[The Arena of Draka – The Heart of Hell]
The sands beneath Kyle's feet seemed as if they had been thirsty for centuries, ready to soak up every drop of life that fell upon them. He stood facing the Sura Guard—that black shadow that did not appear to be a creature of flesh and blood, but rather a piece of eternal night cast into a mold of steel armor.
The horn blasted, and there was no period of hesitation.
Kyle lunged with every ounce of strength he possessed, his battle cry tearing through the awestruck silence of the stands. He wasn't fighting for glory; he was fighting for that silk dress, for his daughter's laughter, for a way out of this dark cellar they called a life. His strikes were brutish, rapid, and fueled by pure despair. His blade struck the Guard's weapon again and again, the clashing metal sending sparks into the air like fireworks over an open grave.
Kyle was holding his own! For several minutes, it seemed as if he were facing Death as an equal. He parried, attacked, and utilized every bit of his pit-fighting experience. But… the Sura Guard had not yet begun to fight with his full strength. He watched him coldly, memorizing the rhythm of his breath, waiting for the moment this false hope would wither.
Suddenly, the Guard's tempo shifted. He moved with a speed that Kyle's exhausted eyes could not perceive. In the blink of an eye, the black blade slipped under Kyle's open defense.
Slice!
The blade pierced Kyle's side. A sudden silence fell over the stands. Kyle dropped to his knees, his hand pressing against the wound from which a crimson tide began to flow, instantly staining the sand. The referee froze in his place, raising his hand to cry out the end: "The fight is ov—"
"No!"
The word erupted from Kyle's throat, choked with blood. Miraculously, and with a force of will no one had ever witnessed before, Kyle leaned on his broken blade and stood. His vitals were bleeding out, and his face had turned a deathly pallor, but his eyes were burning with madness.
"It's not over... it's not over yet!" he screamed, wiping the blood from his mouth.
The Sura Guard looked at him, and for the first time, I sensed a movement behind that black mask. It wasn't admiration; it was contempt. To this Guard, Kyle standing back up wasn't courage—it was an insult. An insult to the Sura blade that failed to kill its opponent with the first blow. An insult to the Law that decreed slaves must fall when they are ordered to.
[The Massacre – The Festival of Stabs]
Kyle lunged once more. But his movement was slow, staggering, and pitiful. He dragged his body toward the Guard, his blade trembling in his hand. He attempted a thrust, but it was too weak to even scratch the black armor.
Then, the Guard's malice exploded.
With savage speed, the Guard grabbed Kyle's wrist and twisted it until the bone shattered with an audible crack. Then, the true "Butchery" began.
A stab to the shoulder! A stab to the chest! Another to the stomach!
The Guard did not stop. He plunged his blade and withdrew it with a calculated madness, as if he were dismembering a living corpse. He stabbed him again and again and again. Every time his blade pierced Kyle's body, the crowd grew more insane. There was no sympathy, no mercy. They screamed with excitement, demanding more holes in this body that had dared to stand.
Kyle was turned into a human sieve. In his final thrust, the Guard raised his blade high and drove it into Kyle's chest with such force that the steel exited through his back and sank into the sand beneath him.
[The End – The Cold Sky]
Kyle fell. This time, there was no rising. He fell, his body twitching in the final throes of death. His eyes were wide open, staring at the clear blue sky above Draka. Perhaps in that final moment, he didn't see the arena, and he didn't hear the screams of the ignorant crowd.
Perhaps he saw his daughter in that silk dress, running toward him in a green field far away from here. Perhaps that faint smile that formed on his blood-stained lips was his final peace.
The arena exploded in cheering so loud the walls shook. "SURA! SURA! SURA!" was the only sound. A hysterical roar celebrating the death of a "slave" who tried to dream. Not one of them thought of that little girl who would wait at the door tonight, only to find neither her father nor her dress—finding only orphanhood and hunger.
[The Dark Corridor – The Birth of Hell]
I stood in the shadows, my hand gripping the hilt of my blade so hard the leather gloves began to tear. My eyes beneath the scarf weren't just burning anymore... they were pulsing with a terrifying heat, as if they wanted to burst from my sockets to incinerate this arena and everyone in it.
I watched Kyle being dragged like a slaughtered animal out of the arena. I saw his blood drawing a long line on the sand, like a silent cry for justice.
"Dreams... a dress... gold..." I whispered to myself, my voice sounding foreign, deep, and echoing from the depths of hell.
I looked toward the Royal Box above. I saw Cyril clapping coldly, that filthy smile still etched onto his perfect face. I saw the crowd dancing over the blood of a man who wanted nothing more than to live as a human being.
I exhaled a hot breath, and I felt every cell in my new body begin to vibrate. The power I had tried to suppress, the coldness I had feigned... it all vanished. Only one thing remained.
"You want a show?" I said, as the black aura began to coil around me like volcanic smoke.
"Today, I will show you the meaning of true Hell. I will make your sands drink your blood until they vomit in disgust."
I took the first step toward the arena, and every step left a scorched mark on the ground. There was no more "Ray," and there was no more "Wraith."
There was only... the Sin that had come to hold everyone accountable.