The roar of the crowd pounded in his ears, blending with the hum of machinery and the strained voices of the commentators. Siren gripped the bloodied spear tighter in his hands, parrying another strike from the glaive. His eyes gleamed with a silvery hue under the scorching sun, catching the slightest ripples of ether near his opponent.
The tall man opposite loomed over him like a Goliath, watching every move with his dark eyes.
"Looks like we have clear winners on the arena! The brave contenders are claiming victory, and we're down to the final duel of the day!" the commentator's voice rang out as the surviving prisoners gave vent to their emotions, falling to their knees or exhaling wearily.
Out of more than three hundred contenders, only forty-three remained. Those who survived, earning their names, watched as two figures circled in the center of the arena. Giant screens broadcast the tense duel between the last guardsman and a pale youth. Both were on the brink, breathing heavily but refusing to back down.
"Damn it, why the hell is he after me?"
His opponent didn't rush to attack, catching his breath after exhausting battles. The stands had seen him single-handedly cut down at least ten men before this.
Siren stepped back a few paces, his artificial muscles humming, overheating from the strain. The guardsman didn't hesitate, lunging forward, kicking up sand under his feet. The silver rings on his hand and neck strained to filter the flow, painfully cleansing the ether. His aura flared like a bright candle, enveloping his body in reinforcement.
The glaive traced an arc, narrowly missing the youth. But the runes on the blade glowed crimson, sending a pulse of force forward.
Siren's eyes widened as he watched the approaching attack. The pulse shattered the spear's shaft, and the residual aura sliced his chest, leaving a shallow wound.
The chest implant of ribs and muscles absorbed the blow, preventing potential organ damage.
Siren winced in pain, rolling away from another attack. The pulse slammed into the sand, kicking up dust.
"What was that? The blade in the guardsman's hands—a resonator? But how did a mere contender dodge an invisible attack?!" the commentator marveled as the screens finally captured the wound on Siren's chest. A metallic glint showed through the synthetic skin, partially exposing the mechanics. "It turns out the contender is a bionic! What will the haters of machinery say to that?"
Without his unique vision, the aura's pulse would have severed his neck, killing him in a second.
"Damn, I can't reach him at long range, but he won't let me get close."
Thoughts raced through his mind like a squirrel in a wheel, fueled by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His opponent wielded aura, enhancing himself and activating the resonator in the blade's handle.
Without hesitation, Siren threw his blade at the guardsman, disarming himself. At the same time, he darted forward, dodging another long-range attack.
The guardsman, without flinching, deflected the flying blade, raising his weapon for the next strike. The youth was within arm's reach, and dodging the blow would have been impossible.
The blade, cloaked in ether, shimmered, rushing toward its target. But instead of dodging, Siren stepped forward, closing the distance. The glaive plunged deep into his flesh—or rather, his bionics— lodging between artificial muscles with a metallic crunch.
Blood sprayed, but Siren, gritting his teeth, seized Jayde's wrist. If his flesh had been organic, the glaive would have cleaved his arm and driven into his head. Yet, risking his life, he exploited his opponent's ignorance.
Ignoring the pain, the youth slammed his elbow into his opponent's jaw. The bionics amplified the blow, knocking a clot of blood from the guardsman.
In retaliation, a strike came from above to the head. Enhanced by ether, the guardsman's fist crashed into Siren's temple. Momentarily disoriented, the youth staggered but didn't loosen his grip.
Siren yanked Jayde's wrist, breaking it with a sickening crack. White bone pierced the skin, and the guardsman roared, raising his free hand for another attack. Intercepting his forearm, the youth drove his fist into Jayde's armpit, tearing tendons.
Jayde's joint cracked, visible through muscle and skin. Deprived of control over his arms, he delivered a powerful kick to Siren's torso. Siren felt his bones creak, but the composite alloy ribs held.
Spinning, he struck Jayde's throat. The guardsman staggered, unable to stop him.
A kick to the knee brought the man down. The guardsman collapsed onto the sand, forced to lean on his stump.
"He's taking down a titan!" the crowd roared, as the screens showed blood pouring from both fighters' wounds.
Blinded by rage, Siren loomed over him. He grabbed the glaive, still lodged in his forearm, and with a roar, yanked it free, ignoring the gushing blood. Raising the weapon, he brought it down on Jayde, aiming for the shoulder. The strike hit the dislocated joint precisely, severing the arm and leaving the guardsman in agony. Clenching his teeth, Jayde tried to rise, but Siren struck again, this time at the weakened knee.
The blade sank deep, piercing the kneecap and lodging between the shin bones. Blood poured onto the sand, mixing with dust. The guardsman barely held back a scream of pain as the youth struggled to free the blade.
"Die!" Siren roared, losing control. His bionic-enhanced fists rained down on Jayde's face. Each blow was accompanied by the crunch of bones and sprays of blood. The guardsman's lips burst, his nose broke, and the aura cloaking his body flickered like a dying candle. The crowd screamed in ecstasy, but Siren heard nothing but his own voice, filled with fury. "Die, die, die!"
He struck until his hands trembled from exhaustion. The synthetic skin tore in places, exposing steel bones. Jayde, beaten beyond recognition, collapsed onto his back.
The hot sand burned his skin, and blood streamed from his battered face, mixing with the dust. His aura faded, and the silver rings on his hand and neck stopped humming, overwhelmed by corruption.
His ears rang, and images of the past flashed before his eyes. A warrior forged in cruelty foresaw his end. Once, his father, gripping this same glaive, had trained him, tempering him through battles.
"Are you proud of me?" the thought flickered as Siren's shadow blocked the sun.
His opponent was cruel, but he had no regrets about his defeat. Jayde died as he had wanted, just like his father, prepared for such an outcome.
Breathing heavily, the youth finally freed the glaive. The blood-sticky blade came loose from the bones, settling in his hands. He raised the weapon, and the crowd held its breath. The screens showed his face, contorted with rage and despair, blood dripping from his hands, and Jayde, whose eyes, despite defeat, still burned with life.
"Sky…" Jayde rasped, but his words were cut off by the whistle of the glaive. The blade sank into his neck, severing bones with a crunch. The head flew off, and blood gushed onto the sand, flooding the arena with crimson. The body twitched in a final spasm and went still. The ring on his neck slipped from the stump, falling beside the head. A final glint carried away the remnants of black smoke.
The crowd erupted in ovation, drowning out everything. The screens showed a close-up: Siren standing over the headless body, clutching the glaive, his chest heaving. Blood dripped from his hands, mixing with the sand.
"He did it! The contender has become a warrior!" the commentators shouted as the crowd went wild.
But Siren's thoughts were far away.
Doubling over in a painful spasm, the youth leaned forward and vomited violently. Then, exhausted, he sank to his knees and tried to wipe his face, only to realize it was smeared with blood.
"I killed people. I just killed several people…"
A strange stillness gripped him. Sitting on the sand, he stared at the corpse of the man he had just killed, struggling to form a coherent thought. After a while, he finally managed.
"It's too much… oh, it's too much…"
It was all too much for him. Why did he have to go through this?
From birth, he had lived in poverty, fearing anything that could kill him. After traveling hundreds of kilometers, he lost both parents in a foolish hope for a better life. He sold his own brother, consoling himself with the selfish thought that it was for his good. For years, he toiled in the mines, with no hope of salvation. He endured horrors inflicted on his body and mind. He resigned himself to dying beneath the cold earth from a disease with no chance of a cure.
What sin had he committed to deserve such a life? Had he already died, doomed to wander through hell, driven mad?
"…Utter nonsense. He deserved it."
Siren clenched his teeth and forced himself to focus on that thought.
"Why do I even feel guilty? That bastard was going to kill me! Those insane bastards are using me for their amusement!"
The crowd still cheered as the commentators spoke.
But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself he had the right to kill, deep down, he couldn't accept it.
He had to be capable of it; after all, his life had never been worth anything.
"That's the whole truth. I'm not worth a damn."
The youth bared his teeth and ground them. But then he realized something.
"What's the big deal? Killed and killed! Who said you can't kill people?! My whole life is one big circus! I've earned the right to kill!"
As if steel shackles fell from his shoulders, everything suddenly felt so easy and simple. Why hadn't he done this before? It was so easy. You just take and kill. There's nothing complicated about it.
A faint smile crept onto his face. The crowd was chanting something fiercely.
"Are they cheering for me, or do they just not understand what's happening? What's the difference? Let them shout; I deserve it!"
A dark exultation gripped his senses, and for the first time, he felt good.
"If it's so simple, why not rejoice? They're rejoicing, so why can't I?"
At that moment, several figures in protective gear stepped onto the arena. The surviving prisoners feared the newcomers, but they greeted them courteously, offering flowers. Warmly congratulating them, they escorted the newly minted warriors of Ascalia, expressing their respect.
***
The massive doors slowly parted, revealing a vast chamber richly adorned with metal columns and several altars in the center. Here and there stood enormous stone statues, and luminescent lamps cast a dim light. Patterns on the stained glass captured the feats of past warriors.
The hall was tall, carved from black stone. The ceilings vanished into the gloom, and the air was still, filled with the scent of ash and ancient dust.
After the brutal battle, the surviving participants were led to this place under the guidance of dozens of well-equipped guards.
"How spacious. How much money was spent building this place?"
An awkward thought flashed through his mind.
Several marble altars stood motionless, with flickers of flame dancing on their surfaces.
The fire didn't flicker; it simply burned steadily as a red flower.
As soon as Siren stepped inside, the doors behind him creaked shut. The newcomers exchanged glances, surveying the interior.
Near each altar stood templars in red ceremonial robes, each holding trays with daggers and unknown powders in porcelain bowls. But another figure caught his attention more.
At the edge of the altars, near the stained glass, stood an old man. He was dressed in black robes with a deep hood concealing his face. Even so, a chill ran down everyone's spines at the sight of him.
Siren thought he seemed surprised by something or recognized someone. The old man coughed, as if clearing his memory, and spoke in a hoarse, deliberately grandiose voice:
"Proud warriors, are you… the one who prevailed in an honorable duel?"
One of the newcomers shrugged, staring at the old man with a bitter smirk.
"If you can call a massacre where trained fighters brutally slaughtered a bunch of weakened prisoners honorable, then yeah, that's us."
His words echoed off the walls, stirring indignation among both the clergy and the guards.
The old man narrowed his eyes in displeasure but ignored the taunt:
"Today, you have proven your right to bear the title of warriors by defeating superior opponents. Name yourselves and inherit the oath of your predecessors."
The speaker, still with the same irony, scratched the back of his head, glancing at the others. He was a middle-aged man with bristly stubble and bronzed skin. Muscles rippled beneath his scar-covered skin, and his still-bloodied face radiated anger.
"I'm not really in the mood. Maybe you introduce yourself first?"
"Discipline…" the old man paused, "is what distinguishes the strong from the weak. Without it, not everyone will recognize you as warriors. I advise you to choose your words more carefully in a sacred place."
The solemn atmosphere tensed for a moment as the guards visibly stiffened.
"Not every man can boast good manners," the man replied shamelessly. "Don't be so dramatic. We just came out of that circus for the public. Honestly, I feel like a clown being in this place. You know, no one really explained what the hell is going on here."
"Why does it feel like another mess is about to start?" But to Siren's surprise, nothing bad happened.
The priest's eyebrows twitched as he exhaled heavily:
"Just approach the altars and complete the ritual. After that, the guards will explain everything in detail."
The man seemed to want to object, but two guards nearby roughly pushed him forward, forcing him to fall silent.
Following him, the others were led to the altars where the templars stood.
"What's going on here?" At that moment, the image of a tall priestess with an iron wolf mask appeared before him. "What did you do to your body? Didn't I ask you to stay out of trouble?"
Siren was startled by the sudden appearance of the archive guardian.
"Long story. Didn't you see what happened through my eyes?"
"Did she finish the repairs? Why does it feel like I'm glad to see her?"
Perhaps he had even missed her, but mostly he was relieved by the cessation of the unpleasant itching in his body. Focusing on his inner sensations, he noticed that the former wild flow of dead ether in his body had calmed. Even the previous threads of black smoke from his body had vanished.
"I can't repair and monitor you at the same time. Do you have any idea what a hassle it is to deal with your insides?" Protocol Eclipse huffed irritably, cold vapor escaping from under her mask. "Be that as it may, it seems you've managed to make an even bigger mess. Explain to me, how did you damage the polycarbonate muscles? And the synthetic skin on top of that. Can't I leave you alone for a second?"
"If I keep it short, it went like this: I was sold into slavery to some freaks and forced to fight in the arena against fanatics. Oh, and I killed three people and apparently became an honored warrior. Seriously, a whole crowd was cheering that I killed their people."
The wounded people nearby continued moving toward the altars, occasionally casting strange glances at him, prompting the youth to switch to a whisper.
The archive guardian froze for a moment, then looked at the youth with a serious gaze.
"I think I'll need to crack open your hard drive later." Her cold blue eyes bored into him, as if he were not a person but a machine that could be easily disassembled and reassembled. "But first, let's run diagnostics. We need to patch your wounds before something else breaks."
"Wait, dia-what?"
Before he could finish, sparks flashed before his eyes.
[INITIALIZATION LAUNCHED...]
> Activating diagnostic protocols… [ACTIVATED]
> Loading modules:
- [Blood supply stabilization]… [LOADED]
- [ME contractor]…
- [Sync-chain diagnostics]… [ERROR: Chain-link segment damaged]
> Body integrity diagnostics:
— Skeletal structure:
> Detected damage to skull structure
> Detected damage to elbow implant
> Detected damage to torso
— Muscular structure:
> Detected damage to head structure…
Unfamiliar messages flashed before his eyes as a strange itch surged through his body again. Dead ether began to flow from his abdomen, inexplicably replaced by a purified, cold stream. A sensation of freshness and strength overwhelmed him, consuming his cast-grid.
"What is this…?" The youth looked at his hands in surprise, noticing the wounds beginning to heat up. The heat spread through his forearm, intensifying at the wound. The sliced muscle surface began to heal, sprouting black fibers. The skin also restored its former appearance, covered with a thin layer of synthetics. "The wounds are healing?"
"It'll take some time, but the nanites will quickly restore the mechanics. Unfortunately, the microfactory's reserves aren't infinite and will need manual replenishment," the archive guardian's voice was emotionless, as if it wasn't worth her attention. "But I warn you, don't break yourself recklessly."
"She talks like I'm deliberately looking for trouble and wanting to die."
Mesmerized by the "healing" process, the youth couldn't help but wonder.
"Who is she to do this to my body? I remember her saying something about an archive and some corporation."
"And yet, what is this place?" She didn't know the full situation, forced to rely on Siren's explanations.
By this time, the line to the altar in front of him had ended, forcing him to approach quietly.
Siren didn't respond to the hologram and only shrugged, standing before the templar.
"Name," the man in the robe asked without raising his head.
An orange flame danced on the altar, as if greeting the youth instead of the cleric.
"Siren," the youth replied softly, nodding to himself.
The man before him wrote something on paper, then generously sprinkled it with an unknown powder.
"Extend your palm," the man commanded again, folding the paper in his hands.
Without thinking long, the youth extended his palm forward, expecting to receive the folded paper. But to his surprise, the templar grabbed his wrist and quickly slashed his palm with a dagger.
"Ouch!"
Ignoring the youth, the man dripped fresh blood onto the paper, then tossed it into the flame. The fire consumed the paper, turning its contents to ash.
The templar waited until the paper burned completely, then scooped up the ash with a spoon.
"Hand," the man said dryly, looking at the youth.
Siren glared at him irritably, glancing at the hologram nearby. She only shrugged, evidently not understanding what was happening either.
"Extend your hand, kid," a firm voice suddenly rang out. Startled, the youth noticed a figure that had appeared behind the templar unnoticed. "The ash won't harm you. Just extend your palm."
It was a sturdy man covered in tattoos, with a bare chest. He had dark wavy hair and eyes of the same color. His olive-toned skin barely contained the taut muscles beneath.
"Hand!" the templar repeated irritably, staring straight at Siren.
Extending his palm, the youth didn't expect the man to sprinkle ash on the wound.
"You may go," the templar finally said, searing the dagger's blade in the fire.
Stepping away, Siren whispered to the hologram, peering toward where the tattooed man had stood moments before.
"It wasn't just my imagination, right?"
"Imagined what?" Eclipse asked, puzzled.
Horrified by her question, he scanned the hall for the man but, finding no trace of him, exhaled.
"It felt like I just saw a ghost."