The killing intent Naithan had felt, the raw, focused malice from Seraphina Stonehide, was a physical weight, pressing down on him, suffocating the last vestiges of true rest. Sleep was a battle he fought and lost, the night heavy, filled with phantom screams and the ghost of her terrifying promise. With the sunrise, the shrill, merciless wail of the siren cut through the false dawn. Daily training had begun.
The arena was already a maelstrom of violence, a churning vortex of desperate Ash Blades. A raw, unbridled killing intent permeated the air, thick and nauseating, but it was nothing compared to the focused, terrifying aura Naithan had felt from her. He lunged, a primal scream caught in his throat, and plunged into the fray. His body moved with an instinct born of forgotten practice, honed by years of drills in a quieter courtyard. He knew how to dodge, how to hit, every move clear, his brain processing the chaos, his limbs obeying with chilling precision. A grim confidence swelled within him. He felt, for a fleeting, dangerous moment, that he could beat every one of these men, one by one. The battle, the raw, brutal rhythm of it, made him forget everything else, every insult, every fear, every lost hope. This was why he loved the arena, in its own twisted way.
The Ash Blade trainer knight, a grizzled veteran with eyes that saw too much, watched Naithan's effortless dominance over the struggling recruits. He saw the potential, the dangerous spark. Slowly, he walked towards the platform where the notorious "Three Stars" stood, a trio of men whose very presence brought a hush to the bloodied sand. "You know the reward," the knight grunted, his gaze fixed on the tallest of the three. "Take down the Verralt whelp. And I'll recommend you for Iron Blade." The oldest of the Three Stars, his face a mask of predatory anticipation, merely nodded.
The three brothers – the Strategist, the Probability, and the Skill – entered the arena, their movements synchronized, a single, fluid predator. They targeted Naithan instantly. A blur of steel, a coordinated surge, their infamous "Three Co-op Skill" erupted around him. Naithan barely dodged, a move that should have been impossible. The Three Stars recoiled, their hardened expressions momentarily dissolving into shock that their "non-dodgeable killing skill" had been evaded. But evasion was not victory. The next wave of their assault slammed into him, a relentless, punishing barrage. He was beaten to hell, his body a symphony of agony, but the arena's cruel magic prevented final collapse. It allowed for every bone-jarring blow, every tearing impact, but never the release of death.
When the first break was called, Naithan lay gasping, limbs unresponsive, every breath a stab of pain. A shadow fell over him. He knew it was her. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Did you come to laugh at me?" he rasped, his voice raw.
"No," Seraphina Stonehide replied, her voice a low, steady purr, devoid of the earlier mockery. "You were targeted by the Three Stars. It means you are doing great."
Naithan managed to crack open an eye, glaring up at her. "So why did you come?" He knew she wouldn't be here without a deeper reason.
Her cat-like eyes glinted with an unsettling amusement, a hint of that earlier, unsettling smirk. "Fun. It's fun to watch your fight."
"You won't come here without a reason," he insisted, pushing himself weakly onto an elbow.
The smirk softened, just barely, into something chillingly purposeful. "Yes. Tomorrow, there's going to be war. I want you to be with me, by my side." Her red fur, catching the dim light, seemed to ripple. Her evil smile, the subtle twitch of her whiskers and the half-slit in her left ear, sent a shiver down Naithan's spine. There was no killing intent this time, but a raw, unadulterated intimidation that shook him to his core. He was absolutely terrified, a primal fear he'd never known. Yet, on his face, he showed nothing.
The next day, the air vibrated with the grim hum of impending war. The Ash Blades, Naithan included, were gathered for the strategic briefing. Their role was simple, brutal: meat shields. They would run blindly towards the enemy, absorbing the initial blows, paving the way with their corpses. Naithan listened, his mind cold and calculating. He knew what he had to do to survive this.
Then came the demonstration. They stood in a round formation around a grizzled knight, their eyes fixed on him. "Who among you is brave enough to kill me now?" the knight challenged, his voice laced with venom. "Whoever kills me now can go to Ember Knight!"
A flicker of desperate ambition ignited in Naithan. Ember Knight. Freedom. His hand twitched towards the hilt of his crude sword. But before he could even draw, a man beside him, a brute with desperation in his eyes, lunged. A sickening squelch. The knight, without even a visible movement, had merely touched the man's forehead. The recruit crumpled, lifeless. Chills ran down Naithan's spine. A dead body. Just like that.
"If you have any funny thoughts, you will die like this!" the knight roared, his voice echoing through the stunned silence. "The magic is connected to your brain! The moment you're going to do something bad, you die!" The truth of the seal, its painful, controlling nature, solidified into absolute horror.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent. "Who is Naithan?"
Naithan, still reeling, slowly raised his hand. A soldier approached him, his expression unreadable. "You need to come to the Ember Tier arena. Seraphina is calling." Murmurs rippled through the Ash Blades. "That bitch," someone muttered, but the Ash Blade knight merely waved him off. "Go, Verralt."
Naithan, bewildered, made his way to the Ember Tier arena. It was immense, a vast stage where the air crackled with raw power. Figures moved with a terrifying grace, their strikes imbued with an energy Naithan had only dreamed of. This was a different breed of fighter, an absolute hell of legends.
Then, she appeared. Seraphina. She moved through the fighting like she owned it. "We are going to war in the next four hours," she announced, her voice low and direct. "I will tell you what to do." She laid out a strategy, intricate and deadly, that defied the Ash Blades' "meat shield" simplicity. Naithan listened, his mind absorbing every detail, and nodded his approval.
The war came. It was Naithan's first. He could feel the cool breeze, a strange, beautiful sensation, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the cloying, metallic scent of blood. The battlefield was a chaotic tapestry of screams and clashes, complex and unforgiving. The Ember Blade people were indeed legends, moving through the carnage like unstoppable forces. He didn't know why she had brought him, an untested Ash Blade, into this inferno.
But he found his purpose. He moved with a brutal, single-minded focus, his training kicking in, his fear replaced by a cold, efficient savagery. He did an absolute best job, his blade finding its mark again and again. He was relentless, driven by something dark and new within him. He stabbed the living, and then, with a chilling precision, he stabbed the fallen, ensuring no enemy would rise. He was a force of pure destruction. By the end, a new, grim title echoed among the survivors, a whisper of a terror they had just witnessed: "Killer Killer" – the one who kills the alive and dead. Naithan killed a lot of enemies.
The moment he re-entered the Ash Blade arena, still covered in grime and gore, a wave of stunned silence, then bewildered praise, washed over him. He heard whispers, hushed awe. But then, a fragment of conversation pierced through the haze of battle. Two knights, talking carelessly.
"Didn't he come here after accusations were false on him?" one murmured.
"But his father was released on the same day though?" the other replied, his voice low.
The words struck Naithan like a physical blow. False accusations? His father released? A cold, hollow ache settled deep in his gut. He'd lived for six months in this hell, believing his family ruined, his father imprisoned. He'd thought, even in his lowest moments, that he might at least receive a letter, a sign from his father. But no one had ever contacted him. They had never even tried. Naithan Verralt, the naive boy, the loyal son, felt utterly and completely betrayed.