Chapter 9: Embers of Conflict
The arena was a cracked stone circle, surrounded by dead floodlights and thorned steel fencing. A gust moved through the dust like a breath from something ancient. Four figures stood within the boundary, none speaking.
Sol, Soahc and Kael each collecting the combat gloves provided. Black with radiant yellow grooves streaming with flows of arc. Gloves that helps manifest one's aevum and extend their abilities in battle, being arc conductive or resistive depending on the need.
The gloves were humming. Kael could feel it—the way the Crownlight channelled down his arms, blooming in his palms like twin suns waiting to detonate.
But he didn't ignite them yet.
Sol stood opposite him in the ring, motionless. Regal, unreadable. His braids caught the light as if they held it hostage.
Kael's breath caught. He's not moving because he doesn't need to.
The opening strikes came and went. Feints. Hooks. A dance. Kael pressed, trying to measure. Sol was all polish and poise, slipping under blows, answering with surgical jabs—quick, not meant to break, just to get a feel for him.
Kael gritted his teeth. His gauntlets felt heavy. This is how they fight you. Remind you that you're not special.
He stepped back.
Then he seemed to have lit his hands on fire.
The effect was immediate. The gauntlets flared from within, white-orange and dangerous. The arc flowed like molten metal through the engraved seams. Heat shimmered off his arms like ripples over a desert road.
Sol's expression didn't change. But his footwork did.
Kael pressed forward, this time with glowing fists, each blow trailing blistering air and starfire. Sol began to evade—truly evade—no longer swaying like a dancer but retreating like someone being hunted.
It's working.
Kael spun, his right gauntlet grazing Sol's side. There was a flash of steam—fabric burning.
But still, no retaliation. No counter. Sol just kept weaving back, perfect and precise, not risking contact. His eyes flicked to Kael's fists again, and this time Kael saw it:
Hesitation.
Kael narrowed his eyes. He's used to being the one people chase. Not the one who runs.
"I'll burn you down," Kael muttered, breath hitching.
He let his competitive side be known making sure to let sol know his intentions from the beginning.
Victory
He drew deeper into the Crown. Light bled from him now—white and gold, raw and bright. Not flame, but weaponised rays of light.
Using himself as a tether—becoming the star itself.
Each strike illuminated the ring like a lightning flash. The temperature rose. The very air hissed around his arms.
Sol stopped retreating.
Kael, noticing this, slowed down in his efforts, waiting for Sol's counterplay or whatever he was planning.
And whispered something under his breath.
Then the veil descended once again.
A ripple in the world. A curtain of crimson light peeled open—like a wound in the arena's reality. It flooded around Sol's feet, dragging upward like smoke in reverse.
Kael stepped back instinctively.
From within the crimson veil, something stepped into him.
No.
It had become him.
Sol didn't change all at once. It started with the sound. A whisper—no, many whispers—raking across Kael's mind like fingers over wet glass.
His skin crawled. The Crown pulsed in protest. Kael raised his guard.
Sol's arms twitched. Then stretched.
His bones extended—not like something growing, but like something trying to break free from itself. His frame grew taller, joints skewed, and elegance corrupted into something harrowing.
He cracked his neck once, and the whispering grew louder. The light of Kael's fists seemed to warp around him, as if the Avatar was eating it.
Kael's mouth went dry. "You—"
"Not Sol," came the voice. Too many voices. From the same mouth.
Sol lunged.
Faster than before. Not smoother, but now erratic—as if every muscle pulled in a slightly wrong direction, yet somehow landed where it was meant to.
Kael's punch shot forward, white-hot.
Sol hadn't bothered dodging it this time and had taken it face-on.
The strike collided with his shoulder—and hissed, seared—but that didn't stop him. He rotated through the pain and buried an elongated elbow into Kael's gut, hard enough to bend metal.
Kael gasped, reeling.
The gloves weren't hot enough. Not anymore. Not against this thing; its resistance to Kael's arc was too high.
He staggered back, coughing, raising his arms.
Sol—or the thing wearing him—pressed in close, jabbing, clawing, never letting Kael find space again.
Kael's Crown flared in protest. The light surged—but it was being consumed, absorbed, and distorted.
And through it all, those whispers never stopped.
"You burn… but you don't shine."
"You blaze… but you flicker."
"You are not the star."
Kael's fingers shook. He clenched them into fists. Yes I am.
He twisted low, forced a gap, and exhaled.
Kael hadn't appreciated the onslaught of attacks coming from the creature that Sol had become. It had not only increased its resistance to Kael's arc but also increased its reaction speed and agility, becoming a problem for Kael.
But Kael was not finished yet.
A burst of stellar arc exploded from his core, radiating in a sphere. The shockwave sent Sol skidding backward, steam rising from his Avatar's misshapen arms. The whispers faltered, just for a second.
Kael panted, eyes locked.
"Let's see how long you can hide behind that monster," he growled.