Chapter 20: The Arena Zone
Iskander
The cool blue stone of the tunnel floor seeped into my crossed legs, a grounding counterpoint to the impossible warmth radiating from the tiny sphere of golden light cradled between my palms.
Sylvia.
The hum of her presence resonated through the aetheric tether connecting us—that invisible, vital cord of pale gold energy flowing from my core to the will-o'-wisp—vibrating against my sternum like a second heartbeat.
It was a fragile miracle, a stolen moment of profound connection amidst the Relictombs' pervasive dread. I held her gently, the light soft against my blood-stained skin, the simple act of holding her a balm on the raw nerves still screaming from the memory of the mace and the severing.
The guilt over the team, the horror of Gawain, the terrifying implications Sylvia had voiced… it all receded, muted by the overwhelming, simple rightness of feeling her consciousness, distinct and present, nestled within this vessel I'd forged.
The sibling squabble beside me finally sputtered out. Delilah's head tilted, her earlier awe now laced with open curiosity as she peered at my cupped hands.
"Iskander... what are you doing?" she asked, her voice hushed, almost reverent in the dim tunnel's quiet. Her green eyes tried to pierce the shield of my fingers.
"I am hugging my Mom," I declared, the statement simple, profound, and utterly true. I slowly opened my palms, revealing the hovering golden sphere, its light casting gentle, dancing shadows on the tunnel walls. "She is Sylvia."
"A will-o'-wisp?" Delilah breathed, leaning closer, fascination warring with confusion as she examined the pulsing marble of golden aether.
Sylvia, can you speak aloud? I asked down the bond, focusing on that golden thread. It shimmered faintly in my mind's eye, a lifeline of pure potential connecting us.
'No, Child,' her voice resonated within me, clear and warm, yet tinged with a hint of gentle resignation. 'The vessel holds my consciousness, allows me this presence, but it lacks the complexity for vocalization. It is… light and resonance. Not flesh and voice.'
Then I need to make you a better body, I thought fiercely, the determination flaring. This doesn't do you justice. You deserve form, movement… a voice they can hear. Instinctively,
Creation stirred between my shoulder blades, the pale gold core flickering as I began to envision something more substantial—a spectral hand, perhaps, or a miniature figure echoing her true grace.
'Child!' Her mental voice was sharp, an immediate, maternal admonishment. 'I can feel the strain on your core! Instead of replenishing it after that vortex, after recreating your leg, you poured energy into this vessel for me. It's depleted, Iskander. Dangerously so. Rest. Now.'
But I did it for you! I mentally whined, injecting a playful petulance I hadn't felt since childhood, a strange counterpoint to the grim surroundings. The urge to push, to give her more, was almost overwhelming.
'And I am immeasurably grateful, more than words within this light can convey,' she soothed, her tone softening, washing over my frantic thoughts like warm water.
'But your wellbeing, your strength, is paramount. To me. Always. Rest. Let the aether flow back in.'
Pfft, I thought rebelliously, not sending the sentiment her way. Demigod body. Healing factor courtesy of Creation. What's a little core depletion? I knew she'd have a lecture ready about hubris and limits if she heard it.
"Yes, a will-o'-wisp," I confirmed aloud to Delilah, pulling my focus back to the tunnel. "A vessel I made with aether using my Creation Goldrune." I gestured vaguely behind my back where the rune's power resided. "So you can see it. It's like the vortex I made before—solidified aether given form."
Yorick adjusted his spectacles, his analytical mind seizing on the explanation. "Oh, I understand," he murmured, nodding slowly. "So it is like a specialized summon. Some Ascenders manifest similar constructs through their runes, especially Sentries for scouting phantoms or Casters for elemental familiars. Though... yours seems far more... sentient."
His gaze lingered on the gently pulsing light with wary fascination.
My eyes scanned the tunnel, searching for Renhart. He hadn't moved from his spot leaning against the wall. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in a steady, deep rhythm. His scarred face, usually etched in a permanent scowl, looked strangely relaxed, almost vulnerable in the dim light.
The tension seemed to bleed out of him, leaving behind the stark lines of exhaustion.
"Is Renhart... sleeping?" I asked, disbelief coloring my tone as I pointed towards his slumped form.
Delilah turned, following my gesture. "I think so... are you going to wake him up?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes gleaming with a mixture of mischief and apprehension.
"What? Why me?!" I hissed back, genuine alarm spiking. The image of his mace swinging towards my head in a sleep-fogged rage was vividly unpleasant.
"I fear he might turn us into paste if we woke him," Yorick stated matter-of-factly, pushing his spectacles up his nose.
"And if he does that to you..." He trailed off meaningfully, his gaze flicking pointedly to my perfectly healed leg.
"...you'll live through it," Delilah finished for him, flashing me an encouraging, utterly terrifying smile. "Sooo..."
'I may have judged their resilience too soon,' Sylvia's voice chimed in my mind, laced with dry amusement and a hint of exasperation. 'Their priorities seem... flexible.'
Chill, Dragon Mama, I thought back, a reluctant grin tugging at my lips despite the situation. They're just joking. I glanced back at the peacefully slumbering juggernaut.
Or at least, I desperately hope they are. Waking him feels like poking a sleeping dragon. A very grumpy, mace-wielding dragon.
"Don't look at me," I announced firmly, crossing my arms in a gesture of absolute refusal. "We move when he wakes up. I'm not volunteering for paste-duty."
"I really wanted to see Byron's reaction!" Delilah whined, genuine disappointment in her voice. "Shouldn't you, as future Retainer of Sehz-Clar and our apparent powerhouse, impose some leadership and gently rouse him? Set the schedule?"
"Nice try, Delilah," I said, wagging a finger. "Flattery and misplaced expectations won't work. If you want to gauge Renhart's morning temperament, you get the honor of the first poke. I yield the floor."
Suddenly, the steady rhythm of Renhart's breathing hitched. His eyes snapped open, instantly sharp and alert, devoid of any lingering drowsiness. He pushed off the wall with a grunt, his gaze sweeping over us like a searchlight.
"Are you done?" he rumbled, his voice rough but clear. He hefted his mace onto his shoulder, the casual threat back in place. "We better move. This tunnel stinks of stale air and bad decisions."
"Done... sleeping?" Delilah asked, unable to resist, a hopeful grin spreading across her face.
"Sleeping?" Renhart's scowl returned with a vengeance, deeper than before. He looked genuinely offended. "Me? I don't sleep in the Relictombs. Only fools and corpses sleep down here. I was meditating. Assessing the ambient mana. Planning our route. Something you lot should try instead of gossiping like fishwives."
His denial was vehement, almost convincing if not for the faint imprint of the stone texture on his cheek and the unnatural speed of his awakening.
"So you heard everything we said..." I ventured, bracing for the inevitable explosion about being called a future Retainer or discussing his potential paste-making abilities.
Renhart frowned, a deeper crease appearing between his brows—a monumental expression of confusion on his usually impassive face.
"Heard what?" he snapped, genuine irritation replacing the offense. "Stop spouting nonsense, Highblood. The air's thick enough without your delusions. Let's move. I still have the dubious honor of shepherding you through your first Ascent, and this place," he gestured down the tunnel, "finally looks like something recognizable. Less mountain of doom, more standard tomb drudgery. Yorick, point. Delilah, stop gawking at the Highblood's shiny bauble and watch your flank. Iskander… try not to lose any more limbs. Keep up."
He started walking, his heavy boots echoing decisively on the stone.
"Does he have problems with sleeping?" Yorick's whisper, barely audible to normal ears but crystal clear to my Asuran senses, reached his sister's ear. "I am certain he was sleeping before. Soundlessly, but definitely sleeping."
"What if it's a technique?" Delilah whispered back, her eyes shining with the thrill of discovery. "A secret Ascender skill to fall asleep instantly anywhere? For endurance delves? That would be incredible!"
'Child,' Sylvia's voice held a gentle, chiding note. 'Eavesdropping, even with enhanced senses, is a poor habit. Especially concerning those you travel alongside. Respect their privacy.'
Yeah, yeah, sorry Dragon Mama, I thought back, rolling my eyes internally at the parental reminder. No eavesdropping. Got it. Though Renhart's vehement denial of something so patently obvious was… fascinating. And slightly worrying.
We fell into formation, the brief respite over. Renhart took point, his posture radiating wary vigilance. I walked slightly behind and to his right, the golden will-o'-wisp of Sylvia now nestled securely in the inner pocket of my tunic, a warm, comforting weight against my chest.
Delilah followed close behind me, her earlier excitement tempered by Renhart's brusqueness, her eyes now scanning the shadows with more focus. Yorick brought up the rear, his brow furrowed in concentration, the faint silver nimbus of his Sentry Crest occasionally flickering around him as he actively probed the surroundings.
The rhythmic hum of the aether sconces was our only soundtrack, a monotonous counterpoint to the tension coiling in my gut. The blue stone corridor stretched on, featureless and oppressive, the light unwavering but offering no comfort, only the illusion of safety.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the scuff of boots and the low thrum of the sconces.
Then Yorick's voice cut through, soft but decisive:
"There's a larger space ahead. At the end of this tunnel. Much larger. The mana... the feeling... it opens up."
"Expectable," Renhart grunted without breaking stride. "Standard layout. Corridor funnels into a chamber. Could be a puzzle node, a resource cache... or a trial arena. Eyes sharp and assume the worst."
An arena. The word landed like a stone in the pit of my stomach. Of course. This world loved its spectacles, its tests of strength. The last arena I'd seen… flashed into my mind not as a Relictombs construct, but as a flickering image on a hospital room screen years ago.
A national broadcast. The polished chrome and roaring crowds of a combat stadium back on Earth. The day King Grey, cold and implacable, dismantled his final challenger with terrifying efficiency, cementing his unchallengeable reign.
The sterile scent of antiseptic, the hollow ache of my failing body, the detached admiration mixed with a child's unease at such absolute, ruthless power…
As the memory surfaced, a distinct tremor vibrated down the golden aetheric tether connecting me to Sylvia. The will-o'-wisp nestled against my chest pulsed erratically for a split second.
Sylvia? Are you okay? I sent the thought down the bond, concern spiking. Is something wrong? Did you feel that?
'No, Child, it's nothing... just a ripple in the aether here,' her voice came back, smooth but with an unnatural haste. 'Focus on the present.' The bond stabilized, the tremor vanishing as quickly as it came. But it felt… deliberate. Controlled. Like she'd clamped down on something.
Strange, I thought, filing it away. I'd thought of King Grey, felt my own lingering complex mix of resentment and reluctant understanding—tempered slightly by the Heart Relic's revelations, but never erased—and Sylvia… reacted.
Did she sense my disdain? Or was it the concept of that arena, that display of power, that resonated with some hidden chord? The questions buzzed, unanswered, adding another layer of unease to the already tense atmosphere.
"An arena?" Delilah breathed, the word filled with a different kind of anticipation as we rounded the final bend in the tunnel. Not dread, but the thrill of potential glory, the stage upon which Ascenders earned their accolades.
"It looks... like the Colosseum in Victorious," Yorick observed, his voice hushed with awe. Victorious. A city name, probably Alacrya's equivalent of a capital, a place of power and spectacle.
Tier upon tier of stone seating rose steeply on all sides, carved from the same deep blue stone as the tunnel but stained dark by time and shadow, ascending into gloom far above. They formed a perfect, terrifying bowl, devoid of spectators, yet thrumming with the phantom echoes of forgotten crowds.
The scale was immense, dwarfing the Earth stadium in my memory. At the center was the arena floor—a wide expanse of packed, ochre-colored earth, scarred and uneven, illuminated by a single, blinding source: a sphere of pure, unwavering white light suspended high in the empty void where a ceiling should be.
It cast stark, deep shadows, bleaching the sand and turning the surrounding seating tiers into impenetrable black cliffs. The silence here was absolute, a physical pressure after the tunnel's hum, heavy with expectation and latent violence. It wasn't just a space; it was an instrument waiting for the performance to begin.
The air tasted ancient, dry, and thick with dust and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. The sheer scale pressed down, amplifying the isolation of our tiny group standing on the threshold. This wasn't a place for puzzles or caches.
Renhart's initial assessment felt chillingly accurate.
"What should we expect?" I asked Renhart, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the consuming silence. My hand instinctively drifted towards the warm weight of Sylvia's vessel against my chest.
"No idea," he admitted, the gruffness replaced by a flat, dangerous seriousness. "But this reeks of a crucible. A fighting pit. Pure trial by combat. Whatever comes… it won't be a conversation."
"Be ready. Eyes everywhere. Yorick, what do you say?"
Yorick's runes flared brightly for a moment. He frowned, concentrating. "Nothing yet… but the space is vast. The light… it interferes. Something feels… coiled. I don't know how to explain it better."
"Aye, aye," Delilah and I responded almost in unison, the shared acknowledgment stark against the arena's silence.
Delilah hefted her lance, the oversized tip gleaming dully in the harsh white light, her earlier excitement now tempered by the palpable menace of the place. Yorick simply nodded, gripping his black halberd tighter, his knuckles pale.
Together, a fragile unit bound by shared challenges and fleeting hope, we stepped out of the tunnel's relative shelter and onto the scarred ochre earth of the arena floor.
———
The moment my boot settled on the ochre sand, the Relictombs answered. It was a physical sensation—a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated up through the soles of my feet, rattling my bones. Then came the trumpets.
Not earthly brass, but something older, harsher, forged from the Relictombs' own essence. The notes were triumphant and utterly devoid of warmth, blasting through the cavernous silence of the arena, echoing off the towering blue stone tiers until the very air seemed to shiver.
It was a fanfare for gladiators, a herald of violence.
Simultaneously, a distinct shift pulsed through the ambient aether. Not the chaotic swirl of Gawain's spatium techniques, but a focused, brutal signature coalescing across the vast expanse of sand. Before I could voice the warning, Yorick's sharp intake of breath cut through the unnatural fanfare.
"There! At the far end!" His finger stabbed towards the oppressive gloom beneath the highest tier, opposite our tunnel entrance.
Then, we all heard it. A bellow that dwarfed the fading trumpet blasts. It wasn't just loud; it was a hammer blow to our eardrums, a guttural roar of primal fury that slammed into us, vibrating in our chests.
The sound of hooves followed a thunderous, earth-shaking charge. Scraping, churning, throwing up plumes of ochre dust as a massive shape detached itself from the shadows.
A minotaur. Straight from Earth's dusty mythology books, yet terrifyingly real. It stood easily three meters tall, muscles like coiled granite beneath dark, matted fur. Its bovine head swung low, nostrils flaring plumes of vapor in the cold arena air.
Two jagged horns, the color of spilled tar and wickedly sharp, swept backwards from its temples. But it was the adornments that screamed Relictombs: thick, tarnished brass chains wound around its massive forearms like knuckledusters, clinking with each pounding stride.
A heavy brass ring pierced its broad nose, and a reinforced kilt of interlocking brass plates protected its lower abdomen and legs. It carried no weapon. It was the weapon.
The Brass Bull. The name crystallized in my mind, cold and fitting.
It closed the distance with terrifying speed, a juggernaut of muscle, horn, and clanking metal. Its small, bloodshot eyes fixed on Renhart, the largest target. Renhart didn't flinch. He planted his feet, a bastion against the tide.
The rune on his back—a complex, angular sigil I hadn't fully noted before—flared with a deep amber light. As the Bull's chain-wrapped fist, the size of a boulder, descended in a blur, Renhart brought his mace up in a sweeping block. The impact was colossal.
CLANG-SHOOOOOM!
The sound was deafening, a metallic shriek that drowned out the echoes of the trumpets. Sand exploded outwards in a wave. Renhart grunted, muscles straining visibly beneath his shirt, his boots skidding backwards a full foot, gouging deep furrows in the packed earth. But he held.
The light around his rune pulsed, absorbing, distributing the monstrous force. His face was a mask of focused strain.
"Do you three want to stay still as statues some more?!" His roar, fueled by adrenaline and effort, somehow cut through the din, a whip-crack of command aimed at us.
"Y-yes!" Delilah stammered, shaken out of her momentary paralysis. Fire, vivid as molten lava coming from a volcano, erupted along the shaft of her lance.
She didn't hesitate. Darting forward with surprising agility, she drove the flaming point at the thick muscle of the Brass Bull's shoulder joint, seeking a weakness in the chain armor. The fiery tip struck true, searing fur and flesh with a hiss.
The Brass Bull bellowed, more in annoyance than pain, but the distraction was enough. It flinched, its crushing pressure on Renhart momentarily easing.
Yorick saw the opening. His movements were economical, precise. He lunged with the lethal point of his black halberd, aiming for the gap between the brass kilt plates low on the Brass Bull's torso.
The sharp tip punched deep into the thick hide and muscle beneath. The Brass Bull roared again, a sound of genuine fury this time, thick blood welling around the wound. Yorick wrenched the halberd free and danced back, his face pale but determined.
"Iskander," Yorick gasped, his eyes locking onto mine. "Hit it!" The trust in that simple command, after everything, sent a jolt through me.
Sylvia, I thought, the plan forming in a flash of desperate inspiration. Might have an idea. I need you. My hand flew to my tunic pocket, closing around the warm, humming sphere of the will-o'-wisp.
'Child? What are you—' Her mental voice held surprise, then dawning comprehension as she felt my intent surge through the bond.
I didn't explain. Pale gold aether surged down my legs, flooding my Asuran muscles with explosive power. I became a comet launched across the sand. Creation flared at my command.
Two compact, fiercely spinning rings of solidified golden aether formed around my right fist. But this time, I didn't stop there. With a thought, a command woven with my love for Dragon Mama, I guided Sylvia's will-o'-wisp into the heart of the whirling rings.
'Iskander!' Her mental voice was a mix of shock and sudden, intense focus.
She understood instantly. It was like forcing a supercharged electron through a particle accelerator, only the electron was a fragment of a dragon's consciousness turned will-o-wisp, and the accelerator was forged in the form of two rings of solid aether.
The rings flared blindingly bright, their hum rising to a high-pitched whine. Sylvia's presence wasn't just in the energy; she was amplifying it, lending it an ancient resonance, a depth of power that was uniquely hers.
Yorick yanked his halberd back fully, his eyes wide with alarm at the sheer, terrifying energy building in my fist.
My augmented speed carried me the last few yards. The Brass Bull, turning from Yorick's wound, had just begun to swing its massive, chain-laden arm towards me.
My fist, wreathed in the twin rings of Creation and Sylvia's amplified essence, connected squarely with the center of its bovine forehead, right between the tar-black horns.
The impact wasn't just kinetical. It was a detonation of pure, concentrated aetheric force.
KA-BOOOOOOM!
A sound like a collapsing star filled the arena. A shockwave of pure golden light erupted outwards, blinding, consuming. It wasn't fire, but raw energy.
Sand vaporized in an instant, creating a momentary vacuum that sucked the air from my lungs. The blast wave hit me like slamming into a wall, throwing me backwards despite my augmented strength, skidding across the sand.
Silence. Deafening, absolute silence followed the thunderclap. The blinding light faded, leaving stark afterimages dancing in my vision.
Where the Brass Bull had stood, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not ash, not bone, not a single link of brass chain. Just a shallow, glassy crater in the ochre sand, steaming faintly.
The rings around my fist shattered like fragile ice, dissipating into motes of gold. Sylvia's will-o'-wisp tumbled free, pulsing erratically for a moment before stabilizing, hovering beside my shoulder.
She felt... slightly drained, but intact, humming with residual energy and a profound sense of shared exertion.
"Easier than expected!" I declared, pushing myself up onto one elbow, a grin spreading across my face despite the ringing in my ears. Triumph, fierce and bright, surged through me. We'd worked together. Sylvia and I.
'You could have informed me of your idea before turning me into a living artillery shell!' Sylvia's mental voice was sharp, laced with residual adrenaline and a distinct edge of maternal reproach. 'A little coordination might have yielded a more efficient yield-to-effort ratio!'
We won, Sylvia! I thought back, the grin widening as I looked towards Delilah, Yorick, and Renhart, who was slowly lowering his mace, his expression unreadable behind the lingering dust haze.
That's the important—
My triumphant thought froze. Delilah wasn't smiling. She was staring past me, her face draining of all color, her earlier excitement replaced by pure, abject horror. Her finger trembled as she raised it, pointing back towards the far end of the arena, towards the source of the first Brass Bull's charge.
"Iskander..." Her voice was a strangled whisper, barely audible over the tinnitus whine in my ears.
Slowly, stiffly, I turned.
The shadows beneath the high tier weren't empty anymore. Dozens of pairs of blood-red eyes glowed in the gloom. Then another bellow echoed, deeper, more resonant than the first. Then another. And another. The sound multiplied, a horrific chorus of rage.
The ground began to tremble, not from a single charge, but from the coordinated stampede of countless heavy hooves.
A herd of Brass Bulls. At least twenty. Maybe thirty. Massive forms, horns glinting dully, chains clanking in a discordant symphony of impending violence, began to surge forward, churning the sand into a storm cloud.
Their combined bellow shook the ancient stones of the arena.
A weary, darkly humorous sigh escaped my lips, devoid of any real mirth. I pushed myself fully upright, the newly healed leg feeling suddenly less invincible.
"I owe you an apology, God of Misfortune," I murmured, the words tasting like ash. "Forgot about you for a second there."
My fists clenched, pale gold aether flickering around them. Sylvia's will-o'-wisp pulsed with renewed, anxious light.
"Right. Okay then." I settled into a ready stance, the grin long gone, replaced by grim determination. "At least they're not Gawain Indrath."