The guard did not drag him to the arena sands, but deeper into the bowels of the complex, down a corridor lined with heavier doors and better torchlight. The air grew slightly less foul, carrying the scent of oiled leather and polished wood. This was the domain of management, of the man who pulled the strings.
They stopped before a door of dark, lacquered timber. The guard knocked once, a sharp, respectful sound.
"Enter." The voice from within was calm, measured, and devoid of any warmth.
The guard opened the door and shoved Yrauos inside before closing it, remaining in the hallway. Yrauos found himself in a study that was a study in contradictions. Plush, deep crimson carpets covered the stone floor. Shelves lined with leather-bound ledgers and exotic trinkets stood against the walls. But mounted between them were weapons—axes, swords, spears—each one clean and obviously used, trophies from fallen combatants. This was the den of a man who enjoyed the fruits of civilization, but whose wealth was built on savagery.
Behind a massive oak desk sat Tarik Cave.
He was a man in his late forties, with a lean, athletic build that suggested he was no stranger to violence himself. His hair was black and swept back, silvering at the temples. His face was handsome in a sharp, predatory way, with a neatly trimmed goatee. He wore clothes of fine, dark fabric, unadorned but impeccably tailored. His eyes, the color of flint, were fixed on Yrauos, and they missed nothing.
He did not speak immediately. He let the silence stretch, a classic tactic of intimidation. Yrauos met his gaze, his own green cat-like eyes reflecting none of the fear Tarik was undoubtedly searching for. He stood with a stillness that was unnatural for a child, his hands loose at his sides.
"Yrauos," Tarik finally said, his voice a soft purr. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "You've been with me for, what, three years now? A sickly little thing. I took you in as a charity case. You've been a mediocre, but surprisingly persistent, investment."
He picked up a small, crystal paperweight from his desk, turning it over in his hands. "But last night... last night was different. Beating Grond wasn't luck. It was calculation." His flinty eyes narrowed. "Your eyes are different. Your posture is different. You've been healing at an impossible rate. The guards talk. They say you don't scream in your sleep anymore."
Yrauos said nothing. The System was a silent, watchful presence in his mind, offering no prompts, no missions. This was a test it could not take for him.
"I am a businessman," Tarik continued, placing the paperweight down with a soft click. "I deal in assets. And it appears one of my most... depreciated assets has suddenly appreciated in value. I want to know why."
He stood and walked around the desk, circling Yrauos like a shark. "Did your bloodline finally awaken? Fully? Is that it? A late bloomer?" He stopped in front of him, looking down. "Speak, boy. Your continued comfort, your rations, the very air you breathe, depends on my satisfaction."
Yrauos knew this dance. He had played it from both sides. To show too much would make him a threat to be caged or dissected. To show too little would brand him as defiant, to be broken.
He chose his words with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. "The pain... focused me," he said, his voice quiet but clear, devoid of a child's tremor. "I remembered things. How to move. How to see weak points." It was the truth, just not the whole truth. A plausible explanation for a traumatized slave discovering his power.
Tarik's lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. "Focused you," he repeated, tasting the words. "I see." He reached out, not to strike, but to grip Yrauos's chin, forcing his head up. "Look at me."
Yrauos complied, his gaze unwavering. He could feel the man's Essenceflow—a Refined Core, stable and controlled, but with no hint of a Resonance. Tarik's power was not in magic, but in his ruthless intellect and his will to dominate.
"Good," Tarik murmured, releasing him. "That focus... I can use that. The crowd loves an underdog. A story. The pitiful slave who finds his fangs." He returned to his seat. "Your training begins tomorrow. Real training. You will fight twice a week. No more, no less. You will win. You will be entertaining. In return, you get an extra meal a day and a blanket. Disobey me, disappoint me, and the person I hurt won't be you." He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "It will be that little fox-girl you're so fond of. Lyra."
A cold knot tightened in Yrauos's stomach. Lyra. The one flicker of kindness in this hell. The System had just given him a vulnerability.
"Understood," Yrauos said, his voice flat.
"Get out."
Back in the stifling darkness of his cell, the weight of the meeting settled on him. He was on a tighter leash now, with Lyra as the collar. The path to freedom had just grown more complex.
Frustration and a simmering rage began to boil within him. The calm focus he had maintained shattered. The Infernal Convergence, agitated by his spiking emotions, flared in response. Heat built in his chest. Sparks of phantom lightning crackled along his nerves. He felt the urge to burn, to break, to reduce this entire cage to slag.
He fell into the kata, not for a mission, but to burn off the furious energy. He moved through the stances faster, harder, pushing his body until his muscles burned and his new Mana Veins ached. He channeled the infernal heat into his movements, his fists cutting the air with a faint hiss.
In the middle of a particularly violent spin, his Infernal Convergence surged uncontrollably. A wave of plasma-fire and raw kinetic force erupted from his core, not outwards, but inwards, twisting space around him.
CRACK.
The sound was not of breaking stone, but of reality fracturing. A jagged, vertical line of violet light tore open the air in the center of his cell. From it fell a single object, landing on the filthy straw with a soft, metallic ring.
The rift snapped shut, leaving behind the scent of ozone and cosmic dust.
Panting, Yrauos stared at the object.
It was a blade.
It rested there, seeming to drink the faint light. It was a hybrid form, elegant like a katana yet broader and more imposing like a longsword, forged from what looked like celestial silver and abyssal steel. Its guard was engraved with an ouroboros—a serpent devouring its own tail, a perfect symbol of eternity and contradiction.
He approached it slowly. There was no menace radiating from it, only a profound, ancient stillness. As his fingers brushed against the cool, intricately woven hilt, a shiver ran up his arm, a connection snapping into place.
In his mind, the System flared to life with a cascade of golden text.
[Soul Gear Bond Established.]
[Weapon: Eternal Paradox - Godslayer's Edge - ACQUIRED.]
[Synchronization: 1%]
A new mission appeared, its text glowing with an urgent, bloody hue.
[New Mission Available: 'The Unwanted Heir']
[Objective: Kill the current champion of the Crimson Pit, 'Gorehorn,' in your next match.]
[Reward: Unseal: Infernal Convergence (Common). 500 EP. Soul Gear Synchronization +5%.]
[Failure: De-synchronization with Soul Gear. Permanent sealing of Infernal Convergence.]