The world came back to Abel in fragments — flashes of sound, light, and pain.
A wooden ceiling.
The smell of metal and herbs.
A voice that wasn't his.
"Still breathing," someone muttered. "Lucky bastard."
Abel blinked, the world blurring into focus. His side burned, his shoulder throbbed. He tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed him back down.
"Don't," said Stipo.
Abel turned his head. Stipo sat beside him, elbows on his knees, watching with the same unreadable calm that had followed him since the arena. The faint glow of lamps lit the room — an infirmary, though it looked more like a shrine to suffering. Wooden beds lined the walls, each occupied by warriors in various stages of ruin. The air was thick with the scent of iron, medicine… and blood.
"Where am I?!" Abel muttered.
"Where everyone ends up sooner or later," Stipo said. "The healers' hall."
At the far end of the room, three figures moved with deliberate grace — veterans, their hands glowing faintly crimson as they passed over open wounds. Flesh knitted back together. Scars sealed into pale, smooth lines.
Abel watched, eyes narrowing. "They… regenerate others?"
Stipo nodded. "They do more than that. They rebuild where the body forgets how to fix."
Abel frowned. "How?"
"The same way we fight," Stipo said, leaning back. "With blood."
One of the veterans turned slightly, overhearing. His face was a roadmap of scars, but his eyes — clear, golden as a noble— were steady. "We borrow strength," he said, voice rasping like gravel. "Every drop of blood holds energy. Life. When it's spent, we take what remains, purify it, and return it to the body."
Abel's brow furrowed. "But if you take the energy from the blood—"
"It becomes weaker," the man finished, smiling faintly. "Yes. Impure. Easy to repair, though. It regains energy with time. That's the secret — every wound is a debt. And every healer learns how to forgive it."
Abel stared, the logic sinking in slowly. He'd seen warriors regenerate mid-battle before — flesh closing faster than any natural healing should allow — but he'd never understood what it cost.
"It's not free, then," he said.
"Nothing ever is," Stipo murmured.
A shout echoed from outside.
Both of them looked toward the open courtyard beyond the hall. Dust rose in the distance, the sound of steel striking steel. Another fight — not a training bout this time, but something heavier.
Abel stood, ignoring the ache in his side. "Who's fighting?"
Stipo sighed. "Two of the generals. You shouldn't—"
But Abel was already moving.
The infirmary opened into a wide balcony overlooking one of the other arenas. From there, the courtyard stretched out in perfect symmetry — circles of sand surrounded by stone, the faint shimmer of energy drifting in the air like heat waves. Dozens had gathered around one particular circle.
Abel leaned on the railing, eyes locking on the two figures below.
One was tall and broad-shouldered, hair a dark moss green that shimmered under the light. His expression was composed, eyes sharp as the blade he held — a flamberge, its undulating edge catching the sun in waves of molten silver. Each curve along its length distorted the air slightly, like the ripples before a mirage.
Opposite him stood another man — lean, wiry, with hair of pale red, almost pink where the sun touched it. His weapon was smaller, stranger — a sickle, its curved blade gleaming wickedly, made for reaping, not cleaving.
The air between them crackled.
They circled each other with the quiet reverence of predators who already knew each other's scent.
"Those two," Stipo said, stepping up beside Abel. "General Narev Kyoshi and General Faen Kyoshi. They've fought together for twenty years, and against each other for almost as long."
Abel said nothing.
Faen moved first — not fast, but deliberate. The sickle shimmered, and he caught the blade against his own palm.
Abel flinched as the steel bit into flesh. "What the—"
Blood spilled across the weapon, tracing its curve, and then hardened — the crimson liquid turning translucent, sharp. Crystals of solidified blood lined the edge, glinting like rubies.
"He just—cut himself," Abel whispered.
"That's the way of his art," Stipo said quietly. "Using your own blood as ammunition. A novice wouldn't dare. They'd bleed out before finishing a single strike."
Faen's hand flicked forward.
The hardened droplets of blood shattered — and then reformed mid-air, slicing forward like shards of glass. Each one carried force enough to split the metal.
Narev stepped through them.
The flamberge came alive — its serpentine edge catching the incoming shards, deflecting them in arcs of light. Each movement was precise, heavy, deliberate. When he swung, it wasn't a weapon — it was a current, a rhythm that pulled everything around him into motion.
Faen lunged again, faster this time. The sickle carved through the air, its blood-hardened edge shrieking as it cut close to Narev's throat. The larger man ducked, turned, and parried — sparks exploded where the blades met.
Abel could feel the clash in his bones.
"They're not fighting to kill," Stipo said softly. "They're teaching. Showing the younger ones what control looks like, two generals can't fight with everything they've got — it would tear this place apart"
Faen laughed, a low, harsh sound. "Control, Narev? You call this control?"
Narev didn't answer. His flamberge came down like thunder — wide, sweeping, but never careless. Faen slipped beneath it, cutting low, the sickle tracing a crimson curve across his opponent's thigh. The wound sealed after a few seconds— the blood crystallizing, flaking away as the energy within repaired it.
For a moment, Abel thought Faen had the upper hand. But then he noticed something strange — faint, glinting threads of red stretched across the arena floor.
"What are those?" Abel whispered.
Stipo's eyes narrowed. "Blood strings."
Narev shifted his stance, dragging the flamberge along one of the thin crimson strands. The moment the blade touched it, the line snapped — and Faen's footing faltered. His leg jerked back involuntarily, caught by a thread that hadn't been there before.
A trap.
Before Faen could recover, Narev's flamberge came down in a single, devastating arc — the serrated edge biting deep into the sand beside his neck, close enough to draw a bead of blood.
The arena went still.
Faen stared up at him, chest heaving. Then, slowly, he grinned. "Still the same old bastard."
Narev withdrew the blade, resting it on his shoulder. "And you're still too proud to see what's right in front of you."
The referee raised his hand. "Winner — Narev Kyoshi!"
Applause rippled through the crowd — muted, respectful.
Abel leaned forward, eyes wide. It wasn't just the technique — it was the way both men moved with purpose, every strike a conversation. Every wound a message.
That's what real strength looks like, he thought.
Not fury. Not chaos.
But mastery.
Stipo exhaled beside him. "Watch closely, Abel. That's what separates us from beasts. Not power, not blood. Choice."
Abel didn't reply. His gaze was still fixed on the two generals — one smiling, one bleeding, both unbroken.
The crowd began to disperse, leaving only the faint scent of iron and sand in the air. Abel's reflection stared back at him in the polished railing — tired eyes, faint scars, and the quiet, restless hunger that refused to fade.
He clenched his fists.
One day, he promised himself, he'd stand where they stood — not as a beast, but as a Kyoshi!
The wind carried the sound of ringing steel from a distant arena.
The classification wasn't over yet.
To be continued…