Chapter Two: Nightmares and Whispers of Destiny

  Deimos

  It was cold. Freezing, in fact.

  Deimos stood in a place that looked nothing like his room—or Hell. Above him stretched a sky of deep void black and darkened blue, endless and uncaring. Beneath him, no ground, only an abyss teeming with watchful white and blue eyes. They whispered, commanded, judged.

  He stood alone on a floating rock.

  Ahead, a narrow path of smaller stones stretched into the distance—his only way forward.

  A voice cut through the cold, calm and sharp as a blade:

  “Sometimes one must tread their own paths.”

  Deimos walked.

  The further he went, the stranger he felt. His emotions—happiness, anger, fear—slipped away into nothing. Only hollow echoes remained. Around him, he heard the screams of horror, the clash of weapons, the spilling of blood.

  Each step became heavier, each one threatening to cast him into the endless abyss below.

  And then, at the end of the path, something appeared: a tree.

  The voice returned:

  “The journey one takes is challenging, but rewarding once the end is reached. From there, new paths will form.”

  The tree radiated warmth, peace—an oasis of hope against the devouring nightmare around him.

  Deimos sat beneath it, allowing himself a moment of stillness.

  Until the rustling of leaves snapped his instincts to life.

  On the other side of the tree, a figure stood.

  Glowing. Masked. Silent.

  They stared at each other.

  Deimos felt an undeniable connection, something he couldn’t explain.

  Who are you? Why do I feel you, but nothing else? his mind whispered.

  The figure’s face was a blur, its voice lost—but it saw him. It reached out, black ink tears streaming down its mask.

  It bore a sorrow Deimos couldn’t understand—but somehow, he recognized it.

  He stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  Above him, more eyes opened across the void sky. Eyes glared from the abyss below, full of horror and betrayal.

  But Deimos kept moving forward.

  Just before his fingers could brush the figure’s, a massive purple eye blinked into existence between them.

  The sharp voice sliced through the air again:

  “Even when the world darkens you, a light can always be found. It awaits you—and you await it. Destiny confirms.”

  The tree, the figure, the eyes—everything dissolved.

  Deimos plummeted into the abyss.

  Helpless. Alone.

  He crashed onto a cold floor of black basalt, swallowed by dark mist.

  Silence pressed against him. Oppressive. Abandoned.

  Around him rose walls so tall they seemed to mock the idea of escape.

  Hopeless—until a faint light appeared.

  The blurry figure reached out for him again: understanding. Trusting.

  The voice whispered one last time:

  “To feel and be free, one must trust, even in the harshest of times. Trust only comes through understanding. For peace, light and dark must tread together. Never give up, Deimos. Believe—just believe. Don’t let violence claim you.

  You are hope.”

  The world flipped—darkness, then blinding light.

  Deimos’ eyes snapped open.

  He sat up, gasping.

  "What a strange dream.

  You are hope."

  A soft knock came at the door. It creaked open, revealing Barbados and two other guards clad in white bone armor with hints of silver, spears in hand. They seemed to be waiting for Deimos. It was time.

  "Deimos, your warrior training will be starting soon," noted one of the guards. "Get changed into this warrior wear. Barbados will be waiting for you."

  They tossed him an elegant, posh set of military clothes—far too fancy for combat. Then they left without another word, leaving Barbados leaning silently against the wall.

  Deimos stood up, feeling a flood of relief—there was no more pain when he moved. He picked up the clothes, frowning slightly. They were far too elaborate for a mere trainee. Everything he had been given so far felt too grand, but he didn’t complain. Such service was rare in Nethos, according to the books. Most warriors had to train and bleed for a lifetime just to even glimpse a higher life.

  I’m lucky, Deimos thought. Really lucky.

  Once he had changed, Barbados held out a selection of weapons—swords, daggers, spears, maces, and more, each intricately designed.

  Deimos chose the dual swords almost immediately. They screamed of power, intimidation, and fear—and strangely, despite their purpose, they radiated a kind of peace.

  Prepared for combat, Barbados led Deimos toward the citadel battlegrounds. The path was long, the architecture towering and grand. Everything in the citadel was massive.

  On the way, Deimos couldn’t stop thinking about the dream. It wasn’t natural... too specific, too strange. Too real. Lost in thought, he blanked out for a moment, catching Barbados’ attention—but not for the right reasons.

  "Stressed about battle?" Barbados asked in a hushed voice.

  It was surprisingly soft coming from such a giant brute. He hadn’t noticed that Deimos’ mind was locked on the dream, not the upcoming fight.

  Deimos snapped back to reality. "Right... the battle. I haven’t battled before," he mumbled, then added, "Aren't the training methods in Nethos known to be brutal and violent?"

  He had to ask. His fingers fiddled nervously with the hilt of his new blades.

  Barbados didn’t answer right away. He rested his heavy hand on Deimos' shoulder, the weight of it almost comforting.

  "The training you're thinking of is from Tartarus," Barbados clarified, pulling out a worn picture of a woman. "Leader of Tartarus is Lyssa—the Sin of Wrath. She trains her warriors from a young age with brutal, merciless tactics. Those who aren't worthy become fuel for the cannons. The landscape of Tartarus itself is almost uninhabitable."

  He paused, glancing sideways at Deimos.

  "Still," Barbados added, "her army is the most powerful in Nethos—led by her and General Tharos. Predicus, however, trains with pride, not violence."

  Deimos studied the picture. Lyssa's image was intimidating—skin of molten magma, eyes glowing like rivers of lava, a crown of jagged horns, and obsidian armor encasing her form.

  She looked powerful. Superior. Somehow regal, even among monsters.

  Deimos felt slightly more confident—and relieved—about training under Predicus. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that Nethos wasn’t as glorious as Predicus painted it. It was a dictatorship, no matter how polished its surface looked. And being a warrior, Deimos realized, wasn’t the grand honor it was sold as—not unless you were special.

  Is Predicus lying... or is he just trying to give hope through lies? Deimos wondered silently.

  After a long walk of heavy silence, they arrived at the outskirts of the battlegrounds. It was massive, sprawling out with guards and warriors locked in sparring matches.

  At the center of it all sat Predicus, lounging on a throne while eating magma grapes, his pride shining over the field like a second sun.

  "Are the warriors of Predicus powerful?" Deimos asked Barbados, forehead beading with a nervous sweat.

  "Almost all of them are equally strong," Barbados said, but then paused, something flickering across his face. "But... there’s one. He doesn’t just fight. He slaughters. Uses brutal tactics. He's terrifying—dark-humored, creepy... a literal walking nightmare." Barbados leaned in slightly. "Though I sense a hidden strength in you. Don’t let fear get to you. He feasts on it."

  Fear didn’t grip Deimos. Not at the thought of a slaughtering maniac. Instead, he gripped the hilts of his dual blades and drew them out, standing firm in a combat stance. He was ready. He knew it.

  An aura of strength radiated around him as he gazed across the arena.

  But still, the dream echoed in his mind—warning him not to lose himself to violence.

  Does peace even exist... in a place built from wrath?

  Predicus noticed Deimos immediately. A sly smile crept across his face. He lazily rested his head on his fist like a bored king and snapped his fingers.

  At once, the sparring warriors and guards froze, then filed out toward the resting rooms.

  Predicus didn’t rise from his throne. He simply gestured to Deimos to approach.

  "I was afraid my latest—and probably most promising—warrior was late," Predicus groused. "Would have been... disappointing."

  He didn't seem eager to wait much longer.

  Deimos made his way slowly down the marble stairs, stepping onto the scorching combat sands.

  Despite being a field of brutality and bloodshed, the place was strangely clean, intricate—almost sacred. Spiral-carved marble pillars, walls polished to mirrors, carvings of Predicus standing victorious over his enemies. Even the weapons and shields glinted in gold, ivory, and silver.

  But the centerpiece, the magnet for all eyes, was Predicus himself—reclining on his colossal marble throne, velvet pillows piled around him. Beside him, a massive golden bell.

  No wonder he's the Sin of Pride, Deimos thought dryly. He built the entire room to worship himself.

  He stopped before the throne, blades in hand, posture rigid. Fear prickled at the edges of his mind, but he didn't let it show. It was time to stand his ground.

  Predicus studied him for a moment, then casually dragged his hand over the heavy mace resting beside him.

  With effortless grace, he slammed it onto the bell.

  The sound rippled through the air like a shockwave.

  Steel doors creaked open, and ranks of guards, soldiers, and warriors marched in.

  They knelt before Predicus without hesitation, forming perfect lines across the battlefield.

  Deimos glanced around at the sea of loyalty, and instinctively bent his knees to kneel—

  —but Predicus lifted a hand, signaling him to remain standing.

  Predicus rose, chin lifted high as he gazed down at everyone with an elegant frown. In one smooth motion, he grabbed a spear glowing with radiant power.

  The tip pointed directly at Deimos as Predicus spoke, holding the pose like a king delivering judgment.

  "This here is the newest troop, one born of the ancient blood, radiating with power. He is Deimos the Mighty. You will fear him. You will train him. You will welcome him into the army."

  Without warning, Predicus leapt down from the throne, his form mighty and commanding.

  He strode back and forth along the rows of soldiers like a general inspecting his ranks.

  At his silent command, everyone stood again, not a single word uttered.

  Predicus continued, his voice sharp.

  "Do you know why we train for this war?"

  His gaze locked onto Deimos, waiting.

  "Do you know, Deimos? That wrath I saw in you yesterday—perhaps it knows the answer."

  Deimos stared into Predicus' burning eyes. He knew the answer Predicus wanted: Dominance.

  But something stirred inside him—a stubbornness, a piece of himself he refused to betray.

  "We fight for peace," Deimos said, voice calm but firm, "to spare the burden of each fallen soldier and innocent life."

  Predicus' eye twitched. His mind must have gone haywire for a moment, though his face stayed in a strained smile.

  He gave a loud, forced laugh.

  "Love that attitude, Deimos. Terrible bluff, by the way," Predicus said, though the fire behind his teeth burned brighter than hell itself.

  He inhaled sharply.

  "Fine. Let's do a community vote," he said, turning toward the ranks.

  "Who here fights for peace?"

  Deimos glanced around. No one moved. Of course not.

  Until—one soldier, hesitantly, uncertainly, raised a hand.

  Without hesitation, Predicus hurled his spear toward the soldier.

  They disintegrated slowly into dust, their scream haunting, the sound echoing across the arena.

  No one dared move.

  Predicus' eyes slid back to Deimos, smirk returning like a crack in a dam.

  The spear returned to his hand with a faint shimmer. He pointed the tip under Deimos' chin.

  "Let’s try again, Deimos," Predicus whispered.

  "What do we fight for? Why do we raid? Why do we kill angels?"

  Silence. Only the sound of breathing filled the massive chamber.

  There was no doubt left. Predicus didn’t believe in peace—he never had.

  Deimos straightened, chest puffed out. His voice was serious now.

  "We fight for dominance. And for revenge for—"

  He was cut off.

  Predicus pressed the spearhead lightly to Deimos' lips, nodding with approval.

  "That’s enough," Predicus said, voice grave. "You're right. Dominance and revenge. Those smirking angels have slaughtered our people for too long."

  He raised a hand, conjuring a vivid simulation before the gathered warriors.

  It showed demon and monster soldiers falling one by one under angelic blades. The horror in their eyes, the screams, the mourning of the fallen—all played out in brutal detail.

  Predicus' voice rang through the room.

  "Creatures of light have always been seen as righteous. But look at them. Look carefully."

  He stepped closer to the misty images.

  "Who is truly struggling? Who bears the scars? Who are the real sinners?"

  His words were molten iron.

  "They are. And yet we, for no reason, are seen as monsters. We are only protecting ourselves. Protecting our people."

  The simulation faded like mist.

  Predicus turned back toward his throne, aura blazing with pride.

  He lifted his spear high toward the heavens and roared,

  "Let’s train for the fallen—and show the world the true rulers! For a better Nethos!"

  The warriors all shouted in unison, a tidal wave of loyalty.

  All except Deimos.

  He stood silent, still, a question burning inside him that none of their screams could silence.

  The bell swung again, slammed by the heavy mace with even more force. Shockwaves rippled through the grounds, rattling weapons and armor.

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  Warriors raised their weapons skyward and found sparring partners, the air filling with the low rumble of clashing steel.

  But some couldn’t resist sneering.

  Behind Deimos’ back, the whispers slithered:

  "To think Lord Predicus sees something in that guy," one snorted.

  Another hissed, "Every demon knows dominance is the only goal. To talk about peace is a death sentence. What an idiot."

  Deimos' mind stormed with fury.

  How dare they disrespect me. I’ll show everyone.

  He turned toward the gossipers, raising one of his blades.

  An aura of raw, seething power erupted around him.

  A sharp, toothy grin split his face, his magmatic eyes gleaming with rage.

  The gossipers shrank back instinctively, regret flashing across their faces.

  Predicus, lounging lazily on his throne, watched the scene unfold with widening amusement.

  Deimos strode toward them, towering slightly over the group, his breath ghosting over their skin like a cold threat.

  He spoke low, voice dripping with venom.

  "You nags dare disrespect me? Let's see who’s laughing when your blood stains the walls and your cries for mercy go unanswered."

  No one spoke, but no one backed down either.

  Their grips tightened on their weapons.

  All other sparring halted, the arena growing silent, every eye drawn to the tension.

  Then, without warning, one of them lunged forward, spear aimed at Deimos' chest.

  It struck.

  The room gasped.

  The spear cracked apart on contact, barely leaving a mark on Deimos' skin.

  The warrior stumbled back, horrified, as even Predicus rose slightly from his throne, his smirk faltering.

  Deimos lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed.

  Let’s test something, he mused.

  In a blur, Deimos swung his blade in a single, devastating arc.

  The warrior flew backward, smashing into a wall with enough force to crack the marble.

  Deimos' eyes gleamed with triumph.

  I am unstoppable. Serves them right.

  The remaining gossipers charged him in a desperate rush.

  But Deimos sidestepped each one effortlessly, disarming them with a flick of his blades and embedding their weapons deep into the surrounding walls.

  He spun his twin swords once, then slid them neatly into their scabbards.

  Facing the now-unarmed cowards, he grinned wickedly—before launching into a sudden, brutal uppercut that sent them flying.

  He followed up with a tornado kick, slamming them to the ground with bone-rattling force.

  The once-mocking warriors now lay crumpled at his feet.

  Humiliated. Broken. Silent.

  Through heavy breathing and bloodied lips, they whimpered,

  "We're sorry... we will never disrespect you again, Deimos..."

  But Deimos’ rage hadn’t burned out yet.

  His eyes blazed.

  He turned his attention to the first warrior—the one half-embedded in the wall—struggling to breathe.

  Deimos approached, slowly, deliberately, hand gripping the hilt of his blade.

  One slash. That's all it would take. One slash to silence him forever.

  He raised his weapon, his smile widening.

  Then—

  A whisper, familiar and soft, brushed through his mind.

  "Remember, violence isn’t you. That’s what they want you to become. Your peace, your tranquility, your hope... spare the soul."

  Deimos froze.

  His smile faded.

  The raging tide within him finally receded.

  This time, he truly saw the warrior before him—not as an enemy, but as another soul trying to survive.

  I let rage take over, he thought. I won't let that happen again.

  Deimos lowered himself to the warrior's level, meeting his terrified gaze.

  Slowly, he placed a hand on the soldier’s battered shoulder—a gesture of silent mercy.

  He opened his mouth to speak—

  —but the bell rang again, its vibrations shaking the ground.

  Predicus stood tall once more, mace in hand, pride radiating from him like wildfire.

  "I see my minors don’t affect you, Deimos," he called out, smirking wider than ever. "Let's up the stakes."

  His voice dropped, dripping with excitement.

  "Time to release my indestructible warrior..."

  The largest gates at the far end of the arena creaked open.

  From within the darkness, laughter spilled out—low, sadistic, like knives dragged across bone.

  Predicus' voice thundered.

  "Say welcome to the... Nightmare Executioner!"

  The laughter stopped.

  Silence fell like a heavy curtain over the arena as all eyes turned toward the figure still hidden in the shadows.

  A chill ran down Deimos' spine.

  His instincts screamed at him—move.

  He obeyed without hesitation, darting to the side just as the metallic clang of launched weapons split the air.

  Two massive cleavers, spinning with violent speed, hurtled from the gate.

  They embedded themselves into the wall, slamming down inches from where Deimos had just been standing—trapping him between their deadly blades.

  The impact was deafening.

  A sickening squelch followed.

  Deimos glanced down.

  The warrior he had spared earlier now hung lifeless against the wall, impaled by one of the cleavers.

  Blood pooled and steamed on the floor.

  The surrounding warriors backed away instinctively, creating a wide, empty circle around Deimos.

  From the darkness, the figure finally emerged.

  A towering demon clad in armor so barbed and jagged it looked like a walking metal nightmare—an ivory and platinum wall of honed spikes and serrated steel.

  Muscles bulged beneath the armor, legs like pillars, arms thick enough to snap bone with a casual swing.

  A torn black cape dragged behind it, swirling through the mist.

  Its helmet, a twisted mockery of a crown, hid the face completely—only darkness and smoke exhaled from the narrow slits.

  But its leer was unmistakable.

  It radiated hunger.

  And it radiated fear.

  The maniacal laughter returned, low and grinding.

  "Oh, Lord Predicus..." the giant chuckled, pointing mockingly at the corpse next to Deimos, "Please don’t tell me you summoned me just to crush another pathetic weakling."

  He tilted his massive head to the side, an almost playful gesture, before marching toward Deimos.

  He lowered his face inches away, his smoke-laced breath washing over Deimos like a funeral dirge.

  "You... you're the poor soul?" the Nightmare Executioner mused, voice a rough growl.

  "Small... but powerful. Wrathful... but something holds you back."

  He chuckled again, low and vicious.

  "A nightmare of happiness, maybe. Don't worry. I can remove it—with your head."

  The Executioner yanked his cleavers free from the walls and sheathed them casually across his back.

  Deimos glared up at him, blade drawn, disbelief cutting through his anger.

  Why would a warrior harm his own army? All forces are needed...

  "You think it’s amusing to slaughter the weak?" Deimos barked, pointing his sword squarely at the Executioner. "Even the smallest warriors have value. Enough of your games."

  The Executioner chuckled rougher this time, sliding the cleavers back behind him.

  "Tsk-tsk," he clicked his tongue, amused. "Lecturing me now, little prey? Me—Slaughterer, the Nightmare Executioner?"

  He pulled a dagger from his belt and began absentmindedly sharpening one of his twisted horns.

  "Listen closely: only the strongest warriors will survive this war. The weak? They'll die slow, torturous deaths at the hands of the creatures of light. If they're doomed anyway, better to die quickly... under me."

  He sheathed the dagger and spread his arms wide.

  "Enough chatter. Let’s dance with our nightmares."

  The rest of the arena cleared out fast, warriors filing into the viewing platforms.

  Predicus stayed rooted on his marble throne, lazily popping magma grapes into his mouth, utterly unconcerned with the scene unraveling before him.

  Deimos’ breath steamed from between gritted teeth.

  The boiling sensation in his gut returned—fear, rage, and something deeper.

  Still, he drew his second blade, readying his stance.

  "I don't fear you," he snarled.

  "You should," Slaughterer said with a grin. "You'll wish you did once I’m done humiliating you."

  He opened his arms wider, chest exposed, daring Deimos.

  "Come on, little liar. Hit me. It’s free."

  The crowd gasped, murmurs rippling through the stands.

  Deimos tightened his grip.

  The storm inside him churned between rage and resolve.

  He heard the crowd start to chant Slaughterer's name, their roars pounding in his ears.

  It didn't matter.

  I will prove my worth, Deimos thought. I will carve my destiny.

  Without hesitation, he charged.

  The blade struck true, slashing across Slaughterer’s armored chest with surprising force.

  The towering demon staggered back a few feet.

  The cheers abruptly died.

  The spectators stared, stunned.

  Slaughterer brushed his hand across the dented armor, expression unreadable behind his mask.

  Gone was the chuckling bravado.

  Without a word, he reached behind his back and merged both cleavers into a single colossal claymore.

  The weapon hummed with power, the blade so large it looked like it could slice a mountain in half.

  Smoke and mist swallowed the battleground.

  Slaughterer planted the enormous weapon on his shoulder and pointed at Deimos with a single clawed finger.

  "You're stronger than I anticipated," he said, voice rough but reverent.

  "Interesting..." he added, almost to himself.

  "Maybe Predicus should start fearing you," he said louder, eyes burning through the mist.

  Predicus raised an eyebrow from his throne, frown flickering for the first time.

  Slaughterer grinned wide beneath his helmet.

  "Fight me, prey," he growled. "Let’s bleed in power!"

  The battle began.

  Neither moved at first.

  They circled, studying each other with lethal precision.

  Then, without warning, Slaughterer hurled his colossal claymore like a spinning boomerang.

  Deimos watched it sail past him, missing completely—or so he thought.

  Out of nowhere, Slaughterer's hulking body manifested beside the whirling blade, hands on the hilt, ready to cleave Deimos apart.

  Deimos barely sidestepped, the blade grazing the air inches from his skin.

  He countered fast, slashing across Slaughterer's side—but the blow barely scratched the armor.

  Before Deimos could recover, Slaughterer retaliated, slashing straight across Deimos' face.

  A jagged scar opened under his left eye, dark purple blood spilling down his cheek.

  Not a deep wound—but enough to leave a mark.

  Enough to make the crowd fall silent.

  Enough to make Predicus stop mid-grape.

  Deimos clutched his bleeding face, his rage igniting fully this time, burning away the last restraints of peace.

  Slaughterer wanted blood? I'll give him blood—his blood. His screams.

  With a furious roar, Deimos ripped both blades free from their scabbards and hurled them at Slaughterer with terrifying force.

  The swords slammed into Slaughterer's chest, pushing him back slightly.

  Still, the titan barely flinched.

  No pain. No surrender.

  But Deimos wasn't finished.

  Moving with unnatural speed, he launched himself into a flying roundhouse kick, smashing his boot across Slaughterer's helmet.

  The giant stumbled back, dust erupting beneath him.

  The crowd roared in disbelief.

  Even Predicus leaned forward slightly on his throne, his smirk faltering.

  "You shock me every time, small prey," Slaughterer barked with dark glee as he ripped the embedded blades from his armor and tossed them at Deimos' feet.

  "You're becoming monstrous—just like me."

  He grinned, wide and unhinged.

  "Embrace the rage. Embrace the power. Kill me if you can!"

  Deimos picked up his blades without a word, eyes locked on the Nightmare Executioner.

  He’s strong... but reckless. He relies on brute strength. If I can break his rhythm—find the cracks—I'll have the advantage.

  He aimed a strike at a weakened seam in Slaughterer's armor—only for the giant to block it effortlessly with his claymore.

  Steel clashed against steel, sparks raining around them.

  The arena pulsed with the clash of battle cries, roaring spectators, and the gut-deep ring of metal striking metal.

  They fought like forces of nature.

  Slaughterer, relentless and wild.

  Deimos, sharp and adaptive.

  Neither giving an inch.

  Then, with a thunderous leap, Slaughterer vaulted into the air, his claymore raised high above his head.

  Deimos tensed.

  The ground shook as Slaughterer slammed the massive weapon into the arena floor.

  Cracks spiderwebbed outward as jagged spikes of stone and impaling blades erupted from the ground, hunting Deimos.

  He dodged left, narrowly avoiding a spike that tore through the air and grazed his arm.

  Pain flared—but he ignored it.

  Another blade flew toward him—this one spinning like a saw-blade.

  Slaughterer manifested beside it again, cleaving downward with devastating force.

  Deimos crossed his swords just in time, blocking the blow—but the sheer force of it forced him to his knees, the claymore pressing closer, heavier, heavier with each heartbeat.

  Slaughterer's laughter rang out like church bells for the damned.

  Deimos gritted his teeth, every muscle trembling against the crushing weight.

  Through the slits in Slaughterer's helmet, Deimos caught a glimpse of the Executioner's eye—pure white, cold, and wide.

  For the first time... uncertainty.

  He’s hesitating...

  Deimos twisted, finding a gap in Slaughterer's guard.

  With a surge of strength, he slashed upward, sending Slaughterer flying backward, crashing hard into the wall of the arena.

  Dust and stone exploded from the impact.

  Slaughterer rose, injured but still on his feet, panting beneath the battered armor.

  The crowd was deathly silent.

  Predicus stood now, spear pointed forward, diplomats whispering frantically at his sides.

  A scowl twisted his face.

  His voice cut the air sharper than any blade:

  "Slaughterer," Predicus barked, "what are you doing? Hesitating? Growing weak?!"

  Predicus sneered, every word dripping with venom.

  "At this rate, your daughter will never love you again."

  The entire arena froze.

  Even the dust seemed to stop swirling in the air.

  Slaughterer bowed slightly toward Predicus, coughing up a wisp of red smoke.

  “No, lord. I merely wanted to give my challenger the thrill of success,” he rasped, voice trembling ever so slightly. Barely noticeable.

  He manifested his two blades back into gauntlets with a crackle of energy.

  “Let’s finish this, small fry.”

  Slaughterer vanished into smoke, reappearing before Deimos in an instant.

  They clashed again, screeching metal grinding with each collision. Deimos blocked strike after strike, while Slaughterer’s attacks—once brutal and relentless—were starting to lose their bite.

  Then, at the exact same moment, they both landed a hit.

  Weapons disintegrated into dust as both were thrown back, dust clouds swirling around them like specters.

  They stood, staring each other down.

  Slaughterer cracked his knuckles, poised to throw one final punch—

  But Deimos was faster.

  He twisted into a devastating tornado kick, slamming straight into Slaughterer's head.

  A thin, jagged crack split across the executioner's pristine helmet as he dropped to his knees.

  The crowd gasped.

  Predicus smirked, though one of his eyes twitched violently.

  And Deimos—scarred, bloodstained, breathing heavily—stood over the giant.

  Deimos grabbed a dagger from Slaughterer’s belt, raising it high to strike—

  Then hesitated.

  He looked down at Slaughterer, seeing not a monster, but a warrior. Hurt. Exhausted. Human, in some broken way.

  Deimos threw the dagger aside.

  Instead, he extended a hand.

  Slaughterer stared at it like it was a poisoned blade.

  “What are you doing? Acts of mercy are forbidden on citadel grounds,” he hissed under his breath, weakly drawing another dagger.

  Deimos smacked it away with a sharp flick of his hand.

  The softest smile curved his bloodstained face.

  “Despite you being all murderous and scary,” Deimos said, voice low but steady, “I saw hesitation. Struggle. You’re better than him. Better than this."

  Slaughterer didn’t respond immediately.

  Finally, he sighed—a deep, resigned sound—and took Deimos’ hand, hauling himself up.

  The crowd exploded in applause.

  Then Slaughterer, true to his nature, yanked Deimos down to the ground with one brutal pull.

  Deimos landed with a grunt, blinking up at him in disbelief.

  “Gotta keep my reputation, kid,” Slaughterer chuckled.

  He waved lazily at the roaring crowd before scooping Deimos up again and—naturally—threatening the spectators with a mock swing of his fist. Typical.

  Predicus descended from his throne, spear still clutched in one hand.

  Deimos fully expected him to run both of them through for their "compassion stunt."

  Instead, Predicus merely clapped a heavy hand onto each of their shoulders.

  “Not proud of the clemency,” Predicus said, grinning with too many teeth, “but you two wrestled like legends.”

  He squeezed, hard enough to bruise.

  “Sadly, the drill ends early. Leadership calls. Trade, war, the basics." He chuckled as if discussing afternoon tea.

  Diplomats swooped in and escorted him away, and slowly, the crowd thinned, leaving Deimos and Slaughterer alone in the battered arena.

  They stared at each other in silence.

  Slaughterer casually picked up his two broken blades, twisting them back into shape with a crackle of magic before slinging them onto his back.

  Deimos glanced at him, then delivered a light punch to Slaughterer’s arm.

  “So, the big brute has family issues. Who knew,” Deimos teased, grabbing his own cracked blade.

  Slaughterer grunted. “Shut up. You’re too small and too compassionate. My issues are my own...”

  His voice shifted to something heavier, almost reluctant.

  “But... maybe you could help.”

  He snorted, then slapped Deimos on the back hard enough to nearly floor him.

  Crouching down to meet Deimos at eye-level, he shoved a card into his hand.

  It was worn and scratched—a tavern card reading: Tavern of Dignity.

  Below it, in elegant script: Without Pride There is No Self-Recognition.

  “Meet me there later," Slaughterer said. "We’ll talk. You’re fascinating in the worst way... but I respect it. Don't make me regret inviting you, Deimos.”

  Without another word, he melted back into the shadows.

  Deimos stayed there for a moment, just breathing. Processing.

  He turned the card over in his hand, still stunned, when a sudden tickle brushed his ear.

  A whisper.

  And when he looked up, the purple eye hovered above him, silent and unblinking. Watching.

  "Impressive. Seems my theory is correct. Harmony is formable... even among demons. Perhaps angels too."

  The voice was hoarse, cracked like an ancient tomb being pried open.

  "I chose an adequate target."

  Deimos stared, mouth slightly open, his mind short-circuiting in real-time.

  What is this illusion? What does it want from me?

  His breath quickened, and the world blurred at the edges.

  "What are you? What do you want from me?" he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The headache pulsed harder, but the eye remained unfazed.

  "You fear what you do not understand. Yet peace you shall reign. For now, prepare yourself. Let fate guide you... until you arrive at the Tree."

  And just like that, the eye vanished—and the pain evaporated with it.

  Deimos stood there, alone in the fading dust and echoes.

  Today had taught him one thing, if nothing else:

  He carried a weight he didn’t fully understand... but he carried it well.

  He had made a name for himself.

  Earned the wary respect of monsters and warriors alike.

  Even made a... friend, in the most terrifying definition of the word.

  And somewhere far above him, he'd shaken the gaze of destiny itself.

  Deimos climbed the marble stairs alone, walking the endless citadel halls.

  The guards he passed didn’t speak.

  They didn’t even breathe too loudly.

  A new legend had been born.