JAWS,
The underground arena burned red beneath flickering lights. Spikes lined the pit's edges, the air thick with sweat and blood. Chains rattled somewhere in the dark.
Above, the stands trembled with voices—thousands packed shoulder to shoulder, reveling in the madness they called sport.
This wasn't a normal arena. Jaws was a deathtrap. Blades, spikes, and shifting mechanisms lurked underfoot, ready to claim the careless. No healers waited for the wounded. Fighters either walked out whole or were dragged out cold. The only reason anyone risked it was the payout. Five times the reward of a standard arena, sometimes more when the bets swelled. Or those crazy bastards who just want a thrilling fight.
Barrow leaned forward over the railing, his scarred hands gripping the rusted iron. Two figures stood in the pit below. One in a full black battlesuit, silver etchings glinting around his mask. The other in dark blue, his youthful face bare, a saber twirling lazily in his grip.
The crowd erupted.
"ZAKE! ZAKE! ZAKE!"
"MYKEL! ZAKE! ZAKE!"
Almost every throat screamed Zake's name. Barrow's jaw clenched. They weren't cheering out of love; they were cheering because the outcome seemed inevitable. Zake is a 17-year-old Adept ranker in the dissonant phase. Mykel was not. To most, the fight was a foregone conclusion.
But Barrow had seen the masked boy fight before. He had watched him carve down awakened opponents with skill no unawakened should possess. Mykel was proof that will and grit could stand against talent and power.
"HEY, MYKEL!" Barrow roared, voice breaking against the tide.
"YOU'VE DONE THIS BEFORE! FOCUS AND WIN!"
Laughter snapped back from the stands.
"Oyy, old man, are you stupid? Zake isn't some regular awakener—he's gonna cook Mykel ass!"
Another jeer followed. "Mykel's strong, sure, but he's still just an unawakened. Against the real deal? He's nothing!"
Barrow scoffed, refusing to turn. His chest burned with stubborn defiance. He'd placed his bets already—big bets. He didn't care. He'd seen Mykel endure battles that would've broken better men. He'd seen him rise again and again. No matter the ridicule, he would believe in Mykel.
The bell rang.
CLANG!
Steel shrieked as Zake's saber struck Mykel's blade, sparks bursting on impact. Caught off guard, Mykel staggered back a step. Barrow's breath caught. Zake was on him again—too fast to follow.
A flurry of strikes slashed all over Mykel.
SLASH! Blood sprayed from his shoulders, thighs, and chest. Barrow's stomach lurched.
Another blur—Mykel slammed against the edge, nearly impaled on the spikes. His mask dipped low, his frame straining to hold steady.
But then—he pushed back.
With a guttural growl, Mykel ducked under the next strike, his sword flashing upward. The crowd gasped as sparks skittered across Zake's mask. For an instant, it looked like he might turn the tide.
"THAT'S IT, KID!" Barrow roared, veins straining in his neck.
Mykel pressed forward, slashing in a desperate rhythm, each strike fueled by raw instinct. For a heartbeat, Zake's saber seemed to yield. The crowd stilled, torn between mockery and awe.
But then came the shift.
Zake's movements grew sharper, crueler. His saber danced with precision Mykel could never match. Each clash rattled Mykel's arms, each parry drained the last of his strength.
A brutal strike tore his blade wide open. Zake spun, his saber whistling past Mykel's guard. Sparks and blood burst in the same breath. Mykel staggered, his sword nearly slipping.
Still, he refused to fall.
His chest heaved, vision blurry, but he raised his blade again, a trembling defiance in his stance.
The crowd rose to its feet.
Zake didn't pause. His saber arced again in a ruthless flash. Mykel lifted his blade—but the impact tore it from his grasp. The weapon clattered across the floor.
The arena fell silent.
Barrow's heart sank. His vision blurred, but he forced himself to watch.
Zake pressed the saber to Mykel's throat. The fight was over—twenty seconds, nothing more.
The crowd exploded, not in surprise at the victor, but at the manner of victory. They had expected a battle, a clash worthy of Mykel's reputation. Instead, they were given domination, and their hunger shifted eagerly toward the rising star, Zake.
Barrow sat frozen. Down in the pit, the masked boy bent, trembling hands reclaiming his fallen sword before slipping back into the shadows.
For the first time since he had seen Mykel fight, Barrow felt a hollow weight in his chest. This wasn't just a defeat. The mask Mykel always carried, steady, unyielding, had cracked.
And Barrow, the fool who believed more fiercely than anyone, felt that crack echo in himself.
***
"What happened..?"
"How did I lose?"
Mykel had lost before, to awakeners, even to the unawakened. But never like this. Never so fast. Never so merciless. His chest heaved, and the thought clawed at him: two months until sixteen. Two months until his chance slipped forever.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
His scream tore from his lungs, blood flecking his lips, but the arena drowned him out with cheers and laughter. No one cared for the sound of a loser.
He screamed until his voice cracked. Until only ragged gasps remained. Then, with eyes burning, he demanded more fights. Faster. Harder. Crueler. Four times he stepped into the pit that night. Four times he fell.
By the end, his body shook with exhaustion. His strikes grew wild, his vision dulled, his will eroded with every defeat.
Collapsed in the corner, he tasted dirt and iron. He asked himself the same question repeatedly.
Why not me? Why not yet?
No answer came.
He wanted awakening. He wanted freedom. He wanted anything that could drag him out of this pit of weakness. But the only path left—the serum—was forbidden. His father's word was iron. His house's honor mattered more than his son's despair.
For years, he had trained his body not to break. Tonight, it was his spirit that cracked.
"I… Thalen Varkheil, I am nothing but a loser."
The words left him like ash. This was no longer just Mykel's defeat—it was Thalen's breaking point.
For years, he had carried himself as if nothing could break him, a wall of iron against the mockery and blows. But now, cracks spread wide, his eyes flickered emptily, the little strength that had kept him standing dissolved, leaving only the hollow weight of failure.
Far away from the pit, another set of eyes lingered on Thalen's crumpled body. They glistened, watching the boy's chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. The words were too faint to catch, but the look on his face told enough—something inside him had shattered.
Barrow's throat burned. Before he realized it, tears blurred his vision, slipping hot down his cheeks. His hands curled into fists, nails pressing deep into skin, as if he could hold the ache inside. He had long accepted what he was—weak, spineless—but seeing Thalen like this dragged old wounds wide open.
He wanted to move, to cross the distance, to tell the boy not to give in. The words swelled on his tongue… and died there. His jaw locked, teeth grinding hard enough to ache.
His chest felt cavernous, empty, as if something vital had been scooped out years ago and never returned. He had failed back then—failed to awaken, was unable to hold on to what made him whole. Since then, he had only lived in echoes.
Watching Mykel fight filled a slight hollow in him, so he cheered to drown the silence inside.
Now, faced with Thalen's crumbling spirit, he had no words in him to give. His fists trembled at his sides, and still he stood frozen.
At last, he turned away, leaving the boy to splinter in the dark.