The obsidian gates boomed shut behind the fighters, sealing the end of the contest. The sand was still stained from the
clash — patches of glass where lightning had struck, deep grooves carved by crimson rods.
Zis Skayr stood tall, blood dripping down his arm, but his chin lifted like a banner. His people roared his name, stamping their feet in rhythm until the whole arena trembled.
The Monarch rose from his throne. His smile was calm, but his eyes were sharp as daggers.
"By blood and by blade, the Vastos have claimed victory. From this moment forward, authority is theirs. They will enforce justice across the realm."
The Vastos erupted — fists raised, throats raw with victory chants.
But the Hawks were stone-faced. Their captain, Nova Oculon, was carried away on a stretcher, his feathers blackened with smoke. Even wounded, his eyes locked on Zis, cold and unbroken.
Andros leaned forward, voice hard:
"You hand them power, but power is not order. Do you expect the Vastos to judge fairly when their creed is blood?"
The Monarch chuckled softly.
"Fairness is the song of the weak. Justice is the song of the victor."
The words hit like a blade across the Hawks. Murmurs spread through the crowd, whispers of doubt threading between the cheers.
Kestrel finally stepped from the shadows. Her cloak dragged against the obsidian floor, her voice slicing through the tension.
"The Dark General is pleased. Authority in the hands of the Vastos is authority that remembers blood. But remember, Monarch… shadow and steel serve him first, not you."
The Monarch's smile faltered for a breath, but then returned.
Zis raised his hand, crimson light spiraling briefly above his fist before fading into the air.
"Justice will bleed, but it will not waver."
The arena thundered with the sound of Vastos war drums. Yet in the higher seats, many citizens looked pale, clutching their robes tighter. For them, justice no longer meant balance. It meant fear.
Renji felt it in his bones. The waves had begun.
For days after the Vastos claimed authority, the city braced itself for bloodshed. Whispers filled the taverns and alleys:
"They'll rewrite justice with crimson ink."
"They'll turn every street into a killing ground."
But none of it came.
The Vastos stayed calm. Their soldiers patrolled no more harshly than before. No new decrees, no sudden executions, no wave of rage. Even Monarch Ash, who once stood tall as a symbol of rule, collapsed into a silence that unnerved the people more than war ever could.
The storm everyone feared… never came.
One afternoon, Renji wandered through the market, the smell of spices and iron thick in the air. He drifted toward a shadowed side street where the crowd thinned.
There, slumped against the wall, was a man. His clothes were ragged, his chest unmoving.
Renji knelt, reaching with trembling fingers.
No breath.
No pulse.
But before he could even scream for help, the body shivered.
The flesh rippled, as though something beneath it moved. Then — like smoke bursting from a flame — the body dissolved into a swirling cloud of black mist. It spun upward, curling, twisting, then vanished into the air, leaving nothing behind but the smell of iron and ash.
Renji stumbled back, his heart hammering.
And then his arm burned.
A circle seared itself into his skin, drawn in blood as if invisible hands carved it: inside the circle, a dragon-like sigil, sharp and writhing, as though alive.
Renji fled, his breath ragged, his body breaking down even before he reached home. Fever overtook him. His vision darkened. He couldn't rise from his bed.
Yara came first. She sat beside him, her presence unexpectedly gentle, cooling his forehead with a damp cloth. "Rest," she whispered, her tone unlike the sharp edge he knew. "Don't fight it alone."
Later, Ash entered with the Old Man. Ash's eyes narrowed the moment he saw Renji's pale skin, the sweat, the way he shivered like fire had taken root inside him.
"This isn't sickness," Ash muttered.
The Old Man silently pulled back Renji's sleeve, turning his arm over. There it was — the mark. The circle. The black dragon writhed faintly within it, like ink shifting in water.
"Yes," the Old Man said grimly. "It's living."
Renji forced his voice through fever. "The… the man. In the market. He turned to smoke… and then this appeared."
Ash exchanged a look with the Old Man — one of recognition, but also fear.
They wasted no time. Together, they carried the matter before the Monarch.
The Monarch studied Renji's arm, his faint smile gone, his eyes shadowed by something deeper.
"I have never seen this mark," he said slowly. "But I have heard of them."
"Living symbols," the Old Man whispered.
The Monarch nodded. "Yes. They are rarer than the blood of kings. Perhaps fewer than three remain in this age. Each one is not mere ink — it is an entity. A curse. A contract. A thing that chooses its host."
Ash's jaw tightened. "So it passed from that dead body… into him."
"Not passed," the Monarch corrected softly. "It moved. And such things do not move without reason."
The chamber fell into silence, broken only by Renji's strained breaths.
At last, the Monarch said: "He stays in the castle. Under the Old Man's care. Until we learn about this thing .