The Arena's Cruel Embrace
Raziel’s eyes snapped open. He was dripping with icy cold water. The twelve-foot-tall monster was standing over him with an empty bucket.
“Wakey Wakey” Orien laughed, a sound that sent shivers through Raziel’s spine.
“Where am I?” He looked up at the monster with confusion. Taking in his physical appearance reinforced the fear that his laughter started.
Raziel drew his legs under him trying to look as small as possible.
“You are going to battle for your life in the arena.” Without any warning, Orien grabbed his hand and clasped an iron binding around his wrist.
Raziel pulled back and resisted the monster’s efforts. Orien growled and chuckled. “Resistance won’t get you anywhere.” Two guards rushed in and assisted Orien with getting Raziel pressed against the stone wall.
The three of them forced the young man’s arms above his head. The other iron binding connected with a chain clasped onto his other wrist.
With a harsh yank he was pulled away from the wall. The movement was jerky and caused Raziel to lose his balance. He fell to his ass.
Orien chuckled. “This works too. He grabbed the chain and pulled him on his butt all the way to the arena.
The rough-hewn stones that lined the hallways to the arena bit into Raziel’s skin as he was dragged. Pain filled his senses.
Clenching his teeth, he slowed his breathing to minimize the effect of the throbbing wounds the rocks were cutting into him. His vision blurred with disorientation.
Orien was talking to Lord Erikson as they dragged Raziel through to the arena. “How long do you think he will be able to fight? And Should I take his sword?”
Lord Erikson’s expression softened slightly. “I think we should take his and give him a blunt training blade.”
Orien laughed as they entered the arena. The sound of blades clashing filled Raziel’s ears. His anger and frustration, building.
The brute forced him to his feet. He took a key and unlocked the cuffs. He chuckled. “Good Luck.”
A swift kick to Raziel’s gut and he fell backward. He landed heavily on the cold, damp ground, the impact jarring his senses.
Lord Erikson bent over him and unsheathed the blade. His eyes went wide. “Orien the engravings on this sword are written in abyssal.”
Orien looked at it and frowned. “We can’t let him keep it, it will give him an advantage.”
Orien started to walk away with the blade in his hands. The further he got from Raziel, the hotter the blade became.
“What the fuck.” He could feel a resistance in the bade. He stopped and turned back to Erikson. A bright flash of red magic sent a shock through Orien. He dropped the blade. It levitated and floated through the air, sheathing itself at Raziel’s hip.
Erikson frowned. “I guess he gets to keep it. It has to be some serious magic to overcome my dead zone.” He turned to Raziel and laughed. “Good luck boy.”
Erikson chuckled and pat Orien on the back. “Let’s go take our seats.”
Raziel stood up trying to take in where he was at. It was a chaotic scene: a swirling vortex of snarling combatants, their weapons clashing, bodies tumbling.
The air hung thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and something else…something acrid and faintly sulfurous. He registered the roaring of the crowd, a monstrous, inhuman cacophony filled his ears.
He gripped the hilt of his blade as panic clawed at his mind. He closed his eyes and reached out mentally to his blade. He knew it had spoken to him. It did not respond but a chilling calm settled in its wake.
He had no idea where he was, why he was here, or who these people were. All he knew was the instinctive feel of the broadsword, the phantom memory of a far more refined grip than his mind could remember knowing how to do.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes just to see a hulking brute with tusks protruding from his lower jaw. It charged, bellowing a challenge that Raziel couldn’t understand.
But a deep, primal instinct surged within him. He drew his sword as a red halo lit up the edges of his irises. It was time to fight.
The brute’s attack was clumsy and predictable. Raziel, guided by an uncanny instinct, sidestepped the lumbering blow, the broadsword arcing in a practiced motion he didn’t consciously remember.
The blade found its mark with surprising precision, a clean cut that sent the beast staggering. A gasp rippled through the crowd. This wasn’t mere luck; there was a deadly grace to his movements. A fluency honed by years of practice, a mastery he hadn’t known he possessed.
He moved through the melee with a terrifying efficiency, his opponents falling before him with sickening thud.
Each strike was calculated, precise, devoid of any unnecessary movement. He was a whirlwind of steel and death. A force of nature unleashed in the heart of the arena.
Yet, with each felled opponent, a deeper unease settled within him. A growing sense of dread began to take root, a cold, almost evil connection with the blade he wielded. It was almost as it was guiding him vs him using it as a weapon.
As the last opponent crumpled, a figure emerged from the shadows at the edge of the arena. Her voice was chilling.
“Interesting. Remarkably…interesting. You exceeded all probable expectations. But your performance raises questions. Who are you? And where did you come from?”
Her gaze burned into Raziel, searching, probing. The answers, Raziel knew, lay buried within the darkness of his lost past. The entity stayed in the shadows of the arena floor.
Erikson’s smirk widened as the final warrior entered the arena. He turned to Orien. “This is going to be epic. I bet the boy will be easily beaten. If he is, we will let him die. If he shows as much skill as he did with the others then we will stop the fight.”
Orien just nodded.
A towering figure clad in crimson dragon-scale armor, his weapon a wickedly curved scimitar that gleamed in the flickering torchlight entered the fray. The fight was brutal, swift. The dragon-scaled warrior was a master of his craft, his movements fluid and deadly.
Raziel, however, fought with a tenacity that was nothing short of extraordinary. Each clash of their weapons sent sparks flying.
The crowd watched in awe as Raziel, despite being pushed to his limits, adapted to his opponent’s style. With every strike, every dodge, he learned, his movements becoming more precise, his attacks more calculated.
The fight seemed endless. Each moment more intense than the last. Raziel’s agility and strategic mind began to turn the tide.
He moved with the grace of a dancer and the ferocity of a beast, his blade finding its mark with increasing accuracy. The dragon-scaled warrior, though powerful, started to show signs of fatigue.
Erikson’s smirk slowly faded, replaced by a look of genuine interest. Raziel’s resilience was evident, his determination unyielding. The arena was filled with the sound of clashing metal, the roars of the crowd, and the heavy breathing of the two combatants.
Finally, with a swift maneuver, Raziel disarmed his opponent, sending the scimitar flying. The crowd erupted in cheers, but Raziel didn’t let his guard down. He stood over his fallen foe, breathing heavily, his eyes locked onto Erikson.
Erikson raised his hand, stopping the fight. “Enough,” he called out, his voice echoing through the arena. “He has proven himself… resilient. For now. Bring him to my chambers. We have much to discuss.”
Guards surrounded Raziel. Together they overwhelmed the exhausted boy and placed him back in cuffed chains.
Two guards dragged Raziel away, his body aching, his mind a maelstrom of confusion and pain. As they dragged him, he caught sight of Orien at the edge of the arena, a knowing look in his eyes.
Orien’s eyes flickered with something akin to concern, then quickly hardened into an expression of cold calculation.
The chambers were opulent, a stark contrast to the brutality of the arena. Lord Erikson sat behind a massive obsidian desk, his gaze piercing.
“So,” Erikson began, his voice a low growl, “the little boy fights like a seasoned veteran. This is rather amusing. Tell me, who are you? What is your connection to… Renaldo?”
Raziel remained silent, his body screaming in protest from the days battles. He knew nothing.
The name Renaldo stirred a faint, unsettling echo in the recesses of his mind, but nothing concrete surfaced.
Erikson leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Silence, then. Very well. Your ignorance is… inconvenient. But your skill is undeniable. We shall see if your resilience matches it.”
He slammed a fist on the desk, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.
“Another battle. Twenty-four hours hence.” He gestured dismissively.
Guards appeared, escorting Raziel back to a surprisingly comfortable cell. He was given a grand meal. His plate was roasted pig, corn and potatoes. Two cups, one water, and the other wine.
He ate ravenously. When he set his fork down Erikson walked into the room, with a healer. “Beturice. Please heal his wounds.”
She nodded and walked over to him. Without a word she stitched his wounds, her touch surprisingly gentle. As the healer worked, Raziel caught glimpses of himself in a polished metal surface. The reflection was familiar, yet alien. The eyes seemed to hold a haunting depth a red hue tinged his irises.
A chilling tone to Eriksons words eco in his ears. “Sleep well as tomorrow you will fight again.
“Your name is Erikson?” Raziel inquired.
The lord chuckled, “It is.”
“Alerath and I will send you to the belly of the underworld Erikson.” A dark promise left Raziel’s lips without conscious thought. The red around his eyes pulsed with abyssal anger.
Erikson hesitated. There was a tone and power in his voice that brought goosebumps to the lord’s skin.
He smirked with sarcasm. “I hope you do. I am tired of this life anyhow.” With a cold calculated gate, he left the boy to sleep.
The arena felt different this time, colder, more ominous. The crowd’s roar was a palpable entity, pressing down on him, suffocating. But Raziel was ready. The previous day’s brutal lesson had burned itself into his muscle memory, sharpening his instincts.
He moved like a phantom, a whirlwind of controlled aggression. His opponents, initially confident, fell before his honed skills with unnerving speed.
He danced through the chaos, his blade a blur, each movement precise and deadly. A grim satisfaction settled within him; this was not mere survival; this was mastery.
The crowd’s initial cheers morphed into awed silence as he carved a path of destruction through the ranks of his opponents.
Then, the shadow fell. The crimson dragon-scaled armor of the warrior, the Red Knight, emerged from the shadows. The crowd went silent.
The Red Knight moved with terrifying grace, every strike calculated, every movement a deadly dance. This wasn’t a battle of brute force. It was a contest of skill, a clash of titans in the heart of the arena.
Raziel’s initial success crumbled against the red knight’s superior experience and honed expertise. He found himself on the defensive, desperately parrying blows, his own attacks falling short.
He was tired, wounded, his body screaming in protest. but the fight was far from over. The scent of blood filled the air, a thick, metallic odor that mingled with the stench of fear. The Red Knight moved in for the kill, his scimitar arcing towards Raziel’s heart…
A flicker of something else, a distant memory. A half-formed image from a forgotten past… it flashed through his mind, and he reacted.
The scimitar, inches from Raziel’s heart, stops. A guttural roar, primal and alien, erupts from Raziel’s throat. It’s not a sound he recognizes, yet it feels deeply ingrained, ancient.
Years, centuries even, of forgotten training surge through him. The broadsword in his hand seems to vibrate, humming with malevolent energy.
The blade crackles with an unnatural crimson light. He feels it. A presence within the steel, a dark power he barely understands, yet instinctively it allows him to control but at a price. His irises are now red with demonic fury.
He fights back with a ferocity that shocks even him. His movements are no longer merely skilled. He growls, the pendant around his neck pulses with an eerie light.
Raziel’s attacks are brutal, efficient, fueled by a rage that transcends human emotion. Almost a demonic drive urges him forward.
He’s a whirlwind of steel and shadow, his blade a blur of crimson light slicing through the air.
The Red Knight, for all his skill, is momentarily taken aback by this sudden, terrifying transformation. Raziel presses his advantage, his attacks relentless, each blow imbued with the dark energy surging through him.
He finds an opening, a brief lapse in the Red Knight’s perfect defense, and plunges his blade deep into the creature’s chest.
It went straight through the plated armor into what should be the heart.
Instead of a mortal wound, the blade met unexpected resistance. A low, mechanical groan echoes from the Red Knight’s armor.
Raziel stumbles backward. His blade embedded in the monster’s chest. But the Red Knight simply pulls out the blade.
The crimson energy fading from the weapon as if absorbed by the armor. Blood? There is none. Only a dull, metallic tang where the steel pierced its husk.
The Red Knight, unfazed, attacks with renewed vigor. His movements are faster, stronger now, fueled by a fury born of unexpected defiance.
Raziel, weakened from his previous injuries, is thrown back, crashing heavily to the ground.
The Red Knight raises his scimitar, ready to deliver the final blow. But before the blade can fall, Korrin rushes through the gates.
His voice cutting through the stunned silence. “Enough!” he shouts, his tone sharp, commanding.
His intervention is swift and forceful. He throws a small, intricately carved throwing knife with deadly accuracy. It strikes the Red Knight’s armor in a vulnerable spot. The blade stunned preventing the deathblow.
The fight is over, but the arena remains charged with a palpable tension, thick with unspoken questions and simmering threats.
Korrin helps Raziel to his feet, his expression is a mixture of concern and something akin to scientific assessing.
The Red Knight stands motionless, its crimson armor dulled, the throwing knife embedded near its neck. The crowd, initially stunned into silence, erupts into a chaotic blend of cheers and gasps.
Before anyone can react, a loud, echoing thwump reverberates through the arena.
All eyes turn towards the source of the sound. Lord Erikson, who, in his haste to assess the situation, tripped over a loose stone and tumbled headfirst into a large, overflowing barrel of fermented fish guts.
The viscous, pungent liquid splatters across the arena floor, coating Erikson from head to toe. The stench is immediate, overwhelming, and utterly disgusting.
The previously awestruck silence transforms into unrestrained, boisterous laughter.
Even the Red Knight seems momentarily distracted, its head tilting slightly as if processing the utterly bizarre turn of events.
Korrin, despite his clear and apparent displeasure with the whole affair, can’t help but let out a small, suppressed chuckle. He quickly regained her composure.
Raziel, still catching his breath and nursing his wounds, stares at the spectacle with a bewildered expression. The humor of the situation is so unexpected. So completely out of sync with the previous tension, that for a moment defuses the dangerous atmosphere.
For now, the focus shifts from the gladiatorial contest to the spectacle of a very angry, very smelly Lord Erikson struggling to extract himself from the fish guts.
The immediate danger seems to have subsided, replaced by surreal, almost comical chaos.
The implications of Raziel’s strange abilities, the mystery of the Red Knight. Are overshadowed, at least for the moment, by the pungent aroma of fermented fish.
The laughter eventually subsides, replaced by a tense silence.
Erikson now cleaned (somewhat) and fuming, glares at the arena. His gaze sweeps over the crowd, settling on Raziel and Korrin.
He speaks, his voice dripping with barely controlled rage, “This… this is unacceptable! Korrin you abuse your training and knowledge by stopping this fight.” His attention on Korrin, his voice softening slightly.
A dangerous honeyed tone replacing the raw fury. “Korrin, explain your intervention.”
Korrin stepped forward. His gaze unwavering. “My Lord, the contestant… Raziel… displayed unexpected abilities. His strength, his skill… it surpassed even my expectations.”
He paused, a subtle shift in his demeanor. “And the Red Knight… It appears its defenses, while formidable, they are not as impenetrable as we thought. The experiment has failed.” He turned to Raziel, “There is something… unusual… about both.”
Erikson narrows his eyes, suspicion warring with a grudging fascination. “Unusual? What do you mean?”
Korrin hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “The contestant’s abilities seem… innate. Almost… unnatural. And the Red Knight… I suspect still needs some ‘tweaking’.”
A flicker of something dark passes across Erikson’s face. “You think so?”
Korrin holds his gaze, defying his unspoken threat. “He is not able to adapt well to this warrior. I do not know if it is Raziel specifically. Or if I have made a critical failure in my calculations”
Erikson turns back to Raziel, who remained silent, still trying to understand the events. The Lord’s gaze is unnervingly intense.
“Take him to his room.” Erikson growled in frustration.
Korrin nodded. He turned to Raziel. “I don’t think you have much fight left, do you?” He chuckled. His eyes flicked to the boy’s weapon on the ground and wicked expression filled his eyes.
He cuffed Raziel and took him under his arm leading him away. The blade levitated and sheathed itself at the boy’s hip.
He led him towards a dimly lit cell. The passage is damp, smelling of mildew and something faintly metallic.
Korrin unlocked his cell. Raziel sighs, his shoulders slumped and he noticed something odd about the rough stone wall. A barely perceptible seam, almost invisible in the flickering torchlight.
He sat on the cot as Korrin unlocked his bindings. “Sometimes, things are not always as they seem, boy.”
He eyed Raziel with stern curiosity. Korrin turned and left the cell.
Raziel stretched. Blood ran down his back. His nose dripped with more of the metallic substance. A tear comes to his eye.
“How the hell did I get here and how do I get out of here.” He sighs in frustration. He stands up and turns to the wall.
His head cocks to the side as he notices the seam again. He walked over to it and decided to let his curiosity get the best of him.
He ran a hand along the wall, tracing the line of the seam. His fingers brush against a small, loose stone.
He pulled gently, and the stone gives way with a quiet click. Behind it is a narrow opening, a hidden passage, dark and unknown.
The scent of stale air and something else, something earthy and subtly sweet, wafts from within.
The guards, preoccupied with securing his cell, haven’t noticed his actions. He pauses, debating his next move.
The passage presented a chance for escape. But it also promised the unknown, a deeper mystery, a potential descent into greater danger.
Raziel hesitates only a moment before slipping through the hidden opening. The passage is narrow, barely wide enough for his shoulders, forcing him to proceed slowly.
The earthy sweetness intensifies, now mingled with the damp smell of decaying vegetation. The air grew colder, the torchlight struggled to pierce the encroaching darkness.
He moves cautiously, his hand trailing along the rough stone walls, searching for any further indication of where this passage might lead.
After what feels like an eternity, the passage opens into a small, circular chamber. A single flickering torch on the far wall casts long, dancing shadows that writhe and twist like living things.
The earthy sweetness is stronger here, almost cloying, and a low, rhythmic humming emanates from somewhere deep within the chamber.
The floor is damp earth, littered with decaying leaves and strange, phosphorescent fungi that pulse with a faint, inner light.
In the center of the chamber, a crude altar is fashioned from rough-hewn stone. Upon it rests a single, obsidian dagger, its blade gleaming with an unnatural, oily sheen.
Raziel approaches warily, his hand instinctively moving towards the hilt of his own broadsword. As he nears the altar, a raspy voice, thin and reedy, breaks the silence.
“Welcome, Raziel,” the voice whispered, it emanated from the shadows themselves. Raziel spun around, his sword half-drawn, but sees nothing.
“Who’s there?” he demands, his voice echoing in the confined space.
The voice chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. “You seek answers. Answers about your past, about Renaldo, about the power that burns within you.”
“I… I don’t know anything about any of that,” Raziel stammers, feeling a prickle of unease crawl up his spine.
“Lies. You feel it, don’t you? The power. The darkness.” The voice drifts closer, seemingly weaving through the shadows.
“It is a power that can consume you. You need anchors in the light to save your soul. The question is, do you give into Aether? That pendent around your neck will only go so far.”
The shadows shift and writhe, coalescing into a vaguely humanoid shape. A hooded figure, an odd plague doctor mask. It is difficult to make out the complete details in the flickering torchlight, but Raziel can sense a malevolent intelligence lurking within the darkness, watching him, waiting.
The obsidian dagger on the altar pulses with a faint light, mirroring the rhythmic humming that fills the chamber. The air grew colder.
Raziel places a hand on the hilt of his sword. The entity took off the mask. The man from the arena stood there.
“Korrin?” Raziel narrowed his eyes.
The entity laughed, “You remembered that but you can not remember Renaldo? I bet he is trying to redeem you. It won’t work you know?”
Raziel remains frozen, his hand tightening around the hilt of his broadsword. “What do you want from me?”
“You need not your sword. I have no fight with you.” Korrin took a step forward. “I however have a question for you? Do you remember your son?”
Raziel frowned. “I do not have a son. I am only 18 years old and I do not have any women.”
Korrin eyed him with a wicked curiosity. “Interesting. I feel you are telling the truth.”
Raziel tightened his grip on his sword. “Why are you trying to twist my mind?”
“I fear it has already been twisted beyond my capabilities. What I do know about you, Raziel. Is that you are a vessel for Aether, but something about your soul. Something about your fight allowed you to defy him. Which is indeed most interesting.”
“You were betrayed by the order. Your order. Issac betrayed you. Your wife, your family. You were an elder of The Order of the Silver Shard. But they stole your son and tried to steal your soul.” he whispers, his tone dropping to a chilling murmur.
“Cursed by a power born unto you by the nameless one. The demonic essence within your sword… it’s a part of you, a remnant of the dark magic that consumed your order.
“They took everything from you, Raziel,” the voice says, its tone laced with a strange mixture of sorrow and malice.
“They stole your family, your sanity, your past. But they could not steal your strength. Your power. Or your resolve.”
Raziel growled. “I do not have to take this from you. Your riddles make no sense. I have lived with Issac. He loves me, he taught me to hunt. We have had an amazing time for the last 10 years.”
“Ah, ten years is but a blink of an eye. But I suppose you will find out soon enough. The only exit to this place is the way you came. I suggest you go before they discover you are missing.” Korrin snapped his fingers and disappeared.