The arena was too small for dreams.
That's what Cyron Vale thought as he stepped onto the cracked platform, the noise of the crowd bouncing off cheap metal walls. E-Rank tournaments were like this—crowded, loud, and forgettable. A place where beginners fought for scraps while the real world moved on without them.
Still… it was all he had.
"Next match! Cyron Vale versus Darek Holt!"
A few bored claps. Someone yawned.
Cyron exhaled slowly and raised his left arm.
There it was.
A faint, dim mark on his forearm—barely glowing. A weak Binding Mark. His monster hadn't fully awakened yet, which meant one thing:
He was already at a disadvantage.
Across from him, Darek Holt rolled his shoulders, confident. His forearm glowed brighter—clean, stable. A proper Warrior-tier bond.
"Try not to drag this out," Darek said. "I've got a C-Rank scout watching today."
Cyron didn't answer.
He just stared at his hand.
Something felt… off.
"Begin!"
Darek moved instantly.
"I summon—Iron Fang Hound!"
Light burst from his arm, forming into a sleek, metallic beast. Its claws scraped the ground, sparks flickering as it growled, eyes locked on Cyron.
A solid summon. Fast. Aggressive.
The crowd leaned in.
Cyron raised his arm.
Nothing.
No response.
"…Come on," he muttered under his breath.
The mark flickered weakly.
Darek smirked. "You didn't even stabilize your bond? This is just sad."
The hound lunged.
Cyron reacted on instinct, stepping back—too slow.
Its claws tore through the air—
—and stopped.
A pulse.
Not from Darek.
Not from the arena.
From Cyron.
The glow on his arm shifted.
Darkened.
The light… wasn't light anymore.
It swallowed the brightness around it, turning into something deeper—thicker. Crimson lines began crawling across his skin, branching out like veins.
The crowd went quiet.
"…What?" Darek frowned.
Cyron stared at his arm.
The mark was changing.
No—awakening.
Then the voice came.
Low.
Ancient.
Right behind his thoughts.
"So… it's you."
Cyron froze.
"…Who said that?"
The world didn't answer.
The voice did.
"Unremarkable."
A pause.
Then—
"But you endured."
Pain exploded through his arm.
Cyron dropped to one knee, gripping it as the mark burned into his flesh, no longer faint—now blazing, alive, carving itself deeper.
"AAAAAGH—!"
The arena lights flickered.
The barrier surrounding the stage rippled violently.
Darek took a step back. "Ref! Something's wrong—!"
Cyron's vision blurred as the voice pressed closer, heavier.
"You reached for power… without knowing what it meant."
"I didn't—!" Cyron gasped. "I just wanted to win—!"
"Pathetic."
The word echoed like a verdict.
The mark flared.
Crimson energy erupted from his body, blasting outward in a violent shockwave. The barrier shattered instantly—like glass hit by a hammer.
The crowd screamed.
From behind Cyron, something began to emerge.
Not summoned.
Unsealed.
A massive shadow tore into existence, warping the air itself. Horns curved like broken crowns, wings unfurled in jagged fragments, and a single eye—deep, red, endless—opened within the storm.
The Iron Fang Hound whimpered.
Then vanished.
Erased.
Darek stumbled backward, horror overtaking his face. "That's not a Warrior… that's not even a King—!"
Cyron couldn't breathe.
The thing behind him wasn't just power.
It was pressure.
Like the world itself was being pushed down.
"W-What are you…?" he whispered.
The presence answered.
Not loudly.
But everywhere.
"I am Bygon Blood."
The name struck like thunder inside his skull.
The crimson storm surged again, tearing through the arena—walls cracking, metal bending, the ground splitting under invisible weight.
People ran.
Some didn't get up.
Cyron's hands trembled. "Stop… you're going to kill them!"
Silence.
Then—
"And?"
Cyron's head snapped up. "They're innocent!"
A pause.
Longer this time.
Then the voice spoke again, quieter—but sharper.
"Then prove it."
The pressure intensified.
Cyron screamed as the energy tore through him, not just around him. It wasn't enough to survive it.
He had to control it.
"I—can't—!"
"Then they die."
Something inside him snapped.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Resolve.
"NO!"
Cyron forced himself to stand, arm shaking as he raised it toward the storm behind him.
"Listen to me!" he shouted. "If you chose me—then don't ignore me!"
The eye in the storm focused.
For the first time—
It looked directly at him.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
"…You said I endured?" Cyron continued, voice unsteady but rising. "Then let me prove it! Not like this—not by destroying everything!"
The crimson energy surged—then hesitated.
The voice returned.
Different now.
Curious.
"…Interesting."
The pressure shifted.
Not gone.
But… focused.
"Very well, Cyron Vale."
The name felt heavier than before.
"Bind."
Pain unlike anything before tore through him.
The storm collapsed inward, violently compressing—into the mark, into his arm, into him. The massive presence folded, shrinking, sealing, fusing.
Cyron fell to the ground, gasping.
Silence.
No more energy.
No more destruction.
Only the aftermath.
The arena was ruined. Walls cracked. The barrier gone. Fighters and spectators scattered, stunned, injured—but alive.
Darek stared at him from a distance, pale and shaking.
"What… are you…?"
Cyron didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Slowly, he turned his arm.
The mark was no longer faint.
It burned with deep crimson light—intricate, shifting, alive.
A God-tier Binding Mark.
And inside his mind—
The voice remained.
Calm.
Certain.
"You are mine now."
A pause.
Then, almost amused—
"Let's see how long you last."