The whole Colosseum went silent.
Not because the execution was over.
Because it was a human child who was going to face the Dreadvex Ape. The announcement hung in the air like a guillotine blade suspended by a single thread—waiting, threatening, inevitable. Elves who had been cheering moments ago now sat frozen, their hands half-raised, their mouths half-open.
The mockery had died in their throats.
The laughter had choked into silence. Even the primates—the war-gorillas that had torn apart the other prisoners with such savage glee—had retreated to the edges of the arena, their massive bodies pressed against the walls, their red eyes fixed on the iron gate beneath the stands.
The Dreadvex Ape.
It had been centuries since this beast had been unleashed upon the world. The older generation of elves—those with silver streaking their hair and deep wrinkles carved around their ancient eyes—knew the stories well. They had heard them from their parents, who had heard them from their parents, who had seen the creature with their own eyes and survived only by the mercy of the gods. Even elves feared this beast.
Even the proud warriors of Sylvaris, who had fought dragons and demons and watched empires crumble to dust, admitted that they needed an entire squad of elite fighters to control a single Dreadvex Ape.
And now the queen was sending one after a child. A boy who could not even cry. A boy who stood in the center of the arena like a dead man waiting to fall, his Red eyes open but unseeing, his small body swaying with each shallow breath. He was four years old. He weighed less than one of the beast's teeth.
The Dreadvex Ape was a monstrous primate bred for one purpose—execution. Twice the height of the common war-gorillas that had already been released, its body was a mass of dense, coiled muscle that seemed to shift and ripple beneath its fur like snakes moving beneath black water.
Every movement it made carried terrifying strength—the casual swipe of its hand could shatter stone, the flex of its shoulders could tear iron chains, the clench of its jaw could crush a skull as easily as a human crushed a grape. Its black fur was thick and matted, streaked with the dried blood of countless executions—so many that the stains had become permanent, a second skin of rust and darkness.
Two jagged horns curved from its skull like the crown of a demon king, giving the beast a silhouette that had haunted elven nightmares for millennia. Its eyes were not red like the lesser primates. They glowed amber—deep and burning, like furnaces hidden behind glass. There was intelligence in those eyes. Cruel intelligence. The kind that enjoyed suffering, that understood fear, that waited for the perfect moment to strike.
Its tail was long and powerful, ending in a bone-like spike that could pierce mixed dragon scale and crush enchanted armor. When the beast was calm, the tail dragged behind it like an afterthought—a weapon waiting to be remembered. But when it hunted, the tail coiled like a serpent, lashing out with deadly precision, striking from angles that should have been impossible for such a massive creature.
Outside the arena, the Dreadvex Ape was calm. Silent. Obedient, even. It could be led with chains and controlled with magic, its ancient fury buried beneath layers of conditioning and hunger.
But inside the arena—inside the ring of blood and sand and screaming prey—it changed.
The scent of fear and blood awakened something ancient and violent within it. Its breathing deepened into low, rumbling growls that vibrated in the bones of everyone who heard them. Its muscles swelled, as if the beast itself was growing larger in response to the challenge. Its eyes sharpened, focusing on its prey with an intensity that made even the bravest warriors look away.
It did not kill quickly. That was the worst part.
It hunted. It enjoyed the chase—the desperate scramble of its prey, the futile attempts to escape, the dawning realization that death was inevitable. It enjoyed breaking its victims—shattering their limbs one by one, crushing their ribs so they could not breathe, dragging out the suffering until every nerve in their body screamed for mercy that would never come. It listened to screams the way a gourmand listened to music. It watched hope fade from dying eyes the way a poet watched the sunset.
Only when the victim was completely broken—body and spirit—did it finally devour them. Alive. Always alive.
That was why the elven court had kept this creature banned for so many centuries. The Dreadvex Ape was not a tool of justice. It was not an executioner in any honorable sense. It was a monster—a relic of a darker time, when the Sylvan Kingdom had been crueler, when the arena had run red with blood that was not always guilty, when the elves had taken pleasure in suffering the way humans took pleasure in wine and song.
But the queen's fury had lifted the ban.
Her rage—raw and blinding and all-consuming—had unleashed the king of apes.
Elder Theilon stepped forward from the royal box.
He was ancient—one of the oldest beings in the Sylvan court, his skin wrinkled as the bark of the World Tree itself, his eyes milky with age but still sharp as newly forged blades. His robes were woven from leaves that never faded or fell, their green so deep it seemed to absorb the light around him. His staff was carved from the heartwood of the World Tree—a privilege granted to only the most revered elders—and it pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow, as if it still remembered when it had been part of something alive.
He had served under three queens. He had seen wars and famines and the birth and death of nations. He had stood in this Colosseum when the Dreadvex Ape had last been unleashed, five centuries ago, and he had sworn that day that he would never watch such a thing again.
"My queen," he said.
His voice was low and respectful but firm—the voice of a man who had earned the right to speak truth to power. He did not bow. He did not kneel. He simply stood before her and spoke.
"This is too much. Even if he is a child, he should not die by such brutality."
The queen turned to him. Her green eyes were still blazing, her chest still heaving with the remnants of her rage. Her Golden Brown hair, usually so carefully arranged, had begun to escape its bindings, framing her face in wild tangles. She looked less like a queen and more like a fury—a creature of vengeance and fire.
But she was still a queen. She had been a queen for thousand years. She knew how to compose herself, even when every fiber of her being screamed for blood.
"Have you not seen enough?" she said. Her voice was sharp as a blade's edge—cold and precise and dangerous. "That human mocked me. He mocked our elf kingdom. He raised his hand in defiance and died with a curse on his lips. And you stand here and ask for mercy for another of his kind?"
"But that was not him, my queen," Elder Theilon said, gesturing toward Yuuta with a trembling hand. The boy stood in the center of the arena, still as a statue, his black hair stirring in the cold wind. "That was the other human—the one who slit his own throat. This child has done nothing. He is barely conscious. He may not even understand where he is."
The queen's eyes narrowed to slits. Her aura rose around her like heat rising from desert sand—invisible but unmistakable, pressing against Theilon's chest like a physical weight.
"All humans are the same," she said. "He stands because he did not fear me. He is a child now, but who knows what he will become? Who knows what hatred festers in his heart? Who knows what revenge he will seek when he is grown?"
"That is absurd, my queen."
The words left Theilon's mouth before he could stop them. The Colosseum held its breath. Even the wind seemed to pause. No one spoke to the queen that way. No one.
But Theilon continued, his voice steady despite the fear crawling up his spine.
"How can this child even think to mock? He is clearly frozen in fear. Or perhaps he is already dead inside—unable to resist, unable to feel, unable to do anything but stand and wait for whatever comes next. He is not a threat. He is a victim."
The queen paused.
Her eyes flickered. Something shifted in her expression—uncertainty, perhaps, or the first whisper of doubt. She looked at Yuuta again. The boy had not moved. He had not flinched. He stood exactly where he had been standing, his red eyes open and unseeing, his small body swaying slightly with each breath. There was no defiance in his posture. No hatred in his gaze. There was nothing at all.
Elder Theilon pressed his advantage, stepping closer to the queen's throne, his staff tapping against the living wood of the platform.
"My queen," he said, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. "Revenge makes you blind. It makes you unable to see what is right in front of you. This creature—this child—is innocent. He did not hurt your daughter. He did not order the experiments. He did not throw Sophia into the Death Well. He was a victim, just as she was. Perhaps the only victim in this entire tragedy who never had a choice."
The queen's aura rose higher.
Cold. Sharp. Deadly. It rolled off her in waves, making the nearby elves step back, making the leaves on Theilon's robes curl and wither at the edges. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper—but it carried more weight than any scream.
"Know your place, Elder."
She turned to face him fully, her green eyes boring into his ancient ones.
"You are showing concern for a human child. Have you fallen so low that you pity them now?"
Theilon did not flinch. He had faced her anger before, in the long centuries of his service. He had watched her rage consume others—courtiers and generals and even family members. He had seen what happened to those who stood against her when her blood was hot.
But he was old. He was tired. And he had seen too much death to stay silent now.
He bowed his head—not in submission, but in acknowledgment of her authority.
"Of course, my queen," he said. "You are the ruler of Sylvaris. You may do what you think is right."
The queen smiled. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. She thought she had won. She turned back toward the arena, toward the iron gate, toward the beast that was already beginning to stir in its cage beneath the stands.
But Elder Theilon was not finished.
He straightened his back. He lifted his head. And he spoke again—his voice calm and measured, each word falling like a stone into still water, each syllable carrying the weight of centuries of wisdom.
"But, my queen… I think you might not know something about this!."
The queen stopped.
She did not turn around. But her shoulders tensed. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. The smile faded from her lips.
"About what?" she said.
"About That, my queen" Theilon said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The queen's eyes bored into him, demanding an answer. But Elder Theilon did not speak of shadows or secrets. Instead, he looked past her, toward the small, broken figure standing alone in the center of the arena. His ancient heart, hardened by centuries of witnessing death and suffering, softened for just a moment.
"My queen," he said, turning back to face her. "He is a child. He will not survive a single punch from the Dreadvex Ape. Please, consider it, my queen."
His voice cracked on the last words. He was hoping—praying—that this time she would acknowledge reason. That this time she would see past her rage and recognize the truth standing before her. The boy was innocent. The boy was broken. The boy did not deserve to die at the hands of a monster.
The queen froze.
Her body went still as stone. Her green eyes, which had been blazing with fury moments ago, softened into something almost human. For a fleeting moment, the mask of the avenging queen slipped, and Elder Theilon saw the mother beneath—the woman who had once held a tiny Pink-haired baby in her arms, who had sung lullabies to Sophia under the light of the twin moons, who had watched her daughter's mind shatter and had been powerless to stop it.
"You are right," the queen said, her voice quiet and distant. "He can die in one blow."
Elder Theilon's eyes widened with hope. His heart leaped in his chest. She was listening. She was finally listening. The queen had come back to herself—the wise ruler he had served for millennia, the woman who had led Sylvaris through war and famine and peace. Perhaps there was still mercy in her. Perhaps the boy could still be saved.
But he was wrong.
"You are right, Elder," the queen continued, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "If he dies in one go, how will I enjoy the satisfaction of revenge?"
Elder Theilon's blood turned to ice.
His hope crumbled to ash in his chest. His eyes—those ancient, milky eyes that had seen too much—widened in horror as he realized what he had done. He had not saved the boy. He had made everything worse. His words, meant to inspire mercy, had instead given the queen a new idea—a more terrible, more cruel idea.
"No, my queen," he said, his voice trembling. He stepped toward her, his staff clattering against the living wood of the platform. "This is a godly sin. You cannot—"
"Elder," the queen interrupted, her smile widening. "You think so much about my revenge that you even pointed out a flaw I could not see myself. You should be commended."
"No, my queen, you have mistaken me! I was not suggesting—please, my queen, this is going too far!"
But the queen was no longer listening.
She turned away from him, her silver hair swinging across her shoulders, and faced the mage warriors who were maintaining the barrier around the arena. They stood in a perfect line at the edge of the royal box, their staves glowing with the soft light of containment magic, their faces hidden behind masks of woven silver.
The queen raised her hand.
"Add Eternal Damnation Spell," she commanded.
The whole Colosseum went silent.
Not the silence of anticipation. Not the silence of awe. This was a dead silence—the kind that follows a death sentence, the kind that falls over a battlefield when both sides realize that something terrible has just been unleashed. Even the wind stopped. Even the glowing fruit above the arena dimmed. Even the World Tree itself seemed to hold its breath.
Eternal Damnation.
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Every elf in the Colosseum—from the highest nobles to the lowest laborers—knew what that meant. It was not a spell used lightly. It was not a spell used at all, not in living memory. Eternal Damnation meant that the victim would not die. Not until the queen removed the spell. Not until the queen grew tired of watching them suffer.
The magic would heal the victim just enough to keep them alive. It would mend their bones so they could be broken again. It would close their wounds so they could be torn open again. It would drag them back from the brink of death again and again and again—an endless cycle of breaking and healing, of screaming and silence, of hope and despair.
Yuuta would not be allowed to die.
Not in one blow. Not in a hundred. Not in a thousand.
He would suffer until the queen decided he had suffered enough.
And Elder Theilon knew, with a certainty that crushed his ancient heart, that she would never decide that. She would let him suffer forever. She would feed on his pain the way the Dreadvex Ape fed on flesh. She would return to this arena whenever her grief became too much to bear, and she would watch the boy break, and she would feel better.
Theilon had failed.
He had not saved the boy. He had not even given him a quick death. He had condemned him to something worse than death—something that had no name in any language, because no language should have to name such a horror.
He had seen Yuuta's body when the boy first arrived in Sylvaris. He had examined the scars—the needle marks, the burn wounds, the evidence of years of torture. He had pitied the child then. He had thought, Perhaps I can help him. Perhaps I can save him from the queen's wrath.
What a fool he had been.
What an arrogant, blind fool.
He had thought he could win against a mother who had lost her daughter to madness. He had thought reason could defeat grief. He had thought centuries of wisdom could outweigh a single moment of heartbreak.
He had been wrong.
Erza stood at the edge of the memory, her violet eyes wide, her silver hair stirring in a wind that did not exist.
She had heard everything. She had seen everything. The queen's cruelty. The elder's failed plea. The command that would condemn Yuuta to an eternity of suffering.
"Tell me it's a lie," she whispered.
Her voice was barely audible—a breath, a ghost of sound. She was not speaking to Isvarn. She was speaking to the universe, to fate, to whatever cruel god had allowed this to happen.
"Tell me this is not supposed to be like this. Yuuta should have been acknowledged by them. He should have been sent to Earth without any suffering. That's what Sister Mary said. That's what the records said. He was supposed to be sent to Earth and given a normal life."
She turned to Isvarn, her eyes wild with desperation.
"Tell me this is a mistake, Grandpa. Tell me the memory is wrong. Tell me—"
Isvarn shook his head.
His crystalline form dimmed, the light within him retreating as if even he could not bear to witness what was unfolding. His ancient face—usually so composed, so calculating—was heavy with sorrow.
"There is no lie in memory, my queen," he said quietly. "Whatever we are watching is the absolute truth."
Erza's rage exploded.
"I am going to destroy this entire fucking Sylvarion Kingdom with my own two fucking hands!"
Her voice tore through the memory like a blade, but the memory did not react. The past did not hear her. The past did not care. The elves continued their cruel celebration, the queen continued her smile, and Yuuta continued to stand alone in the center of the arena, unaware of the nightmare about to consume him.
Isvarn stepped forward and placed his hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm but gentle—the grip of someone who understood rage, who had felt it himself, who knew that it would not help her now.
"Just watch, my queen," he said. "Please. Calm yourself. We cannot change the past. We can only bear witness."
Erza's fists clenched at her sides. Her claws extended, cutting into her own palms. Blood dripped onto the floor of the memory—her blood, real and warm—but the past did not see it. The past did not care.
She forced herself to look back at the arena.
The chains were released.
The massive iron links that held the Dreadvex Ape's cage snapped apart like threads of silk. The creature did not wait for an invitation. It crushed the remaining chains with its bare hands—the metal groaning, bending, breaking under the pressure of its grip. The sound echoed through the Colosseum like the death knell of something sacred.
The Dreadvex Ape stepped into the light.
It was larger than the stories had described. Twice the height of the war-gorillas, its body a mountain of black fur and coiled muscle. Its horns curved toward the sky like the branches of a dead tree. Its eyes—those terrible golden eyes—locked onto the only living prey left in the arena.
They locked onto Yuuta.
The beast roared.
The sound was not like the roar of the lesser primates. It was deeper. Older. A sound that had been born in the darkest depths of the World Tree, where light had never reached and mercy had never been spoken. It vibrated in the bones of every elf in the Colosseum. It made the elders press their hands to their ears. It made the children cry.
And then the Dreadvex Ape began to move.
It did not charge. It did not run. It walked—slowly, deliberately, each step shaking the ground beneath its feet. Its tail dragged behind it, the bone spike scraping against the dirt, leaving a furrow that would remain in the arena floor for centuries.
It was watching Yuuta.
Studying him.
Savoring him.
The boy stood exactly where he had been standing. He had not moved when the chains broke. He had not flinched when the beast roared. He stood with his gray eyes open and unseeing, his small body swaying slightly, his breath shallow and irregular.
He did not know what was coming.
He could not see the monster approaching.
He could not see the queen smiling.
He could not see the elves leaning forward in their seats, their earlier horror forgotten, replaced by the same bloodlust that had driven them to cheer for the deaths of the other prisoners.
He stood alone.
And the Dreadvex Ape raised its fist.
To be continued...