The arena darkened—and from below, twisted shapes coalesced into full nightmares: Mirage Krakens with tendrils of glass, Sting Wyrms that wept acid, and drowned warriors with broken tridents and coral-ridden armor. These weren't beasts—these were cursed memories born of forgotten deaths.
Marina stood bloodied, skin glistening with cuts and mist, her eyes now gleaming with deep violet. She breathed in slow.
Each kill fed her Blackmist. The decay intensified. Her aura deepened.
But so did her wounds.
Her ribs ached. Her ankle throbbed. And her skin—it was peeling in places where her own corruption brushed too close.
Then came the one that silenced even the water itself.
A Death Stinger. Jet-black, eel-like, its body sleek and silent, its bladed snout a soul-cutter—feared not for its size, but for the countless it had slain in Mirio's trials. It was silent death, perfected.
And now it set its eyes on her.
It moved.
