Takeda and Daurial hurried through the torch-lit corridors of the arena’s underbelly, their footsteps echoing against damp stone. Shadows coiled along the walls like waiting serpents, and the air smelled of sweat, oil, and the faint tinge of blood. Behind them, Sarrak followed at an unhurried pace, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his coat, humming something tuneless under his breath.

  They turned a corner into a narrow storage chamber—one lined with crates, rusted tools, and bundles of discarded arena gear. Daurial stepped to the center and clutched the voidglass eye tightly against her palm. Its eerie, steady pulse quickened.

  “We’re close,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It should be—”

  The sharp whistle of air was the only warning.

  A dagger came screaming toward Daurial from the shadows.

  Before she could react, Sarrak surged forward like a shadow breaking loose. His arm snapped around her waist as he pivoted, shielding her with his body. The blade struck with a sickening thud and sank into his shoulder, embedding itself halfway to the hilt. Daurial gasped.

  Nobody saw where the dagger ended up. Their eyes were locked on the darkness it had come from.

  “Wh-was that a trap?” Daurial asked, breathless.

  “No,” Takeda said, his hand already drifting toward his katana. “We’re not alone.”

  Sarrak grunted, still keeping himself between Daurial and the shadows. “Yeah, no kidding.”

  He turned his head, the dim torchlight glinting off the steel protruding from his shoulder. Then, casually, he looked back to Takeda and Daurial, as if brushing off a spilled drink rather than a buried weapon.

  “There’s no time for all three of us to waste on one idiot,” he muttered. “You two go. Find the source of whatever’s keeping Joran’s magic suppressed. I’ll handle this guy.”

  Takeda hesitated, his gaze sharp. “Are you sure?”

  Sarrak gave a crooked grin, even as blood began to soak through his tunic. “What, the ronin’s worried? You forget who I am.” He tilted his head with theatrical arrogance. “Sarrak the Untouchable. Nobody can hurt me—unless I let them.”

  He gestured loosely to Daurial. “Just make sure you keep beautiful here safe.”

  Daurial blinked, thrown off by the casual charm.

  Takeda sighed. “You never stop talking, do you?”

  “Only when I’m asleep or dead.”

  Takeda gave one last glance at the shadows, then turned to Daurial. “Let’s go.”

  She gave Sarrak a worried look, but he only winked and flicked his chin toward the corridor ahead. She nodded and turned to follow Takeda, disappearing into the winding stone halls with the echo of footsteps fading behind them.

  The silence that followed was oppressive.

  Sarrak watched them vanish, then exhaled slowly. His hand reached behind his back, fingers wrapping around the dagger lodged in his shoulder. He winced.

  “Nggh… fuck. Been a while since I’ve been stabbed,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He yanked the blade free with a wet sound and held it up, inspecting the blood-slicked edge.

  “You sure bleed like anyone else,” a voice drawled from the darkness.

  It came from everywhere and nowhere—fluid, mocking, a whisper with the weight of a smirk.

  Sarrak turned slowly as a figure stepped into the firelight.

  He moved like sound on stone—too fast to track, too light to echo. A tall silhouette, all sinew and sharpness. His features bore the unmistakable signs of Duskwood lineage: angular, dusky-bronze skin kissed by moonlight and inked with faint ritual lines that vanished and reappeared as he moved. His silver-blonde hair was wind-tousled, falling across his face in lazy waves.

  But it was his eyes that unsettled. One was a stormy violet flecked with gold. The other, a gleaming silver disc that shimmered like mercury, cold and calculating.

  “Velen Darrow,” he said with a bow, mockery in every syllable. “Echo Marksman. Inventor of perfect trajectories, champion of impossible angles.” He spun a dagger between his fingers, then tapped the curved edge against his lips. “And today’s composer of your death.”

  Sarrak cracked his neck. “Composer, huh?” He dropped the bloody dagger with a clatter. “Great. A narcissist with a thesaurus.”

  Velen chuckled, the sound like bells through mist. “You know, I always wondered about your ability—‘untouchable,’ they say. Reflects any damage back at your attacker, doesn’t it?” His silver eye gleamed. “But I noticed something. That dagger didn’t hurt me. You threw yourself in the way.”

  Sarrak rolled his shoulders. “Yeah? So?”

  “So,” Velen said, flipping the dagger into his palm, “what happens if the attack isn’t direct?”

  He moved.

  A blur of shadow and motion.

  The dagger he threw didn’t fly straight. It bounced.

  It struck a crate, then the iron ceiling support, and then careened toward Sarrak’s thigh at a bizarre angle.

  Sarrak snarled and reacted on instinct, his own dagger flashing up in a blur to intercept the blow. The weapons collided with a metallic clang, the ricocheted blade skidding across the stone before rebounding again—straight back toward Velen.

  Who caught it effortlessly.

  He twirled the blade, grinning.

  “How interesting,” he purred. “You didn’t trust your power to reflect it. You blocked it instead. That tells me everything I need to know.”

  Sarrak’s grin returned, fangs bared now. “Or maybe I just wanted to keep it interesting.”

  Velen’s eye narrowed with delight.

  “So… we begin.”

  The elf stepped into motion again, throwing knives in a precise, staccato rhythm, each one designed to bounce once, twice, thrice, angling off stone and steel toward impossible paths.

  Sarrak surged forward to meet him, blades flashing.

  And in the flickering torchlight, metal began to sing.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Takeda and Daurial moved swiftly through the winding, half-forgotten corridors beneath the arena. The thunder of the crowd above was distant but ever-present, like the beating heart of a dying beast. Each tremor that shook the floor above sent dust drifting from the seams in the stone ceiling. Daurial flinched at a particularly harsh crash, her hand tightening on the cloak wrapped around her shoulders.

  “That one was right above us,” she murmured, voice low and urgent. “He’s still fighting.”

  Takeda gave no response. His eyes were sharp, focused entirely on the magical thread Daurial traced through the voidglass lens. His pace was unrelenting, his presence calm but charged with tension, like a drawn bow waiting to release.

  They turned another corner and entered a narrow archway reinforced with fresh stonework and wards. At its center, a raised iron pedestal stood inside a ritual circle, its surface etched with silver runes. Suspended above it was a jagged crystal, glowing a noxious green, surrounded by slow-orbiting chains of sigils pulsing in time with a heartbeat that didn’t belong.

  “There,” Daurial whispered. “That’s what’s suppressing his magic.”

  Takeda stepped forward, hand already on his katana. “A hexbound relay crystal,” he said under his breath. “Anchored directly beneath the arena. Tailor-made for short-range inhibition… focused on Joran specifically.”

  He had seen setups like this before—precise, surgical sabotage that didn’t just disable an enemy, but humiliated them. His jaw clenched.

  “We end it,” he said, drawing his blade slowly. The polished steel whispered from its sheath like a warning. He moved toward the crystal, ready to cut it down.

  But he stopped halfway.

  Something shifted in the shadows to his right.

  Three chains erupted from the dark, bladed ends gleaming as they spiraled toward him with unnatural speed. Takeda reacted in an instant, his katana sweeping through the air in an arc of silver light. Two chains he struck aside; the third he narrowly sidestepped, its blade sparking against the stone floor.

  The chains hissed as they slithered back into the shadows like serpents denied a kill.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Daurial,” Takeda said coolly, blade angled before him. “Get clear.”

  Without hesitation, she nodded, drawing the cloak tighter around herself. The enchanted fabric shimmered as it darkened, rendering her form nearly invisible in the low light. She pressed back against the wall, her breath tight, the voidglass eye clenched to her chest.

  A slow clap echoed through the chamber.

  Then came a voice—arrogant, amused, and laced with venom.

  “Well, well… even more impressive in person.”

  From the gloom stepped a man tall and lean, dressed in black leather engraved with angular runes that shimmered faintly under the torchlight. Six chains hovered in the air behind him like spectral limbs, drifting with eerie precision. Their bladed ends gleamed like fangs, and each one pulsed in time with his breath, as if they were alive—extensions of his will.

  Kaelin Vire.

  Human. Hexblade. Sadist.

  Takeda recognized him instantly. He had seen two of Kaelin’s fights in the arena—once when the man had used a hooked chain to gut a charging ogre from twenty feet away, and again when he forced a rival fighter to crawl through burning runes just to reach him. Every movement Kaelin made was laced with arrogance, his attacks more torture than combat. It had disgusted Takeda. No honor. No discipline. Just cruelty masquerading as style.

  Kaelin's body bore evidence of his craft. Fine runes were carved along his forearms, neck, and even across his collarbone—burned into the flesh with surgical precision. Hexblades didn’t merely use weapons. They bonded to them—body and soul—turning every strike into something personal.

  His eyes gleamed—two cold, sapphire slits that cut through the room like blades of their own. And when they landed on Takeda, there was recognition… and hunger.

  “I always hoped I'd get a chance to meet the famous Ronin of Korr’s Maw,” Kaelin said, gesturing with a lazy flick of his fingers. The chains behind him responded with a subtle sway. “The crowd adores you. The undefeated swordsman. So serious, so noble. You’re practically a myth already.”

  Takeda remained still, his katana raised, his expression unreadable. “And you’re Kaelin Vire,” he said flatly. “A coward who hides behind enchanted toys and mutilates himself for power.”

  Kaelin laughed, eyes gleaming. “Mutilates? No, no—this is devotion. Art. I am one with my weapons. When I strike, it is not steel that wounds. It is me.” He tilted his head, eyeing Daurial. “You brought a tiefling girl with you. How quaint. I’d ask if she’s your good luck charm, but those aren’t exactly rare in a place like this.”

  Takeda’s grip tightened.

  Kaelin grinned wider. “Velen and I were paid very handsomely to make sure that crystal keeps singing until your little prince gets crushed like a beetle under Thraza’s boots. You showing up just makes the payday sweeter. Kill the Ronin, play with the girl a little… then disappear into the shadows.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “No witnesses. No survivors.”

  The chains drifted closer, coiling like metal serpents preparing to strike.

  “You’ve got one chance to walk away,” Takeda said coldly. “Step aside.”

  Kaelin barked a laugh. “You’re cute. But there’s no walking away when the chains are already dancing.”

  The moment froze.

  Then the chamber exploded into motion.

  Chains whipped through the air like lightning as Kaelin launched them forward, arcs of steel flashing toward Takeda from all angles. Takeda was already moving, his katana sweeping up as his body became a blur of steel and precision, meeting the first two chains head-on.

  The duel had begun.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  While the clash below the arena began with steel and chain, above them the earth was already trembling with violence.

  Joran darted across the scorched arena floor, every breath ragged in his chest, every movement calculated to avoid death by inches. The Ironhowl loomed behind him, its enormous frame moving with surprising speed for such a towering construct. Each of its footfalls sent a shudder through the coliseum—thoom, thoom—resonating through the very foundations. Every time it struck the ground with its heavy limbs or thundered into the stone, the shockwaves rippled down into the tunnels where Takeda, Daurial, and Sarrak had fled.

  The prince had lost track of how long he'd been dodging.

  Searing fire. Whirling blades. Bone-shaking fists. Thraza was throwing everything her mech had at him, weapon after weapon erupting from hidden compartments—like a demented artisan showing off her favorite tools. A set of spiked flails had emerged at one point, swinging in brutal arcs. Another time, she’d unleashed a barrage of enchanted caltrops, exploding in small bursts of concussive force. One arm had even transformed into a kind of repeating crossbow, hurling kinetic bolts that exploded into walls of air, trying to slam him into the arena walls.

  Joran had avoided each by mere seconds, rolling, leaping, twisting under metal limbs and dodging detonations, but he couldn’t afford to slow down.

  He tried, again and again, to find a weakness—his blade darting out to slash at joints, cables, vents—but the metal was too thick, the plating too refined. His sword, forged with Everforge enchantments, barely left a mark without magic to reinforce it.

  He was growing tired. Slower.

  Every graze he took, every shock of pain from overexertion, reminded him he wasn’t fighting at full strength. He could feel the static ache of his magic clawing beneath the inhibitor’s suppression, desperate to surge free.

  But for now, he was grounded. Mortal.

  And Thraza… she was only just getting started.

  Inside the Ironhowl, her voice crackled through the rune-amplified speaker, still alight with manic glee. “You’re doing great, Prince Joran! Really! Most people wouldn’t have lasted this long!” She giggled, and a section of the mech’s shoulder opened to reveal a cluster of small launching tubes. “But let’s see how you handle my Poppin’ Peppers!”

  The tubes fired with a fwoomp fwoomp fwoomp, releasing a spread of glittering red projectiles. They didn’t aim—they scattered, bouncing once on the ground before detonating in bursts of fire and colored smoke.

  Joran threw himself behind a section of scorched rubble, shielding his face as heat and debris washed over him.

  He coughed through the smoke, grimacing as another tremor rocked the arena.

  Damn it, how many weapons does this thing have…?

  He peeked out just in time to see the Ironhowl lower its head and charge again, steam billowing from its snout like a metallic predator.

  Joran’s legs tensed.

  Time to move—again.

  He waited for the perfect moment—heart pounding, lungs burning—and then burst from the rubble in a blur, launching himself to the side just as the Ironhowl thundered past. The mech’s massive frame barreled through the ruined stone, missing him by inches. Its momentum crushed the debris behind him into gravel, sending rubble and dust spraying skyward in a fountain of shattered earth.

  Joran landed hard, rolled, and came up running.

  His mind was spinning, not just from exhaustion, but from memory.

  Not every knight at the palace had been cruel. Not all had treated him like a weapon in need of breaking. There had been some—kind, steady hands—who taught him with discipline and respect. And his father, when he was present, had trained him with the same calm precision he ruled with. Through them, Joran had mastered swordplay, tactics, and most importantly, control over his magic. But there was one thing he had never learned to control.

  The inheritance in his blood.

  The twin legacies that should have awakened with age—one from his mother’s draconic bloodline, the other from his father’s cursed Slayer ancestry. Together, they made him something entirely new. Something uncertain. And yet, for all his effort, he’d only ever managed to unlock part of it.

  His Slayer abilities—those whispered to grant monstrous strength, speed, and regeneration—remained dormant, locked behind a door no training could open.

  But the dragon…

  That fire had stirred.

  In secret, he’d tapped into it before—dragon strength, scaled skin, sharp claws, a flicker of fire behind his teeth. Temporary. Incomplete. Each time left him winded, drained, or coughing up smoke like a man burned from within. His instructors had warned him: never use it unless you have no other choice.

  He hadn’t trained with it.

  He didn’t know how long it would last.

  But this? This was the moment he needed it.

  The Ironhowl had begun charging again, its arm reconfigured into a cannon that pulsed with raw mana. A hum filled the air, high and sharp as the barrel glowed brighter.

  Joran skidded to a stop.

  No more running.

  He turned to face it and drew a slow, steady breath.

  “You show off all those toys…” he called up to Thraza, his voice echoing across the arena. “Let’s see how strong your toy really is.”

  The mech paused.

  The Ironhowl’s arm retracted, folding the cannon back into the forearm plating. Steam hissed from its joints as it pulled back its other arm—this one ending in a massive, rune-forged fist.

  Inside, Thraza cackled. “You’re one gutsy prince! One might almost mistake you for foolish!” She pulled levers and twisted knobs with giddy energy. “But who am I to deny you a special showcase?”

  The Ironhowl charged.

  The earth shook with each thunderous step, sending cracks racing across the arena floor.

  Joran stopped running.

  He turned to face the mech head-on, planting his feet and lowering his stance. His hands clenched at his sides.

  “Alright…” he muttered. “I’ve done this before. Just need to tap into it again. The bracelet suppresses magic… but this isn’t magic. This is me. This is blood.”

  He took a long breath and closed his eyes.

  “Come on… come on, damn it… wake up…”

  The Ironhowl was almost on him now. The crowd screamed. Thraza whooped with joy.

  “Hope you’re ready!”

  The fist came down like a falling star.

  Joran roared.

  Power surged through his limbs—white-hot, agonizing, thrilling. His skin hardened, his bones thickened, his senses sharpened. Scales erupted across his forearms in jagged bands of deep crimson, sweeping up over his shoulders, neck, and jawline. His fingers twisted into talons. His eyes snapped open, pupils slitting into draconic ovals while the color remained that earthy brown—familiar, but now glowing faintly from within.

  And then the blow landed.

  The mech’s fist struck him dead-on.

  A shockwave tore through the arena, flattening the dust and sending a ring of dirt and rubble flying outward like a cannon blast. A crater cracked open beneath Joran’s feet from the sheer force of impact—but he didn’t budge.

  The Ironhowl’s massive arm trembled—stopped cold by Joran’s crossed arms.

  The crowd went silent.

  Then gasped.

  There he stood, defiant in the heart of the destruction, holding back the full might of Thraza’s war machine.

  Inside the cockpit, Thraza could only breathe, “Oh my gods… amazing…”

  Joran lowered his arms slowly, then clenched one hand into a fist. The aura around him thickened—heat rippling from his body like he stood within his own invisible fire.

  He pulled back his arm.

  And punched.

  His fist collided with the mech’s chest with a resounding boom, sending the entire Ironhowl skidding backward. It crashed into the far arena wall with such force that cracks spiderwebbed across the stone. Dust and rock rained down, and a loud metallic groan echoed as the Ironhowl began to stand again, steam venting from its sides.

  A single dent now marred its once-pristine armor—a deep, fist-shaped impression in the center of its chestplate.

  Inside the cockpit, Thraza stared in awe. “That… that’s amazing. Why didn’t you do this in the other rounds?”

  Joran strode forward, each step radiating with power. The amulet beneath his shirt pulsed faintly and hovered slightly from the sheer energy coursing through him—though no one noticed.

  “I didn’t need it then,” he said, his voice deeper now, edged with something primal. “But this time… I do.”

  He cracked his neck and raised his fists.

  “Now… are you ready for round 2?"