The capital was dark despite the daylight.The black clouds let no sunlight through, making the ruined city completely terrifying.
Nathanaël and Azraüs walked cautiously through a completely devastated city. Every step they took made a deafening noise. Silence reigned strangely in the arena. As if no player wanted to play since their arrival. Nathanaël knew something was wrong. It couldn't be the arena if no one was fighting. It, which was so well known for being a living coffin, seemed lifeless and without life, there was no death.
While he suspected everything that could be in this ghost city, Nathanaël took the time to observe it, and this time, his surprise was even greater than when he saw the wall protecting it.
"Bu… buildings?"
They were real buildings. Real ones like in his own country. They were clearly made of concrete and cement—or at least a material that looked like it. Real structures, with floors, windows, and doors just as modern as theirs.
It was as if he were in a city of Garid. There was electricity, and not just a little. Despite the ruins, Nathanaël could recognize the traces of cables stretching out several meters. The houses clearly resembled four-facade villas with all the installations normally present. Nothing was missing.
There were simply no cars, nor anything modern outside the buildings. Or rather, there was nothing recognizable, because all that remained were piles of crushed and compacted metal. Some piles even still had the shape of warriors who had crashed onto them, imprinted on their surface.
The city was technological—there was no doubt. Nozras didn't only use stone and straw to forge its civilization. No, this city was living proof that they were just as developed as the rest of the world.
"What does this mean? Why are all these things here? The Nordes don't wear modern clothes, they don't use cars, I've never seen them use the slightest source of electricity or even produce it as a weapon… so why? Why does this city show the opposite?"
Nathanaël was in shock. Something was wrong with this country. It wasn't possible that the advances of the capital stayed so completely locked behind these walls. And it wasn't possible that the rest of the country didn't develop in the meantime. So why?... Why were things like this?
"Is it because of Nozras himself? Did he forbid any development outside the capital? Then why did no one have the slightest idea after his death? Why is only the capital—or at least used to be—the only modern city? What kind of nonsense is this?"
As he continued walking while dodging pieces of collapsed buildings, Nathanaël drifted off. He had never taken the time to really study the country or even its origins. He had never taken the time to see whether or not the book was in Nozras for a good reason.
And now that he was here, he couldn't think about anything else. The book was special, but Lavoisi must have had a strange reason for leaving it here, because this country was just as strange.
On his side, Azraüs was looking at the sky.
Nathanaël doubled his caution, but his mind was too disturbed by what he had just seen.
Suddenly, Azraüs addressed him.
"Nathy?…"
"Hm?"
"Don't you think that ever since we arrived… someone's been watching us?"
Ruined buildings without glass or windows, collapsed structures piled on top of each other, rooftops… there were countless places someone could watch from. Yet among all those spots, Nathanaël knew they had chosen to observe them from everywhere.
Feeling the presence of numerous warriors staring at them, Nathanaël pouted.
"We could have been more discreet."
"Maybe, Nathy. Maybe."
Azraüs' gaze darkened.
Suddenly, Nathanaël noticed someone approaching slowly in front of them. Very slowly. His steps were light yet silent, and while the darkness hid him, the aura surrounding him echoed directly into Nathanaël's soul.
And after about thirty seconds of walking like a ghost in their direction, Nathanaël finally saw him.
He held a curved blade in hand, a torn cloak, worn-out clothes, and a hood over his head.
"He doesn't look very welcoming."
The man approached and stopped silently about fifty meters away. Nathanaël examined him from head to toe. He had no special aura, but he radiated a terrible omen. This man did not inspire serenity at all.
He wasn't as muscular or tall as warriors like Azraüs or Reno, and his skin was even darker than Nathanaël's. He had a scar at the corner of his mouth. Actually, his entire body was covered in them. He was a real canvas painted in scars.
He was in the arena—there was no way he wasn't hurt.
He lifted his arms slowly toward the sky, and that was when the little light present in the arena finally managed to hit his face. Nathanaël saw green eyes drifting off into emptiness.
Slowly, his arms rose. He seemed ecstatic, in a trance-like state. Everything about him made Nathanaël uneasy. His movements were too suspicious, and Nathanaël watched in silence, tense, as the warrior moved so slowly.
Azraüs and Nathanaël looked at him with dark, ready-to-pounce expressions. Nathanaël was already ready to summon his sword while Azraüs firmly held his club.
Suddenly, the warrior screamed at the top of his lungs:
"Welcome to the arena, you two!! You who have come to know pain, to weep for a companion, or scream into madness—the throne awaits you!! It awaits the best among you!! Will you be worthy?!"
He wasn't looking at them. No, he was speaking for everyone. For all who were there.
And when he finished, he lowered both arms and returned to a dark, mysterious expression.
Even though Nathanaël's face stayed emotionless, he struggled to contain his feelings. The declaration had flipped him inside out. It was too much emotion at once, and he felt like vomiting a few of them out. Yet when he turned his head toward his companion, Azraüs had a huge grin on his face.
Reno's son felt excitement rising. Nathanaël grimaced. It didn't reassure him much.
And suddenly, when the warrior finally finished lowering his arms slowly… once again, he disappeared.
And after that, everything happened so fast…
Nathanaël and Azraüs both leapt back at the same time.
A horde of warriors emerged from their hiding spots. The air filled with people jumping from upper floors like a swarm of locusts. The warrior who had shouted reappeared in front of Azraüs with his blade in hand in less than a second.
Nathanaël looked above him and saw hundreds of warriors leaping at him. They were all different. Their tattoos marked different battles. Different eras. Their weapons in hand, Nathanaël understood exactly where he had set foot. This was the arena.
But when he lowered his head again and saw his partner's huge grin… he told himself that maybe he too could enjoy it.
At least… if he managed to survive.
Yet, a few hours later—or maybe a few days, he no longer knew… Nathanaël was already panting.
"Damn it!"
Despite all his aura training…
"Yaaa!!"
He was out of breath.
"Nathy? Stand up, boss."
How many had he defeated? He thought only the chosen ones made it to the capital. But after a few seconds of hesitation, he realized…
"Watch out!"
…that it was the same hundred warriors he had been fighting from the start.
"I got it."
They kept coming back…
"Take this."
None of them wanted to die…
"I saw you."
When one warrior fell, another appeared from nowhere to fight in their place.
"Ha."
As soon as he knocked out one, they stood up a few minutes later.
"Take that."
Pure barbarity. An endless combat zone.
"How?…"
Weapons clashed continuously. Blood flowed like rivers. Corpses piled up little by little. It was infinite. An endless loop that could not be broken. Under no circumstances. While Azraüs reveled in it like a maniac, he could only see darkness.
It wasn't human; there was something wrong with this arena. The warriors never stopped. The slightest pause meant death. Each of them, armed as if to face an army, fought like relentless beasts. At this level, even real beasts seemed insignificant in comparison.
Blood covered the debris, corpses formed piles, spears sank into bodies, swords severed arms. And in all this chaos, when Nathanaël looked at the face of a random warrior, his heart tightened. He was dead, of that he was sure. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was his smile—his teeth-baring smile even in death. His face had not lost any of its expression; it bore the most diabolical grin, like a demon about to seize its prey and rip out its soul.
It was sickening. What was happening here was sickening. The corpses piled up, and no one cared. Morality was trampled, warriors blinded, aura swirling like a tornado in a nameless darkness. And as he froze for a millisecond—an eternity it seemed—on the face of the man on the ground, his head was crushed by another warrior wearing the same smile.
Blood sprayed, and nobody cared. Nathanaël could even hear the sound of his skull and brain being crushed.
"How could people like this have sat on the throne?"
It was too much for Nathanaël. He, who had been saving his aura to deliver precise, effective strikes; he, who concentrated his light in limited parts of his body; he, who had learned to master and channel his aura…
…he, who only wanted peace and calm, he whose quiet life had been stolen, he who had faced entities and beings resembling angels above…
He didn't want any of this. This was not his world. And all this exposure to that sickening aura, this pure madness, this horrific display of frenzied lunacy…
was driving him insane…