'Third Point of view '
The sky above Blackstone Fortress was the color of bruises—purple, swollen, and threatening to split open with rage. Rain lashed the ramparts like whips, and thunder growled like a beast prowling in the dark. Beneath the storm, Kael stood at the heart of the cursed arena, his breath steaming in the icy wind.
His shirt was torn, clinging to his blood-streaked chest, and his knuckles were split open from the last fight. The arena floor, a pit of shattered bones and damp ash, sucked at his boots with every step.
Before him stood his next trial: a chained, half-dead knight with eyes like dying embers—Sir Veylor, once the undefeated Champion of the South. Now reduced to a puppet of dark magic.
"This one is different," muttered Kael under his breath, gripping the hilt of his cursed blade. "This isn't a fight. This is a warning."
The announcer's voice echoed from the cursed stone above, hollow and cruel. "A reward awaits the survivor. Death awaits the weak."
Sir Veylor raised his greatsword, joints cracking unnaturally. Chains clinked with each movement, engraved with forbidden runes. They pulsed—alive, hungering.
Kael's instincts screamed. That blade wasn't meant to kill him. It was meant to devour.
Lightning split the sky as Veylor charged.
Kael rolled to the side, barely avoiding the crushing blow. The sword struck the earth with a scream, sending cracks spidering through the stone. As he rose, Kael saw it—dark tendrils lashing out from the sword, trying to latch onto his shadow.
Shadow-eater. A relic from the Age of Nightmares.
Kael pivoted, using his momentum to strike. His cursed blade clanged against Veylor's, and a jolt of corrupted energy surged through him. He staggered, vision warping, blood boiling.
He's feeding off me.
Kael backed away, panting, and forced his thoughts to focus. He couldn't win with brute strength. Not this time.
He scanned the arena. There—a collapsed statue at the edge. A fallen tribute to one of the ancient kings, his crown broken and rusted. A perfect perch.
Kael sprinted.
Veylor roared behind him, chains dragging in the dust, the screech of metal against stone like nails through Kael's spine. He reached the statue, climbed swiftly, and drew a dagger from his boot—small, silver, and blessed by the Priestess of Halden. One of the few things he smuggled from the temple before he died the first time.
Let's see if you're still holy enough to burn nightmares.
Veylor struck the base of the statue with a furious blow. Stone exploded. Kael leapt from the crumbling ruin and plunged the dagger into Veylor's shoulder as he landed behind him.
A scream erupted—not from Veylor, but from the sword.
The blade dropped from the knight's hand and thrashed like a living serpent, shrieking as it sizzled from the dagger's purity. Veylor fell to his knees, body convulsing.
Kael didn't wait.
With a cry, he swung his blade across the knight's neck. Not deep enough to sever—but enough to break the spell.
Veylor collapsed, motionless.
Silence fell, broken only by the sobbing rain.
Kael dropped to his knees, gasping. His hands trembled, blood mixing with the downpour.
A slow clap echoed from the high seats above.
Kael looked up.
A figure stood at the edge of the arena balcony, cloaked in black armor etched with serpentine gold. No herald announced him. No name passed through the wind.
But Kael knew who he was.
"Leon Duras," Kael whispered. "The true villain of this world."
Leon's golden eyes gleamed in the storm. He smiled—a cold, cruel twist of lips. "Not bad for a dog on borrowed time."
Kael stood, fists clenched. "What do you want?"
Leon descended the stairs with the grace of a man who owned every shadow. "I want to see if the rumors are true. That you've changed. That you remember your past life." He stopped just feet from Kael. "Tell me—what does it feel like to crawl through fate twice, and still lose everything?"
Kael's blade twitched in his grip. "I'm not here to lose."
"No," Leon said. "You're here to kill me. Isn't that right?" He leaned closer, and Kael could smell the scent of grave roses on his breath—flowers used to embalm the dead.
Kael didn't speak.
Leon's smile widened. "Here's a better offer. Join me."
Kael froze. "What?"
"You and I… we're the same. Broken men reborn in a world that despises us. But together—together we could gut the heroes, enslave the gods, and carve a new world from the corpses of kings."
Kael stared into Leon's eyes. They were full of madness… and truth.
"I know what awaits you," Leon whispered. "I've seen the threads of your fate. You're running out of time, Kael. The seal is breaking."
The seal.
Kael's breath caught. He knows.
"I can help you contain it," Leon said softly. "But only if you kneel."
Kael looked at his hands—cracked, bloody, trembling. Then at Leon—calm, unbothered, wrapped in the elegance of power Kael once thought unreachable.
He couldn't defeat Leon. Not yet.
But submitting… was it truly survival? Or just another death?
Kael's heart pounded.
And then he dropped to one knee.
The storm fell silent.
Leon stepped forward, placing a hand on Kael's head. "Wise choice—"
Kael struck.
He drove the silver dagger upward, straight toward Leon's heart.
But Leon didn't flinch.
The dagger stopped midair.
Suspended.
Frozen in time.
Leon looked down, eyes blazing with disappointed amusement. "I hoped you'd be smarter than this."
The world twisted.
Kael screamed as shadows erupted from Leon's body, wrapping around him like living chains, forcing him to the ground. The arena warped—the stone turned to ash, the rain to fire.
Leon whispered in his ear, voice like silk and poison.
"Now I'll show you what it truly means… to kneel."
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