

 Arven vs. Bear Boy

 

Arven stepped into the ring drenched in sweat, still sore from the earlier fight. The bear boy loomed before him—massive, thick-furred, easily twice Arven’s weight.

 

“You look small,” the bear boy growled. “Come closer.”

 

Arven swallowed.

 

He approached—slowly.

 

A huge paw swung at his face. Arven barely ducked. Another swipe. Then a third. Each one faster than the last.

 

Arven shot forward for a tackle—

 

And hit a wall of muscle.

 

The bear boy slammed him down, claws raking across his back. Pain exploded across Arven’s spine. He hissed, desperate, furious—helpless—

 

And bit down.

 

Hard.

 

The bear boy roared, stumbling back clutching his leg. “He cheated!”

 

“All is fair,” Trout said simply.

 

Arven grinned despite the blood dripping from his back.

 

The fight shifted. Arven stayed at distance now—throwing short punches, darting in and out. The bear boy swiped wide, growing frustrated.

 

Then Arven saw it.

 

A small opening.

 

He lunged with an uppercut—solid, clean—and the bear boy’s head snapped back. Arven copied the move he saw Silber do earlier:

 

A sharp teep to the chest. For the first time since arriving he was having fun.

 

Distance gained. He finally had the upper hand. And with every shred of strength he had left—

 

Arven twisted, leapt, and drove a high kick into the bear boy’s head.

 

The bear boy crashed down.

 

“Three points to Arven!” Trout declared.

 

Arven dropped to his knees, sweat and blood dripping onto the cold stone.

 

CHAPTER 6 — The Strongest

 

The morning fights were over, leaving only the final match unresolved. The room buzzed with tension—because everyone knew what was at stake.

 

Silber had fought too hard, too fast, and her injuries prevented her from continuing. That locked her into third place.

 

Two fighters remained with a chance at first:

 

Arven

and

the baby orc.

 

The beastmen ate a bland, thick lunch of porridge and stale bread. Arven used the time to sit against a wall and tend to his wounds—his back still burning from the bear’s claws. Every breath stung.

 

He was exhausted.

 

He was hurting.

 

And his final opponent was a monster.

 

Footsteps approached. When he looked up, Silber stood there holding a cup of water and a strip of clean bandage.

 

“Turn around,” she said.

 

He hesitated—but obeyed.

 

She dabbed water across the cuts on his back. The coolness soothed him at first, but when she pressed the bandage down, pain shot through him and he hissed.

 

“Reckless,” she muttered.

 

“Well, so are you,” he shot back.

 

For a moment, they said nothing. She continued wrapping the bandage tightly around his torso, her movements sharp and practiced despite the bruises covering her arms.

 

When she finished, she tied a knot at his side and stepped back.

 

“Show him what our village is made of,” she said quietly. “We’re the only ones left. It’s our job to carry our people’s strength… and you just might be the strongest.”

 

The words hit him deeper than she knew.

 

He stood. His legs shook, but his spirit didn’t.

 

“Thanks,” he said.

 

Silber gave him a rare smile. “Go get him.”

 

Arven turned toward the sparring platform, each step heavier than the last—but each one infused with new resolve.

 

?

 

The Final Match

 

The orc was already on the platform, breathing hard. Exhaustion had dulled his eyes, and for once he didn’t launch himself at the wall. He wandered forward, unsteady, confused.

 

Arven slowed, unsure of how to engage such an unpredictable opponent.

 

Silber suddenly shouted from the sidelines:

 

“LOOK OUT!”

 

A fist filled Arven’s entire vision.

 

He barely twitched before it smashed into his jaw, sending him tumbling backward. Before he could breathe, the orc lunged on top of him, fists raining down like falling stones.

 

Arven kept his arms up, rolling the blows off his shoulders, but each impact rattled him to the core. His bones shook. His vision flickered.

 

This orc is horrendously powerful.

 

And worse—wild.

 

But like before… he began to slow.

 

Arven’s eyes sharpened.

 

He jerked his head upward and slammed his forehead into the orc’s face.

 

A sickening crack followed.

 

The orc’s jaw snapped shut and he bit clean through his own tongue. Blood gushed down his chin—hot, metallic, spraying onto Arven’s face.

 

The creature reeled, stunned.

 

Arven rolled from beneath him and surged forward with everything he had left.

 

Left hook. Right straight. Left hook.

The orc staggered, weakened, dizzy from blood loss.

 

Arven stepped in and delivered two looping liver blows, deep and crushing.

 

The orc collapsed to his knees.

 

Arven didn’t hesitate.

 

He charged and delivered a brutal soccer kick to the side of the orc’s skull. The impact echoed across the training hall as the orc toppled sideways, unconscious.

 

Silence.

 

Then—

 

“Three points to Arven!” Trout called out.

 

The room erupted in murmurs and astonishment.

 

Arven swayed, breathing in ragged gasps, the world spinning. His knees buckled—

 

—and Silber caught him.

 

She slid his arm over her shoulder and guided him off the platform.

 

“See?” she whispered, a smile tugging at her bruised lips.

“You really might be the strongest.”

 

Arven couldn’t answer.

He just breathed.

 

For the first time since coming here.

he had made a friend.

 

CHAPTER 7 — “RED”

 

FOUR YEARS LATER

 

The arena was roaring.

 

Thousands of voices merged into one thundering chant.

 

“RED! RED! RED!”

 

Dust spiraled across the packed coliseum, the midday sun glaring down on a lone armored fighter standing in the center of the ring. He held a massive greatsword—almost too large for someone his size—its edge buried in the dirt as if it weighed nothing.

 

Spectators leaned over the rails, eyes wide.

 

“No way the rabbits can beat Red! He’s the strongest junior we’ve ever had!”

“Against TWO of them? Come on—there’s a reason they never do 2-on-1s!”

 

Across from the armored fighter, two rabbitfolk warriors bounced on their feet—light, twitchy, explosive. Their fur streaked with warpaint, their spears gleaming.

 

A referee raised a flag.

 

“BEGIN!”

 

The rabbits vanished.

 

The crowd gasped as the armored fighter—Red—tightened his grip. One opponent blurred in from the front, spear thrusting like a lightning bolt. The second came from behind at the exact same moment, perfectly synchronized.

 

A classic pincer kill.

 

But Red didn’t even flinch.

 

He raised his sword like a slab of iron and blocked the front spear, the impact shaking dust from his armor. At the same time he twisted, the back strike slicing only air.

 

He caught the blocked spear, ripped it clean from the rabbitfolk’s hands, and hurled the attacker away with a brutal kick and launched the spewed up into the sky 

 

The crowd exploded.

 

The second rabbit skidded back, eyes wide—his spear overextended. Red slashed at his spear slamming it out of his hand into the ground before the rabbit folk jumped back to crest distance.

 

Then Red looked up.

 

The stolen spear he’d thrown into the air was now falling—blinding in the sunlight.

 

He shifted his stance, held the greatsword like a bat…

 

WHACK.

 

The impact cracked like thunder.

 

The spear rocketed across the arena, cutting off the escaping rabbitfolk’s dodge path. Faced with a killshot on the left, the rabbit dodged right—exactly where Red had already stepped.

 

The greatsword plunged straight through his torso.

 

The rabbitfolk collapsed, eyes dimming.

 

Red turned immediately. The first attacker, still crawling from the earlier kick, tried to rise.

 

Too slow.

 

A single downward stroke ended the match.

 

Blood dripped from the blade, sizzling against the sun-baked ground.

 

The announcer trembled.

 

“R-RED… is the winner!”

 

The armored figure removed his helmet, letting sweat-soaked hair fall free.

 

Underneath—

 

Arven.

 

Older. Harder. Eyes colder. Expression tired.

 

A child molded into a weapon.

 

?

 

UNDERGROUND HOLDING ROOM

 

The stone passage smelled of iron and sweat. Arven walked silently, sword over his shoulder, as handlers ushered him back into the fighters’ quarters.

 

Silber was waiting.

 

Her hair was longer now, tied back with a strip of cloth. A faint scar crossed her cheek—a gift from training, not battle. She grinned the moment she saw him.

 

“You did great.”

 

Arven shrugged.

 

“…I don’t know.”

 

Silber stepped closer, trying to boost him up.

 

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’? You destroyed them.”

 

“Sure,” Arven murmured, “if you say so.”

 

Silber rolled her eyes.

 

“Fine. Be grumpy. But don’t get upset when I take the number one spot from you.”

 

Arven didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened.

 

?

 

A QUIET QUESTION

 

As they walked down the dim corridor, Arven suddenly asked:

 

“Do you ever… think about leaving?”

 

Silber froze.

 

“…Of course,” she whispered. “But how? Out there it’s all humans. We’d get caught in a week. Here at least we’re fed… have beds… training. Out there? No home. No tribe. No one.”

 

She wasn’t wrong.

 

Arven sighed, gaze drifting to the floor.

 

“There has to be more to life than this…”

 

A deep voice cut through the hall.

 

“Arven.”

 

The master of the estate approached—a hulking man with a thick black-bear fur coat and heavy boots that echoed with each step.

 

He stared Arven down.

 

“How old are you now, boy?”

 

“Eleven, sir.”

 

The man hummed, stroking his beard.

 

“Only eleven, and already crushing two-on-ones… Hmph. It’s time we move you up.”

 

Arven swallowed.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Under-15 bracket. Youngest there is twelve. You’ll manage.”

 

Arven bowed immediately.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

The master’s approval meant survival. Disappointing him meant pain.

 

Silber knew it too.

 

?

 

THAT NIGHT

 

Arven waited until the torches burned low before shaking Silber awake.

 

He explained everything—the promotion, the separation, the different quarters.

 

Silber’s reaction was instant panic. She hadn’t filled grabbed the scale of things earlier 

 

“No. No, no—we have to run, Arven. Now. Before they split us up, before they turn you into a monster, they can’t do this.

She pleeded 

Arven backed away.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“You can,” she hissed. “We can. Together.”

 

Arven shook his head.

 

“Disobeying him… I can’t do it. He’s—”

 

“He’s not your father!” Silber snapped.

 

Arven froze. The words cut deeper than she realized.

 

Silber softened.

 

“…He’s nothing but a monster”

 

But morning came.

 

And Arven didn’t run.

 

?

 

UNDER-15 TRAINING HALL

 

The new chamber was bigger, colder, filled with more equipment—and more fighters. The air stank of metal and sweat.

 

The handlers shoved him forward.

 

“This is where you’ll stay from now on.”

 

Arven walked to an empty bunk.

 

He set down his belongings—barely anything.

 

Except for one thing that mattered.

 

A small pendant.

 

Rough, imperfect, handmade.

 

Silber had given it to him for his tenth birthday—the only gift he had ever received.

 

He lay back, staring at the ceiling.

 

Heart heavy.

 

Mind racing.

 

He was stronger.

But more alone than ever.

 

CHAPTER 8 — The Black Coat (Revised)

 

The stairwell leading deeper underground was colder than the levels above, the torches replaced by white chi-globes that hummed faintly as Arven descended. His heartbeat thudded unevenly, the air tightening around him with every step. The two guards behind him kept pace without a word. Arven felt like he was walking toward something he couldn’t avoid.

 

At the bottom stood Count Etrion.

 

He did not immediately acknowledge Arven. He adjusted the cuff on his heavy black bear-fur coat with slow, elegant movements. The coat’s collar framed his angular jaw and pale, unreadable face. His presence alone made Arven straighten involuntarily.

 

When Etrion finally turned, his eyes—cold, polished obsidian—fixed on Arven like he was examining merchandise.

 

“So,” he said, voice smooth but edged with steel, “this is the prodigy.”

 

Arven swallowed. “Sir?”

 

“You look confused,” Etrion said. “Do you not know the name they chant for you?”

 

Arven hesitated. “…Red.”

 

“Red,” Etrion repeated, tasting the title. “A crowd adores the sight of a small warrior drenched in blood. They cheer because you kill for them. Because you bleed for them. Because you belong to them.”

 

Arven’s chest tightened. He felt trapped under that gaze.

 

Etrion stepped forward slowly.

 

“How old did you say you were?”

 

“Eleven, sir.”

 

“Eleven.”

A slow smile touched Etrion’s lips.

“Young… yet surpassing boys two and three years older. Your father would be—”

He paused deliberately.

“—quite impressed.”

 

Arven’s stomach dropped. He didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t.

 

“Follow.”

 

?

 

THE UNDER-15 TRAINING HALL

 

The training hall for the older boys stretched out like a cavern. Weapons lined the walls—real steel, sharpened and polished. The fighting floor was not sand but stone, smoothed to a shine by years of sweat and blood. Torches were rare; chi-lit ceiling lamps cast a cold glare over everything.

 

About twelve boys were already training. Older. Taller. Their bodies showed years of conditioning. They paused when Arven stepped in.

 

One boy laughed. “What’s this? A junior wandered in?”

 

Another scoffed. “Barely has meat on his bones.”

 

A third clicked his tongue. “He’s trembling.”

 

Arven held his breath, kept his gaze forward. He would not let them see fear.

 

Etrion raised a hand.

 

Instant silence.

 

“This,” he announced, “is Arven. Starting today, he trains here. You will neither touch him nor challenge him unless I say so. You will treat him with the same respect you owe me.”

 

The boys stiffened.

 

Arven felt dozens of eyes digging into him.

 

“Training begins immediately,” Etrion said. “Show me what you are.”

 

?

 

THE FIRST TEST

 

A guard gestured. “The Count wants you in the ring.”

 

Arven stepped into the stone arena. Across from him stood a boy around thirteen—tall, muscular, with scarred knuckles and sharp eyes. He cracked his neck as he sized Arven up.

 

“So you’re the junior they’re hyping?” he grinned. “Let’s see if you break easy.”

 

Arven raised his hands. The memory of yesterday’s fights throbbed in his bruises, but he steadied his breathing. He needed to prove he belonged here.

 

“Begin,” Etrion said.

 

The older boy lunged instantly, swinging a heavy hook. Arven slipped under by a hair, feeling the rush of air brush his cheek. He countered with a jab to the ribs—solid, but barely phased the older boy.

 

“You’re fast,” the boy said, “but not strong.”

 

He charged again, blows coming like crashing waves. Arven dodged left, right, back—barely staying ahead. His opponent was trained, patient, and relentless.

 

Arven needed an opening.

 

Then Silber’s voice whispered in memory:

 

“Use your legs more. You’re sloppy with kicks.”

 

Arven planted his foot and snapped a calf kick into the boy’s leg. The impact made the boy grunt and stumble.

 

Arven struck again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

The older boy snarled, rushing forward. Arven slid under his arm, hooked his waist, and used every drop of leverage to throw him hard onto the stone.

 

The slam echoed through the hall.

 

The boy did not rise.

 

Etrion clapped once. Only once.

 

“Good,” he said. “Very good.”

 

Arven didn’t feel victorious. Only… hollow. Winning didn’t fill anything.

 

Etrion watched him with interest that was almost worse than anger.

 

?

 

ETRION’S LESSON

 

After training, Etrion approached him quietly.

 

“You hesitate,” he said. “Not in your strikes—your heart hesitates.”

 

Arven froze.

 

“You fear failure… yet you win. You fear pain… yet you stand. You fear me… but you obey.”

He placed a heavy, gloved hand on Arven’s shoulder.

“And strength born from fear creates the most disciplined monsters.”

 

Arven’s breath caught.

 

Etrion smiled faintly.

 

“Trust me, Arven. Do that, and you will rise.”

 

Arven said nothing. His throat felt closed.

 

?

 

LONELINESS

 

That night, Arven lay on his bunk staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the upper floors drifted faintly—chains, laughter, footsteps.

 

He wondered if Silber had woken and looked for him.

Wondered if she was angry.

Or scared.

Or hurt.

 

He imagined her sitting alone, arms crossed, pretending she didn’t care.

He imagined her waiting for him to sneak in with some stupid comment.

He imagined her disappointment.

 

A sharp ache squeezed his chest.

 

He whispered into the darkness:

 

“…Silber…”

 

No answer came.

 

Just the cold stone, the echo of distant training, and the quiet knowledge that Count Etrion—somewhere above or below—was pleased with him.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 9 — SHADOWS ON THE WALL

 

PART 1 — Night Visit (Corrected)

 

Arven lay awake on his bunk, staring into the darkness of the underground dorm. Down here, everything felt heavier — the air, the silence, even his own thoughts. There were no windows, no sunlight, no sounds except the distant hum of pipes and the slow drip-drip of water echoing through stone.

 

He hadn’t slept at all.

 

Not after what happened earlier.

 

Not after leaving Silber behind.

 

A sharp metallic tap echoed from the back corner of the room.

 

Arven sat up immediately.

 

Tap-tap.

Clink.

 

The vent plate shuddered. A small claw wedged under the edge, loosening the screws with a practiced rattle.

 

Then the cover slipped free and dropped softly to the floor.

 

A pair of glowing yellow eyes stared at him from the darkness.

 

Silber crawled out of the narrow vent shaft, landing silently on her feet. Her tail flicked sharply, her fur bristling with irritation.

 

“You’re even dumber than I thought,” she muttered.

 

Arven blinked. “…Hi?”

 

She marched straight up to him and flicked him on the forehead.

 

“You could’ve run,” she hissed. “You could’ve actually done it. I told you we had to go, now or never. I begged you, Arven.”

 

“I know,” he whispered.

 

“Then why?”

Her voice cracked — not with weakness, but with anger she’d been holding tightly inside.

 

Arven swallowed.

“I couldn’t. The master—”

 

“Don’t say that word to me,” she snapped instantly.

 

She turned away, pacing in the tight space, her claws scraping lightly against the stone floor. She looked furious, but beneath that… hurt. Betrayed. Like she expected him to stand with her, and he didn’t.

 

“You told me last night you were being moved,” she said. “You explained everything.”

Her ears flattened. “And I told you we run. Together.”

 

“I was scared,” Arven admitted quietly.

 

Silber laughed — bitter, sharp, without humor.

 

“Of course you were scared. I was scared too,” she said. “But we could’ve made it. We would’ve tried.”

 

Arven had no argument.

He only had shame.

 

Silber finally stopped pacing and stood in front of him, staring him dead in the eyes.

 

“You’re the strongest here,” she said. “But you’re still chained.”

 

Arven tensed.

 

“You fight like a monster, but you think like a scared little kid.”

Her voice softened just slightly. “I thought you’d choose freedom.”

 

A long silence settled between them.

 

Then she sat beside him on the bunk, arms crossed, staring at the floor.

 

“Don’t think I came to yell at you,” she said quietly. “I came to make sure you’re alive. And…”

She hesitated.

“…and to tell you that I’m not giving up on escaping. Not ever.”

 

Arven looked at her.

 

Silber didn’t look back.

 

“I’m not leaving you behind,” she said. “Even if you’re too scared right now.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “So don’t you dare die on me before I’m ready.”

 

Distant footsteps echoed through the corridor — guard patrol.

 

Silber’s ears twitched sharply.

 

“No time,” she whispered. “They’re early tonight.”

 

She slipped back into the vent with quick, efficient movements. Right before pulling the cover back into place, she looked at him one last time.

 

“Next time I say run,” she said softly, “you better run.”

 

Then she was gone.

 

Arven lay back down, wide awake, the emptiness pressing on him from every direction.

She was right about one thing.

 

He was afraid.

 

And now, he had to live with it.

 

Audience with the Master

 

Arven was summoned without warning.

 

Two armored guards appeared at the entrance of the Under-15 dormitory, the iron door slamming open and echoing down the long hallway like a hammer strike.

 

“You. Red.”

The first guard pointed at him.

“Count Etrion wants an evaluation.”

 

The other boys shrank away, whispering among themselves. An evaluation by the master wasn’t a normal check-in — it was rare. Dangerous. Sometimes lethal.

 

Arven rose from his bunk, silent, calm on the outside but knotted with unease inside. Silber’s words from last night clung to him like a second skin.

 

You’re still chained.

When I say run, you run.

 

He had never felt those words more sharply than now.

 

The guards marched him through a long torch-lit corridor, deeper underground than Arven had ever been. The air turned colder, the stone walls older—covered in cracks, mineral streaks, and old iron hooks embedded into the rock.

 

At the end was a large steel door.

 

One guard knocked three times.

The door opened by itself.

 

A draft of cold air swept out, carrying the faint smell of incense and old blood.

 

Inside the chamber, Count Etrion sat on a raised stone dais, legs crossed, a heavy black fur cloak draped over his shoulders. He looked more like a beast than the beastmen he enslaved—towering, broad-shouldered, eyes pale and icy.

 

He didn’t smile.

He never did.

 

“Approach,” Etrion said.

 

Arven stepped forward.

 

“Remove your shirt.”

 

Arven obeyed, letting the cloth fall to the ground. His back was still bandaged—Silber’s tight wrappings visible beneath the scars and bruises layered over years.

 

One of Etrion’s eyebrows twitched.

 

“You fought savagely yesterday,” he said, voice low and controlled. “And today, you hardly look affected.”

 

Arven said nothing. Not out of defiance—out of survival.

 

Etrion stood.

He descended from the dais with slow, heavy steps that felt like the footsteps of something much larger.

 

He circled Arven once.

Twice.

 

Each step deliberate, predatory.

 

“You are almost twelve,” Etrion said. “You fight with the precision of a trained adult. And you have grown… colder.”

 

 

Etrion placed a hand on Arven’s shoulder.

 

It was heavy.

Not physically—Emotionally.

 

The weight of a predator examining his property.

 

“No fear,” Etrion murmured. “Good. A gladiator swallowed by fear becomes useless. But a gladiator without emotion…” His fingers tightened. “…becomes profitable.”

 

He moved around to face Arven directly.

Their eyes met.

 

“You are wondering why you stand here,” Etrion said. “It is simple. I wanted to see with my own eyes if the rumors were true.”

 

He raised Arven’s chin with a single finger.

 

“You kill without hesitation. You adapt in an instant. And you do not flinch from blood. Even your own.”

 

Arven swallowed hard.

 

Etrion smiled faintly — a chilling, calculated smile.

 

“You remind me of myself at your age.”

 

Arven’s heart iced over.

He did not want to be like this man. Not in any way.

 

But Etrion continued.

 

“I am moving you to the Under-15 league not because you are strong…but because I am curious. Curious to see how far your body will go.”

A pause.

“…before it breaks.”

 

He turned away and snapped his fingers.

 

A guard dragged a wooden crate into the chamber and opened it. Inside were several weapons: a heavy shortsword, a wooden training staff, iron gauntlets, and a dull practice knife.

 

“Choose,” Etrion commanded.

 

Arven hesitated only for a breath—then reached for the heavy shortsword.

The closest thing to the oversized blade he had fought with as a child.

 

Etrion nodded.

 

“Good. You choose weight. Weight demands strength and discipline. It suits you.”

 

He walked to the far side of the room and picked up a long wooden rod, tapping it lightly on the ground.

 

“This is not a match. This is not a ranking.”

He looked back at Arven.

“This is a test of instinct. Defend yourself.”

 

Arven barely had time to lift the sword when Etrion struck.

 

The blow was so fast Arven didn’t see the rod move—only felt it slam against his blade, sending a shock through his arms and rattling his bones.

 

Another strike.

And another.

 

Etrion pressed forward with effortless ferocity, as if he were sparring with a child—not a trained fighter.

 

Arven blocked what he could.

Dodged what he couldn’t.

 

But each blow was heavier.

Sharper.

More precise.

 

Etrion was reading him like a book.

 

After a dozen exchanges, the master planted the rod against Arven’s throat, pinning him against the cold stone wall.

 

“You’re hiding something,” Etrion said softly. “A spark. A hunger.”

 

Arven’s heart pounded. His breath came sharp.

 

Etrion leaned closer.

 

“That hunger will either make you my greatest champion…”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“…or force me to put you down.”

 

He released Arven abruptly.

 

Arven stumbled forward, catching himself.

 

Etrion returned the rod to its stand and waved the guards over.

 

“Take him back. He will rest the remainder of the day.”

 

As they began to escort Arven toward the door, Etrion spoke once more — calm, cold, absolute.

 

“Arven.”

 

Arven stopped but did not turn.

 

“There is a tournament in three months. Your first in the Under-15 league.”

A slow smile crept across Etrion’s face.

“I expect domination.”

 

Arven’s jaw tightened.

“…Yes, sir.”

 

“And one more thing.”

 

Arven looked over his shoulder.

 

Etrion’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Do not disappoint me.”

 

The door slammed shut behind Arven as he was led out — and for the first time since arriving at the estate, Arven felt something unfamiliar inside him:

 

Not fear.

Not obedience.

 

Resolve.

 

The chains around him weren’t broken.

Not yet.

 

But a crack had finally formed.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 10 — THREE MONTHS OF BLOOD AND IRON

 

The days blurred together into one long rhythm of muscle, steel, and exhaustion.

 

Month One — The Thousand Swings

 

Arven woke before everyone, trained after everyone, and slept less than anyone.

 

The Under-15 training hall was larger, colder, and far less forgiving than the junior rooms above. Older beastfolk boy fighters roamed the space like hungry wolves, testing every newcomer with stares, stances, and thinly veiled threats.

 

Arven met every stare without blinking.

 

His weapon choice—a heavy short-greatsword nearly as tall as he was—drew immediate mockery.

 

“You’ll break your back with that thing,” someone snorted.

 

But Arven wasn’t listening.

He wasn’t here to talk.

 

He slammed the sword down, lifted it again, and began swinging.

 

One.

Two.

Three.

 

By the end of the first day, he could swing it one hundred times before collapsing.

By the end of the first week, two hundred.

 

By the end of the month…

 

“…Nine hundred and ninety-seven… nine hundred and ninety-eight…”

 

The others stopped training just to watch.

 

Arven’s shoulders trembled. Sweat poured off his arms. His breath came in ragged growls.

 

“…nine hundred and ninety-nine…”

 

The sword wavered.

 

He gritted his teeth and forced it through the air—

 

“A THOUSAND.”

 

He dropped to his knees.

 

No one mocked him again.

 

He had proven he belonged among them.

More than that—he had proven he was rising.

 

Month Two — Rising Above the Pack

 

By the second month, Arven had outpaced everyone his age.

And Etrion noticed.

 

Guards lined up to spar him by the master’s orders.

 

“He’s ready for real opponents,” Etrion had said, watching from the shadows. “Test his limits.”

 

Arven bruised his knuckles on guards’ armor.

He split open lips, blocked strikes with his forearms until the bone throbbed, endured chokeholds, tackled opponents twice his size, and learned to read feints with frightening accuracy.

 

The other Under-15s watched with a mixture of awe and bitterness.

 

Arven didn’t smile.

He didn’t boast.

He didn’t speak unless absolutely necessary.

 

He grew leaner.

Harder.

Sharper.

 

His eyes were colder now—focused on a single future only he and Silber had spoken of.

 

Escape.

 

Every meal tasted like metal.

Every night felt too long.

Every dream smelled of burning homes and cages.

 

But he endured.

 

He would endure anything.

 

Month Three — The Shadow of the Tournament

 

Three months changed him more than the previous four years combined.

 

His muscles were cut like stone.

His stance was grounded like a veteran’s.

His eyes held the same frozen focus as a seasoned gladiator.

 

Even the guards stepped aside when he walked by.

 

But beneath the hardened exterior, something else had grown—resolve.

 

Silber’s twelfth birthday was approaching, which meant one thing:

 

She would join the Under-15 league.

Just in time for the tournament.

 

Just in time for the plan.

 

The idea had come to him during a lonely night between training sessions:

 

They would escape during the chaos of the tournament—when guards were spread thin and the arena was filled with noise, crowds, and confusion.

 

He had no map.

No guarantee.

No promise.

 

But he had a direction: away from here.

 

And he had someone to protect.

 

?

 

Three Nights Before the Tournament

 

The Under-15 hall hummed with quiet activity—sparring, complaints, the clanging of metal.

 

The door opened.

 

Silber walked in.

 

Her ears twitched nervously as she scanned the hall, unsure where to go, where to stand, or who to trust. Her white fur reflected the torchlight like snow in moonlight.

 

She had grown too—taller, her form lean and disciplined. But her eyes still held fire.

 

She saw Arven.

 

And froze.

 

He stood on the far side of the hall, swinging his sword in slow, precise arcs, chest rising and falling steadily. He was broader. Sharper. His mane slightly longer, brushed back, streaked with a faint red glow under the torches.

 

He didn’t look like the boy she had known.

He looked like someone carved for war.

 

Silber hesitated.

For the first time since arriving here, she was afraid to approach someone.

 

How much did he go through to become this?

How many nights did he train alone?

 

Before she could decide whether to step forward or not—

 

Arven was already walking toward her.

 

No hesitation.

No awkwardness.

 

Just purpose.

 

He stopped only a few feet away.

 

Silber swallowed. “You… you’ve changed.”

 

Arven shook his head.

 

“No. I just stopped holding back.”

 

She didn’t know what to say.

But before she could speak, Arven leaned in slightly, voice low and steady.

 

“I’m ready.”

 

Silber blinked. “Ready for what?”

 

His eyes hardened with iron focus.

 

“To break us out of here.”

 

Her breath caught.

 

“Arven…”

 

“In three days,” he continued. “During the tournament. In the chaos. When everyone is watching the fights…”

He pointed to the large stone door leading deeper underground.

“…that’s when we run.”

 

Silber stared into his eyes. There was no doubt in them.

Only determination forged over months of pain and training.

 

Slowly, she nodded.

 

“Then… I’ll be ready too.”

 

Arven extended a hand—not for a handshake, but to seal a promise.

 

She placed her hand in his.

 

Their claws touched.

 

Their escape began.

CHAPTER 10

The night before the tournament, Arven and Silber finally had a moment alone. They stood in the dim glow of the underground training lamps, the corridors quiet for once. The weight of what tomorrow meant pressed the air flat between them.

 

Silber’s ears flicked anxiously. She had been staring at him in silence for almost a full minute—taking in how much bigger, leaner, and harder he’d gotten in these last three months. His muscles had definition they never had before, his posture was sharper, his expression colder.

 

He didn’t look like the Arven she used to argue with or tease.

He looked like someone forged in a furnace.

 

She swallowed before speaking.

“Arven… you’ve changed.”

 

Arven didn’t look away from the training weapons lined up on the rack.

 

“I had to.”

 

Silber stepped closer, but cautiously, almost afraid of disrupting whatever intensity he was holding inside.

 

“…So. You said you wanted to talk about the plan.”

 

Arven turned to her, eyes steady and unwavering.

 

“Yeah. It’s time.”

 

Her breath caught. For months, the idea of escape was only a fragile dream.

Now he was saying it with certainty—like it was already real.

 

Arven continued, voice low so it wouldn’t echo.

 

“Tomorrow, when they call me to the arena for my match… they’ll expect me to walk out alone. I’m the most obedient fighter they have. They won’t send guards. They won’t watch me closely. They trust me not to run.”

 

Silber nodded slowly, understanding but tense.

 

“And that’s when we move?”

 

“Yes.” Arven stepped closer, lowering his voice even more.

“When my match is called, you come here. To the training rooms. And wait for me. Don’t follow the crowds. Don’t let anyone see you.”

 

Silber’s tail flicked anxiously.

“And after that?”

 

Arven pointed toward the far end of the training hall—the locked reinforced door leading deeper underground.

 

“We go down below. To the private battleground. The one the master uses. It’s not part of the arena floor—it’s connected to the estate. He wouldn’t walk through the entire arena every time he wanted to use it. There has to be another passage. A direct exit.”

 

Silber’s ears perked slightly in realization.

“So we find that entrance… slip into his estate… and jump the outer fence?”

 

Arven nodded.

“And run. As far as we can before they realize what happened.”

 

Silber hesitated, staring at him with a mix of hope and fear.

 

“…Are you sure you’re ready for this, Arven? Really ready? If we fail—”

 

“We won’t.” His voice was firm.

Almost frighteningly firm.

 

Silber stared at him, heart beating fast.

This wasn’t the boy she argued with years ago.

This was someone who had been sharpening himself for this exact moment.

 

Arven took a slow breath.

 

“Tomorrow night… everything changes.”

 

Silber finally smiled—small, nervous, but real.

 

“Then… tomorrow night,” she repeated.

“We do this together.”

 

Arven nodded once.

“Together.”

 

CHAPTER 11 — THE NIGHT OF ESCAPE

 

Morning came with a violent jolt.

 

A handler kicked the side of Arven’s bunk, the metal frame ringing like a bell.

“Up. Tournament day. Move.”

 

All around him, the under-fifteens scrambled to their feet, some excited, most terrified.

In the hallway, Trout waited for them with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a scowl sharp enough to cut stone.

 

“Listen carefully,” Trout barked. “Today is an important day for Master Etrion. You will fight clean. You will fight well. You will not embarrass this estate. Am I clear?”

 

“Yes, sir!” the children shouted.

 

Trout’s eyes swept across them, cold and judging.

Arven felt Silber’s gaze brush against him.

A tiny flicker, nothing more.

A shared breath.

 

We are ready.

 

As noon approached, the rumbling sound of footsteps echoed through the underground corridors. Humans—dozens, then hundreds—poured in from the arena entrances above, their voices merging into a restless storm.

 

The air grew tight with unease.

 

Arven was Match Four.

That meant he stayed below, “warming up,” stretching and swinging his greatsword in slow, methodical arcs.

Each swing a countdown.

Each breath a reminder.

 

When my name is called… everything begins.

 

Above, the announcer’s muffled shouts rolled through the stone.

 

“Match Three… WINNER…!”

 

Arven’s heart thudded once—hard.

 

Then:

 

“ARVENNNN—THE REDDDD!”

 

The crowd roared like a beast released from chains.

 

And the plan snapped into motion.

 

?

 

Silber Moves

 

Silber was already running.

 

She slipped away from the handlers the moment the announcer dragged Arven’s name across the air. Her bare feet slapped against the stone floor as she sprinted toward the rendezvous corridor—the one leading to the thick stone door.

 

Then—

She crashed into another young beastman turning the corner.

 

“Ah—! S-sorry—!” she gasped.

 

The boy blinked, confused, but she was already gone, pushing past him, her heart hammering.

 

She reached the stone door.

Waited.

Listened.

 

The hallway emptied.

 

Silber slipped through—

Only for a dark hand to shoot out of the darkness behind the door and clamp onto her collar.

 

She screamed—

 

“Shh!”

A familiar whisper.

 

“Don’t worry. It’s me.”

 

Arven.

 

He pulled her fully inside and shut the heavy door. His breathing was rough, sweat slicked across his face.

He’d made it first.

 

“Come on,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

 

?

 

The Private Chamber

 

They raced down the descending tunnel, deeper and deeper, until the path widened into the forbidden chamber—the one Arven had only visited once.

 

Silber froze the moment she entered.

 

The raised stone chair.

The stains—dark, crusted, too old to name.

The chains bolted into the floor.

 

“Arven…” she whispered, trembling. “What happened here?”

 

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

 

They moved quickly, searching every wall, every crack, every seam for something—anything—that could get them out.

 

Then Arven found it.

 

Behind the master’s throne, half-hidden by shadow, a narrow stone door.

 

A passage.

 

They pushed through and found a spiraling staircase leading upward.

 

Each step felt like hope.

Heavy, breathless hope.

 

?

 

The Locked Hatch

 

The air grew warmer the higher they climbed.

Less stale.

Less underground.

 

“This has to be it,” Silber whispered.

“A way into the estate. Into the back rooms. Into—”

 

“Freedom,” Arven said.

 

They reached the top.

 

A circular hatch sat above them, its edges lined in wood—like the underside of a floor.

 

Arven braced his arms.

Pushed.

 

The hatch didn’t budge.

 

He grit his teeth and shoved harder.

 

Nothing.

 

Silber pressed her ear to it.

 

“It sounds like… furniture? Something heavy sitting on it.”

 

Arven strained, muscles trembling, face red.

 

The hatch didn’t move an inch.

 

They were so close the air above felt colder—like real air, not the recycled heat of the underground chambers.

 

But the way was sealed.

 

Arven slammed his fists against it, a choked noise escaping him—not a cry, not quite rage.

Something in between.

 

Silber grabbed his arm.

 

“What do we do?” she whispered.

 

Arven pressed his forehead against the wood.

 

“We… we don’t go back,” he said.

His voice shaking.

His breath uneven.

 

“But we can’t go forward.”

 

Silber’s eyes filled with fear.

 

They were trapped between walls, between worlds—

 

So close.

Yet so far.

 

CHAPTER 12 — NO TURNING BACK

 

The stairs felt colder now.

 

The hatch above them sat broken-looking and distant, as if freedom mocked them from just one step beyond reach. Arven stared at it, trembling, the failure hitting him all at once like a falling mountain.

 

His breathing turned sharp.

 

Then sharper.

 

Then rapid, uncontrollable gasps tore out of his chest.

 

He stumbled back from the hatch, hands shaking violently.

 

“Arven—Arven!” Silber grabbed his shoulders, trying to steady him. “It’s okay—just breathe, breathe—”

 

But he couldn’t.

He had never felt anything like this. His chest clamped shut, his vision blurred at the edges, his ears rang. He felt like he was drowning in air that wasn’t there.

 

His heart sprinted.

His lungs seized.

His mind screamed.

 

I failed. I failed. I failed.

I couldn’t help us.

We were right there.

Silber… I’m going to lose her.

 

His knees buckled, and he collapsed against the wall, clawing at his own shirt for air. He thought he might pass out—maybe even die—and some small, terrified part of him almost welcomed it.

 

“Arven!” Silber shook him harder, tears streaking her face. “Please—please don’t—look at me!”

 

But he couldn’t hear her anymore.

 

Everything condensed into a single, crushing moment of fear, guilt, and desperation.

 

Then—

 

Something changed.

 

Arven sucked in one breath.

 

A deep, heavy, shuddering breath that felt like it carried the weight of his entire soul.

 

The fear, the failure, the longing, the fury—

 

All of it surged into that single inhale.

 

It burned.

 

It ignited.

 

And when he exhaled, the air around him vibrated as if reality flinched.

 

Arven stood. His shaking stopped. His eyes sharpened.

 

He swung his fist up toward the hatch—not thinking, not planning, just unleashing everything inside him.

 

BOOM.

 

A brilliant golden burst erupted from his knuckles, a shockwave cracking the walls and blasting upward like lightning. The hatch didn’t just break—

 

It exploded.

 

Wood shattered. Metal bent. Dust rained down like ash.

 

Silber shielded her face, staring at Arven in open shock.

 

But the moment of triumph lasted only a heartbeat.

 

Above them, shouts erupted.

 

Boots thundered.

 

The blast had echoed through the entire estate like a cannon. Guards poured in from every direction.

 

Arven and Silber sprinted up through the broken hatch into a storage room, then into the courtyard, the cold night air hitting them like a slap.

 

They ran for the outer fence—

 

But they didn’t even make it halfway.

 

A guard seized Silber by the arm, yanking her back.

 

“LET GO OF HER!” Arven roared.

 

Another guard lunged for him—Arven drove a fist into his jaw, sending the man flipping backward like a rag doll.

 

He didn’t think.

He didn’t hesitate.

 

He reached for that burning pressure in his chest and shoved it into his fists.

 

“My will…” he whispered. “This is my will!”

 

He charged.

 

1—

2—

3—

4—

5—

 

Five guards dropped in seconds, thrown aside with blows heavier and sharper than anything he had ever delivered. Silber ripped a sword from the guard holding her and defended against the others, steel flashing desperately in her hands.

 

For one moment—

One glorious moment—

It looked like they might actually win.

 

Then—

 

A calm voice froze the entire courtyard.

 

“Arven.”

 

Master Etrion.

 

He stood at the steps of the estate, wearing a simple black coat of bear fur, his silver eyes glowing in the moonlight.

For the first time, he raised his voice.

 

And the cruelty behind it finally surfaced.

 

“What,” Etrion asked softly, “are you doing, young boy?”

 

The entire courtyard went still.

 

“We still have much to teach you,” he continued, stepping forward. “Like strength. Real strength. Or that little spark you’re wielding… that chi you don’t understand.”

 

Arven snarled, raising his fists. “Stay away from her.”

 

Etrion smiled—

A calm, cold, bone-deep smile.

 

“Let me show you how fragile you truly are.”

 

In a blink—

He vanished.

 

Then—

 

CRACK.

 

Arven flew across the courtyard, spun mid-air, and slammed into the wall so hard the stones cracked.

 

“Pitiful,” Etrion murmured.

 

Arven tried to stand—

A boot slammed into his ribs.

 

He gasped.

 

Then Etrion beat him.

Quietly.

Methodically.

For over an hour.

 

Each blow delivered with the same eerie, composed voice:

 

“Get up.”

“You can do better.”

“Use that chi again.”

“Are you listening, boy?”

“Don’t disappoint me.”

 

By the time he finished, Arven’s blood painted the ground. His face was unrecognizable. His breaths were wet and shallow.

 

Etrion dusted off his coat.

 

“Take them back underground.”

 

And he walked inside.

 

Arven lay on the cold stone, barely conscious.

 

But his thoughts were clear.

 

Crystal clear.

 

He would kill Count Etrion.

If it was the last thing he ever did.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13 — The Weight of Failure

 

Silber had never known silence could be this loud.

 

They dragged her back underground long before they finished with Arven. She heard the echoes through the stone walls — the wet cracks, the dull thuds, Etrion’s calm voice murmuring “again… again… again” like he was teaching a child how to walk. Every sound hit her chest like a spearhead.

 

And she did nothing.

 

She could do nothing.

 

They kept her pinned in the corridor by her wrists, two guards holding her like she was a wild animal. She thrashed at first, screaming Arven’s name until her voice snapped into a rasp. But after five minutes, her body gave out. After ten, she went numb. After twenty… she simply listened.

 

That was worse than the fear. Worse than the helplessness.

 

The listening.

 

When the beating finally stopped, the guards dragged her away from the door like she might try to run back inside. She didn’t. Her legs were shaking so violently she could barely stay upright.

 

The moment they threw her back into the under-15 barracks, Silber collapsed to her knees. She bit her lip until it bled, trying not to scream. The room was empty — everyone was still at the tournament or celebrating in the mess halls above.

 

Only her.

Only silence.

Only failure.

 

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 

He trusted me. He trusted me… and I left him. I left him.

 

She punched the floor. Once. Twice. Again. Again.

Her knuckles split open, but the pain barely registered.

 

This was supposed to be freedom. This was supposed to be their moment.

Four years they had waited — four years they had trained, endured, survived.

She was supposed to run with him.

They were supposed to escape together.

 

Instead she had watched… watched as the master beat Arven into the stone like he was nothing, like he was less than nothing. She had seen Arven’s body twist under every strike, had seen his blood spit across the courtyard. And she had only stood there, held down, useless.

 

Silber curled against the cold stone wall, arms wrapped around herself, eyes burning.

 

She hated this place.

She hated these walls.

She hated the humans.

She hated the guards.

She hated Etrion most of all.

 

But above everything, she hated herself.

 

A small sound escaped her — half gasp, half whimper — and she slammed her hand over her mouth, breathing fast through her nose. She didn’t cry. She refused to cry. Crying was what children did. She was stronger than that.

 

But the tears came anyway.

 

She buried her forehead into her knees, shoulders shaking, breath coming in quick, broken jerks. The images replayed over and over:

 

— Arven being pulled away from her

— Arven hitting the ground

— Arven getting back up

— Etrion appearing out of nowhere

— That calm voice: “Pitiful.”

— The sound Arven made when the kick landed

— The way his body finally stopped moving

 

Silber squeezed her eyes shut so hard it hurt.

 

If she had been faster.

If she had found the door sooner.

If she had fought harder.

If she had stayed with him longer.

If… if… if…

 

She dug her claws into her arms until the skin welled red.

 

She didn’t deserve freedom.

Not if she couldn’t even protect the one person she cared about.

 

Time passed — minutes, maybe hours — before Silber’s breathing finally slowed. But the ache didn’t ease. It sat heavy in her chest, thick and sharp, like something had lodged itself behind her ribs.

 

A faint sound echoed down the corridor — footsteps, heavy and uneven.

 

Silber’s heart clenched.

 

No. No, he shouldn’t be walking. After what they did? How was he—?

 

But the footsteps didn’t belong to Arven.

 

A guard threw open the gate, dragging a limp shape inside.

 

Silber froze.

 

It was Arven.

 

His face was unrecognizable — cracked, bruised, swollen, dark with dried blood. His shirt was torn, his breathing thin and ragged. He looked like he had been broken apart and stitched back together with cruelty alone.

 

The guard kicked him once to roll him toward his cot.

 

“Still alive,” the guard muttered. “Master says he’ll fight again soon.”

 

Silber’s nails dug into the stone. Fight? Fight?

He could barely breathe.

 

When the guard left and the gate slammed shut, Silber crawled to Arven on trembling limbs. She reached out, stopped halfway, afraid to touch him because any pressure might break him further.

 

“Arven…”

Her voice cracked.

“…I’m so sorry.”

 

He didn’t respond. He didn’t even stir. But his chest moved — barely — shallow little breaths scraping in and out. He was alive.

 

Alive because he was too stubborn to die.

 

Silber knelt beside him and finally let her forehead rest gently against his shoulder.

 

“I won’t fail you again,” she whispered.

“I swear it. I’ll get stronger. Stronger than them. Stronger than anyone.”

Her voice hardened, low and trembling with a new hatred.

“I’ll kill him, Arven. I’ll kill Etrion myself if you can’t.”

 

The tears finally stopped.

Her eyes were dry now.

Hard.

Focused.

 

That night, Silber didn’t sleep.

She sat beside Arven’s bed, watching every breath, every twitch, every pained sound.

Watching.

Protecting.

Changing.

 

Because something had shattered inside her.

And something new was forming from the pieces

 

CHAPTER 14 — Scars That Don’t Heal

 

(Corrected: puberty, not puppetry)

 

Silber didn’t sleep much in the months after Arven’s beating.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again — the courtyard, the blood, the sound his body made when it hit the ground.

 

But she didn’t hide from it.

She used it.

 

?

 

Her Fear

 

She discovered something new about herself during training.

She flinched.

 

Not always. Not obviously.

 

But whenever a fist came too fast…

Whenever a guard stepped behind her…

Whenever someone raised their voice…

 

Her body would seize up for half a breath —

just long enough to die.

 

She refused to let that happen again.

 

So she developed a habit.

 

Whenever she felt fear creeping in, she held her breath.

Her lungs tightened, her body froze for one heartbeat —

then she exhaled sharply and rushed forward.

 

It worked.

But it was a dangerous rhythm.

 

Hold breath ? attack ? disengage ? deep breath ? repeat.

 

No instructor noticed.

But Arven would. One day.

 

?

 

Her Growth — Puberty Hits Like a Storm

 

Silber entered puberty early, and violently.

 

Her body shot upward month after month —

muscles tightening, bones stretching, coordination wobbling before snapping into place.

 

Her instructors called it “the beastman surge.”

She just called it pain.

 

But she used that too.

 

Her legs strengthened, her claws sharpened, and her speed doubled.

By the end of the second month she was taller than every trainee her age.

By month four she had surged to nearly 5’8.

 

She looked older.

Moved faster.

Hit harder.

 

But inside, she felt smaller than ever.

 

Her guilt twisted tighter with every inch she grew.

 

Every improvement felt like proof:

She hadn’t been enough to save Arven.

 

So she pushed harder.

Ran harder.

Hit harder.

 

Never again.

Never leave someone behind again.

Never watch helplessly again.

 

That promise became her spine.

 

?

 

Arven Returns

 

It took nearly four months before Arven could stand outside without swaying.

His ribs were still wrapped. His steps were uneven.

But he was alive.

 

Silber was in the training yard when she saw him —

and for the first time in both their lives, he had to look up to meet her eyes.

 

Arven approached quietly.

 

“You’ve grown stronger,” he said. His voice shook, not from fear — but from everything that was still broken inside him. “Just like you said you would.”

 

Silber didn’t smile.

 

“I did.”

 

Silence. Not awkward — just heavy.

 

Arven finally nodded, the fire in his eyes returning.

 

“This isn’t over, Silber.”

 

“No,” she said softly. “It isn’t.”

 

Their shared purpose didn’t need words.

It sat between them like a living thing.

 

Arven was nearly 5’6 now, almost twelve.

He healed slower than she grew.

But the resolve in him had changed forever.

 

?

 

CUT TO: THE MASTER’S QUARTERS

 

A fire crackled inside the large stone fireplace, casting long shadows across the study. Count Etrion stood with his hands behind his back, gaze fixed on the flames.

 

“Three, maybe four more years,” he murmured.

 

A guard nearby shifted.

“Ready for what, sir?”

 

Etrion smiled — a cold, cutting smile.

 

“To be my perfect champion.”

 

The guard hesitated.

“And… the tiger girl?”

 

“Oh, she is the key.”

His voice lowered to a cruel purr.

“It’s simple. All I need is to ensure he falls in love with her.”

 

The guard blinked.

“But why her?”

 

“Because she will always be weaker,” Etrion said, savoring the words.

“And that boy has too much heart. If he loves her, he will chain himself here. Willingly.”

 

The guard swallowed.

“And if he doesn’t?”

 

Etrion chuckled, deep and delighted.

 

“Then next time he grows too comfortable…”

He lifted an imaginary scarf around his neck.

“I’ll cut off her tail and wear it as a trophy.”

 

A booming laugh filled the room — monstrous, triumphant.

 

The guard said nothing more.

 

Etrion simply stared into the fire, eyes gleaming.

 

“Love,” he whispered, “is the strongest leash of all.”

CHAPTER 15 — THE FIRST SPARK

 

The next few months moved in a strange rhythm—quiet, heavy, almost dreamlike.

Arven spent them training with a determination no one in the under-15s had ever seen before. His body healed; his bruises faded; his bones stopped aching; yet something in him remained raw, sharpened, burning.

 

Silber watched from afar in uneasy silence as he rebuilt himself.

 

Month One — Steel, Skin, and Silence

 

Arven swung his sword until the muscles in his shoulders trembled and his arms refused to rise.

Day after day, he fought against the weight of the blade—one swing, then ten, then one hundred… and by the end of the month, he reached one thousand without stopping.

 

The guards who once dismissed him now nodded in respect as he passed.

 

He had no words for them.

He barely had words for anyone.

 

Everything in him aimed at one goal: never be helpless again.

 

Month Two — The Rise of the Red

 

By the second month, Arven dominated his training group.

The other boys, even those older and heavier, struggled to match his pace.

The guards—by the Master’s order—were told to spar him in rotation.

 

He learned their patterns.

Their footwork.

Their tells.

 

He learned what fear looked like in a fighter’s eyes—and how quickly it appeared when someone fought with purpose.

 

Little by little, he earned his old name back.

 

“Red.”

 

But this time, it wasn’t a nickname.

It was a warning.

 

Month Three — The Quiet Return

 

Silber grew taller, faster, sharper.

Arven grew harder.

 

She avoided him at first—still haunted, still carrying guilt like a stone in her chest—but she watched his transformation with a strange mix of pride and dread.

 

Arven’s twelfth birthday approached quietly.

No celebration.

No gifts.

No cake.

 

Only a summons.

 

?

 

THE SUMMONS

 

The Master called for him again on the evening of his birthday.

 

Two guards escorted Arven through the familiar halls—cold stone, flickering torches, the deep smell of damp earth.

They descended into the private underground chamber.

 

The same one he had tried to escape from.

 

The same broken memories, the same fear.

 

The Master stood waiting, hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable beneath the fur-lined mantle.

 

He didn’t even bother hiding the very exit Arven once tried to break through.

The shattered hatch sat repaired but visible on the ceiling above.

 

A deliberate insult.

 

“You’re not afraid to bring me back here,” Arven said quietly.

 

Count Etrion let out a small breath—something close to amusement.

 

“Fear?” he said. “My boy, I brought you here because this is where you broke… and where you will be rebuilt.”

 

He gestured for Arven to step closer.

 

“Tonight begins your true education.”

 

?

 

THE FOUR WEEKS OF CHI

 

Count Etrion circled Arven like a wolf assessing a cub.

 

“You are like me,” he said. “An Enhancer.

Strength. Endurance. Internal manipulation.

No projection, no illusions—just raw, disciplined force.”

 

Arven swallowed, unsure how to feel about sharing anything with him.

 

Week 1 — Feeling Chi

 

Etrion made him sit cross-legged on the cold stone floor.

 

“Chi exists in all things—living and dead,” he explained.

“Your task is to feel it. Not see it, not imagine it.

Feel the pressure it makes in your blood, your bones, your breath.”

 

Arven struggled for days.

He felt nothing…

Then everything at once.

 

Heat pooling in his palms.

Pressure around his ribs.

A quiet thrumming behind every heartbeat.

 

“That is chi,” the Master said.

“Your life saying, I am here.”

 

Week 2 — Bringing Chi Forward

 

“Most men die without ever calling upon their true reserves,” Etrion said.

“You, however… have more in you than you understand.”

 

He taught Arven to draw chi upward, from legs ? spine ? shoulders.

Each attempt left him sweating, shaking, sometimes coughing blood.

 

But each day, he brought forward a little more.

 

Week 3 — Channeling Chi

 

“Strength is meaningless without direction,” Etrion said.

 

He had Arven practice sending chi into:

• hands (for striking)

• legs (for lunging, dodging, breaking stone)

• forearms (for blocking)

 

The pain was intense—like forcing hot air through too-tight pipes.

 

Yet Arven learned.

Slowly.

Stubbornly.

Perfectly.

 

Week 4 — Defense and Chi Clashing

 

This week was different.

Colder.

 

“If someone defends with chi,” Etrion lectured, “then any strike that does not exceed their chi will do nothing.”

 

He demonstrated by letting a guard punch him in the chest.

The blow was loud, sharp—bone on bone.

 

Etrion didn’t flinch.

 

“You see? Force transferred. Impressive sound.

But the damage?” He tapped his rib.

“Dissipated.”

 

Arven listened carefully.

 

“To hurt someone using chi,” Etrion continued, “you must overwhelm their defense with more chi than they can muster.

Strength alone is worthless.”

 

He stepped close.

 

“You felt power during your escape attempt. Raw, emotional, uncontrolled chi.

But power without technique is a child’s tantrum.”

 

Arven’s jaw tightened.

 

That was all it took for Etrion to smile.

 

Perfect.

Cruel.

Satisfied.

 

?

 

Arven left the chamber late that night, bruised, exhausted, and wiser.

 

He had learned:

• fear

• control

• technique

• and above all what it would truly take to kill Count Etrion someday …even if he was not strong enough yet.

 

But soon. Soon he would be.

 

CHAPTER 16 — The Years the Walls Closed In

 

Time began to move differently after Arven’s twelfth birthday.

Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, and the chambers that once felt like a prison slowly reshaped themselves into something worse—routine.

 

I. The Training Years (Age 12–14)

 

Arven’s mornings belonged to the Master.

 

No matter how early he woke, Etrion was already waiting in the underground chamber, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“Again,” he would say, no matter what Arven had just done.

 

Feeling chi.

Drawing it forward.

Channeling it into a point.

Defending with it until his arms shook and his vision blurred.

 

Sometimes Arven thought the walls remembered the sound of him hitting them.

 

Sometimes he wondered if the Master did too.

 

But he kept going.

 

Every week, the Master sharpened him just a little more—never enough for mastery, never enough for independence, but enough to shape him into something the man believed he could use.

 

And always, always, the door to freedom sat in plain view.

Never locked.

Never hidden.

 

Etrion wanted Arven to see it.

Wanted him to understand.

 

“You are not here because of walls,” the Master would say quietly.

“You are here because you know what happens to the girl if you leave.”

 

And Arven did.

 

He knew it every second he breathed.

 

?

 

II. Silber’s Growth

 

Silber trained in the courtyard with the other Juniors.

She grew taller fast, almost catching Arven by the time they were thirteen. Her movements sharpened, her reflexes tightened, her strikes carried a fierceness none of the others wanted to stand in front of.

 

She didn’t smile often.

 

She snarled.

Mocked.

Rolled her eyes.

Told Arven to keep up like she was always a step ahead—even when she wasn’t.

 

Whenever he passed her on the way back from the Master’s chamber, she’d flicker her gaze over him, noticing bruises he tried to hide.

 

“You look like you fought a wall,” she’d mutter.

 

Arven never said it aloud, but some days he wished it had been a wall.

 

Silber acted like she didn’t care.

Like she didn’t worry.

Like nothing touched her.

 

But whenever anyone struck her too hard in training, she didn’t cry.

She just bit down, stood back up, and hit back twice as hard.

 

She would never show weakness.

Not here.

 

Not in front of them.

Not even in front of him.

 

?

 

III. Rise Through the Juniors

 

Their reputations grew.

 

By thirteen, they were at the top of the Junior Division.

By fourteen, they were untouchable.

 

Arven moved differently now—quiet, precise, coiled like a spring filled with pressure no one else could see. He didn’t show chi openly, not yet, but the Master saw the signs.

 

Silber moved like a storm about to break, unpredictable and fierce. Her pride grew sharper with every victory, and her name spread in whispers through the younger ranks.

 

Together, they sparred more often—hard, fast, neither holding back. Their fights became the kind others stopped to watch, breath held, waiting to see which one would yield.

 

They never did.

 

Every bout ended when the instructors cut in.

Every time, both walked away, refusing to admit who had gotten the better of the other. Though silber never knew what chi was and arven never fought against her using it, he didn’t see it as fair.

 

The Juniors began calling them:

 

“The Twin Blades.”

Not because they fought together—

but because they cut everything in their path.

 

?

 

IV. The Master’s Belief

 

Etrion watched it all.

 

Arven’s power swelling.

Silber’s instincts sharpening.

Their bond tightening in silence, despite every punishment, every rule meant to divide them.

 

He believed he understood them.

 

He believed he controlled them.

 

The nightly check-ins.

The limited time together.

The threats repeated softly, like reminders written in blood.

 

To him, Arven was a weapon being tempered.

To him, Silber was leverage.

To him, their closeness was predictable, manageable.

 

And every time Arven returned from training exhausted but obedient, Etrion would nod once and think:

 

“Good. He breaks, but he bends back toward me.”

 

The Master believed the cage was working.

 

He believed that fear had shaped Arven into loyalty.

 

He believed the girl had become nothing more than a tether around the boy’s throat.

 

He believed he had time.

 

He believed he had control.

 

He believed he understood the hearts of children—

 

and that was his greatest mistake.

 

?

 

V. The Clock Approaches Fifteen

 

Fourteen and a half.

 

Both of them growing faster now.

Both stronger.

Both more dangerous.

 

The Under-20s tournament loomed closer with each passing day, whispered about by instructors and feared by the Juniors who knew what awaited them there.

 

Arven felt the weight of it.

Silber aimed for it with her chin high and her smirk razor-sharp.

 

And in the shadows of the training hall, the Master looked down at them with quiet satisfaction.

 

“Soon,” he whispered to himself.

“Soon, the real shaping begins.”

 

He believed he owned the next chapter of their lives.

 

Arven and Silber were about to prove him wrong.

 

CHAPTER 17 — The Juniors Ascend

 

The arena smelled of sweat and dust, of sharpened steel and anticipation. Juniors were being called into the Under-20s division for the first time, a stage much larger, louder, and more intense than the one they had known. Silber and Arven stood side by side, their gazes calm but alert. Their rise over the past months had been steady, methodical, and exhausting—but it had left them stronger than anyone could have imagined.

 

The crowd murmured, the organizers’ voices booming across the stone hall. Older fighters, bigger and sharper, strutted through the gates like predators among prey. The sheer presence of their opponents was enough to make a lesser heart waver—but not theirs. Not now.

 

“Looks like the real competition starts today,” Silber muttered, almost to herself. Her tail flicked with a subtle rhythm, a nervous habit she was still learning to hide.

 

Arven’s eyes followed the fighters silently. He had learned to watch patterns, to anticipate motion, to read the smallest shift in weight. He noticed the older competitors’ overconfidence, the slight twitch of a guard, the way they underestimated smaller opponents.

 

?

 

Part 2 — New Rivals & Nafari

 

Among the new faces, one stood out immediately. A black panther beastfolk, lean and towering at 19, with a long scar cutting across her eye—a mark from a lion-man skirmish she carried like a badge of survival. Her name was Nafari.

 

The juniors whispered her reputation: undefeated, precise, and merciless. She moved like liquid, her every motion measured, every strike purposeful. Silber watched her, tension curling in her chest.

 

Then Nafari approached, calm, her gaze sliding over Silber. “You’re fast,” she said, voice low and steady. “But your form… you’re holding back.”

 

Silber bristled, instinctive pride flashing. “I’m fine,” she said sharply. “I don’t need help.”

 

Nafari’s eyes softened, and she moved fluidly, demonstrating a few quick sequences. She leaned into Silber’s form, adjusted her stance, showing her how a subtle shift in footwork could turn a defensive move into a counterattack.

 

Silber’s ears twitched. Her tail curled slightly around her leg. No one had ever taken the time with her like this—no one who had the skill and patience to teach her without patronizing.

 

“You fight with fear,” Nafari said gently, almost like a whisper. “Not fear of losing… fear of not being enough. Let it go. You’ll be stronger if you do.”

 

Silber swallowed hard. A warmth spread through her chest, a strange, unfamiliar sense of comfort. She couldn’t put it into words—her walls were still there—but for the first time in months, she allowed herself a tiny flicker of trust.

 

“Thanks,” she muttered, not meeting her eyes.

 

Nafari only nodded, her scarred eye gleaming. “Keep moving forward. You’ll see.”

 

?

 

Part 4 — Etrion’s Observation

 

Count Etrion watched from the shadows of the arena, sipping his wine beside the fireplace of his private chamber.

 

“They are growing… too fast,” he murmured, brow furrowed. “Too… independent. Yet I still control him. He thinks he is learning for himself, but the lessons are mine to give. The bond will keep him loyal, or so I hope.”

 

His smile was thin, cruel. He had underestimated the two before—and he would not make that mistake again.

 

?

 

Closing Scene — Arena Entrance

 

The Under-20s match would begin in just a few hours. Silber and Arven, now nearly fifteen, stepped into the arena together. Silber led with her head high, playful smirks masking her careful watch of every corner. Arven’s eyes, steely and unflinching, followed the flow of the crowd, noting the size, stance, and temperament of the fighters around them.

 

As they reached the arena floor, they exchanged a subtle glance—a silent acknowledgment: “We’ve grown. We’re ready. Together.”

 

And somewhere in the shadows, Etrion’s eyes lingered on Arven, calculating, patient, waiting for the moment he could bend him once more. But for now, the spark had ignited.

 

CHAPTER 18 — RED UNLEASHED

 

Silber was the first to walk out.

 

The arena buzzed with mild curiosity, nothing more.

A twelve-year-old wolf girl facing a sixteen-year-old tiger beastman?

Most of the crowd had already decided the outcome.

 

She could feel it—the dismissive glances, the whispered bets, the way the tiger smirked at her like he’d already won.

 

Silber exhaled slowly.

Idiots.

 

The gong sounded.

 

The tiger lunged with all the power of his age and size, claws slicing through the air—

—and Silber simply wasn’t there.

 

She slid past every strike like water, eyes half-lidded, almost bored.

A weave.

A pivot.

A step around him as though he moved in slow motion.

 

Confusion flickered across the tiger’s face.

 

Silber’s heel planted.

She shot forward, kicked off his chest—using him like a springboard—

and soared upward.

 

Gasps rippled through the arena.

 

Her silhouette cut through the light for a single heartbeat—

 

CRACK!

 

Her axe kick landed squarely on his shoulder, driving him into the ground with enough force to echo across the stone.

 

Silence.

 

She walked off without looking back, tail flicking with arrogant satisfaction.

 

The audience, stunned, erupted too late.

 

?

 

OTHER MATCHES — A RUMBLE IN THE BACKGROUND

 

While the crowd recovered from Silber’s display, other fighters clashed one after another.

Arven watched with half-interest, half-nerves, until his master approached him.

 

“Arven.”

 

He looked up.

 

“You will use your chi,” the master said, voice low but firm. “All of it. No holding back.”

 

Arven frowned.

“But the others—”

 

“Imagine you are fighting me,” the master interrupted. “Or someone worse. If you restrain yourself, you will lose. And if you lose, you learn nothing.”

 

Arven swallowed.

Then he nodded.

 

?

 

THE ARENA CHANTS HIS NAME

 

When he stepped out for his match, the atmosphere changed instantly.

 

“RED! RED! RED!”

 

Hundreds of voices.

Chanting.

Hungry.

 

Rumors had spread—about the boy covered in blood, the prodigy with the giant sword, the one who trained under a monster of a master.

 

Across from him stood his opponent:

an eighteen-year-old bear beastman, massive, scarred, and cautious.

 

He’d heard the stories too.

 

The gong rang.

 

?

 

THE OPENING — A MANIAC’S CHARGE

 

Arven didn’t hesitate.

 

He threw his sword—

full force—

like he meant to split the bear down the middle.

 

“WHAT—!?”

 

The bear dodged the spinning blade just in time—

but Arven was already there.

 

Two heavy punches crashed into the bear’s ribs.

He staggered, more shocked than hurt, and swiped back with a clawed arm.

 

Arven rolled, reclaimed his sword from the dirt, and reset his stance.

 

The arena roared.

 

?

 

THE CLASH — EQUAL… FOR A MOMENT

 

Steel met muscle.

Strength met strength.

 

For a heartbeat, they were equals, each shove pushing dust into the air.

The bear grunted, trying to overpower him.

 

Arven shifted his grip—reverse—

and drove the blade straight through the bear’s foot.

 

The beastman howled, balance breaking.

 

An opening.

 

Arven remembered the master’s words.

He breathed in—

and something inside him snapped loose.

 

His chest tightened, pressure building like his ribs were about to burst.

Heat flooded his fists, burning, humming, alive.

 

Red chi.

 

His eyes widened.

 

He didn’t think.

He simply struck.

 

?

 

THE MOMENT THE WORLD STOPPED

 

The impact was explosive.

 

A shockwave tore across the arena—

dust scattering—

spectators thrown back in their seats.

 

And the bear…

 

What remained hit the ground in two separate thuds.

 

Only the legs were left standing.

 

The rest had simply… vanished.

 

Silence swallowed the arena whole.

 

Arven stood frozen, drenched in crimson, staring at his own shaking hands.

 

“Th-the winner… is… Arven!” the announcer shouted, voice cracking.

 

He didn’t move.

Didn’t celebrate.

Didn’t understand what he’d done.

 

He had killed.

Not with a clean strike.

Not with a finishing blow.

 

But with overwhelming force that erased someone from existence.

 

?

 

SILBER’S EYES

 

From the sidelines, Silber stared.

 

Not with admiration.

Not with envy.

 

With fear.

 

Fear… and confusion.

 

Arven had always been determined, reckless, stubborn—

but this?

This was something else.

Something monstrous.

Something she had never imagined he carried inside him.

 

And she couldn’t look away.

 

CHAPTER 19 — The Roar of Red

 

Silber didn’t breathe.

She couldn’t.

 

The arena felt impossibly far away, even though she was staring straight at Arven. The air was thick with dust and the metallic stink of blood—so strong her senses recoiled, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

 

Arven stood in the crater he created.

Blood soaked his fists.

What was left of the bear… wasn’t enough to even be called a body.

 

And Arven himself—

He wasn’t moving.

Not blinking.

Barely breathing.

 

Just frozen, staring at his hand like he didn’t understand it belonged to him.

 

Silber’s chest tightened painfully.

This… this power? From Arven? From the boy who flinched whenever someone raised their voice?

 

The crowd remained silent for several heartbeats—

Then suddenly exploded.

 

Roars. Screams. Chants of his name.

“RED! RED! RED!”

 

The stands vibrated with excitement, shock, and fear all tangled together.

 

Silber snapped out of her daze and broke into a sprint.

She couldn’t go through the main stairway—the staff barred it during fights.

So she dropped down into the under-arena training tunnels, boots slamming against stone as she ran.

 

But the underground was a maze.

Turning left—dead end.

Doubling back.

Her breath sharpened with panic, not exhaustion.

Arven… what happened to you?

 

?

 

CUT TO: ARENA FLOOR

 

Arven still hadn’t moved.

His brain was trying—failing—to replay what had just happened.

 

He stared at his fist.

It was trembling.

Or maybe he was.

 

The handle of his massive sword slipped from his other hand—the old leather grip finally tearing apart, falling in strips to the ground.

 

Underneath, gleaming through the grime and blood, was a beautifully crafted grip of polished steel and dark wood—work fit for a noble house. Something ancient. Something unchanged for decades.

 

Arven blinked.

It broke his trance.

 

“…what?”

 

He picked the sword back up slowly, confused, almost hesitant.

The moment his fingers wrapped around the exposed true handle, a surge of power burst up his arm, flooding into his chest.

 

Foreign.

Violent.

Alive.

 

A chi unlike anything he had ever felt before—

Something vast.

Something old.

Something hungry.

 

His spine straightened.

His breathing steadied.

His eyes sharpened.

 

And slowly—almost ritualistically—Arven lifted the sword high above his head.

 

His blood-soaked figure glowed under the sun, casting a long red shadow across the dirt.

 

The crowd quieted—

Just for a moment.

As if they were waiting for whatever came next.

 

?

 

SILBER — REACHING THE EXIT

 

Silber finally reached the final corridor, panting as she threw herself up the stairs toward the arena entrance.

 

Please don’t be hurt. Please don’t be gone. Please don’t be—

 

Then she heard him.

 

It wasn’t Arven’s normal voice.

This was something deeper.

Louder.

Roaring from the pit of his chest with absolute dominance.

 

?

 

ARENA FLOOR

 

Arven pointed his sword toward the mass of spectators.

 

“ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!”

 

His voice thundered across the entire arena, rattling dust from the rafters.

 

The crowd exploded.

A wave of sound like nothing Silber had ever heard.

 

Arven spread his arms wide, blood dripping from his fingertips.

 

“I AM RED!”

His teeth bared in a feral, ecstatic grin.

“THE ALMIGHTY REEEEED!”

 

The crowd screamed his name again and again.

 

“RED! RED! RED! RED!”

 

Silber froze at the entrance, her hand gripping the stone wall as she stared out onto the stage.

 

That wasn’t Arven.

Not the Arven she knew.

Not the timid boy who whispered apologies for existing.

 

This version—

This “Red” the world was screaming for—

 

She had no idea what to make of him.

No idea what was happening to him.

 

And for the first time since she met him…

 

Silber felt afraid.

 

But she couldn’t look away.

 

And she couldn’t stop thinking the same question over and over:

 

What… is Arven becoming?

 

 

CHAPTER 20 — The Question Arven Shouldn’t Have Asked

 

Silber burst into the arena the moment the crowd was forced back.

 

“ARVEN!”

Her voice cracked as she sprinted across the sand.

 

Arven turned sharply, eyes still blazing with that wild red fury—

Silber froze mid-step, instinct screaming danger.

 

But then something shifted in his expression.

 

His sword slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a metallic thud.

 

“Silber…?” he breathed, like waking from a nightmare.

 

He stumbled toward her.

She hesitated—just for a second—

then let him come close.

 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he insisted, touching his chest as if to prove it.

 

“You sure?” Silber muttered, circling around him and inspecting every inch like a worried wolf. “You’re… really fine? After that?”

 

Arven nodded.

“It’s thanks to chi. The master says this is the strength I need. Strength to kill him. To end this place. To free us.”

 

Silber’s ears twitched.

She didn’t fully understand.

But she held onto his sleeve and whispered, “Just… don’t disappear like that again.”

 

Before Arven could respond, guards approached.

 

“Both of you, out. Now. Arven, the master summons you.”

 

Arven squeezed Silber’s hand once, then followed.

 

?

 

IN THE DUKE’S CHAMBER

 

Master Etrion—Duke of the Arena—sat behind a low table, expression unreadable.

 

“Sit, boy.”

 

Arven obeyed.

 

Without speaking, the master handed him a warm, damp towel.

“Wash the blood from your face.”

 

Arven obeyed again, wiping slowly.

 

“You did well today,” Etrion finally said. “More than well. That blow was nearly as strong as one of my own. Truly impressive. Truly…”

 

He kept talking, praising, rambling—

but Arven wasn’t listening anymore.

 

For the first time in seven years…

he looked at the master.

 

Really looked.

 

And he didn’t look terrifying.

 

He looked old.

 

His face was lined with deep wrinkles.

His thinning hair was nearly white.

His posture, once towering and monstrous, now hunched slightly.

 

When… when did he start looking so weak?

Arven couldn’t remember ever staring directly at him without fear twisting his vision.

 

The praise went on and on until Arven stood abruptly.

 

“Sir,” he said, voice tight but steady, “may I ask one question?”

 

The master blinked, surprised.

“You? Asking something? Hah. Very well, boy. Ask. Consider it a reward.”

 

Arven took a long breath.

 

“I’ve been here seven years. More than half my life inside these walls.”

He swallowed.

“How much of the world have you seen?”

 

The master frowned, confused by the harmlessness of the question.

 

“Well… I was born on this continent. It is my birthright. When I was young I traveled much—across our lands, to nearby kingdoms, even worked as a mercenary for a time.”

He shrugged.

“But I have never left this continent. Why do you ask?”

 

Arven stepped closer.

 

“Because… how long did it take you to see even one continent?”

 

“Thirty-five years,” Etrion answered casually. “And the last forty I’ve stayed here as duke.”

His tone sharpened.

“But why does this matter, boy? You know you will never see the world either.”

 

Arven stiffened.

 

The master leaned forward, voice sliding into a predatory growl.

 

“Even if you could, you won’t. You’re staying here forever. And that little kitty cat you cling to…”

A smile—cold and cruel—spread across his face.

“She’ll make an excellent meal for Nafari.”

 

Something snapped.

 

Arven didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

His body reacted faster than his mind.

 

His hand shot toward the sword on his back—

 

—and the moment his fingers touched the exposed metal handle…

 

The world went black.

 

Then red.

 

A roar—his or something else’s—echoed inside his skull.

 

Silber’s name was the last thought he had before everything drowned in crimson.

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