Liam was sitting in front of the towering statue of the God of Light, its polished marble face serene and unchanging. The morning sun filtering through the high arched windows gleamed along the outstretched hands, casting long, white shadows across the floor. He remembered, distantly, the comfort he'd once felt here. He would kneel before the statue and whisper prayers for strength, for guidance, for forgiveness.
But today he wasn't praying. Today he looked at the stone figure and felt nothing. Not reverence, not faith—only a hollow, steady ache in his chest and a single, jagged purpose that eclipsed everything else, to tear down his family before he died.
He traced the edge of the wooden bench with his thumb, as if to steady himself. The thought consumed him so thoroughly he almost didn't hear the door creak open.
A guard in silver livery stepped inside, bowing his head respectfully, though his voice was brisk.
"Sir, the carriage is ready to take you to the tournament grounds."
Liam lifted his gaze slowly. The sun caught in his pale eyes, making them look washed-out and feverish.
"Who from my family is coming?" he asked, his voice low and rough from hours of silence.
"Your father, and three of your elder brothers—Lord Steve, Lord George, and Lord Ben."
The answer struck him like a stone in the gut. His face contorted, though he fought to keep it still. Steve. Of all of them… Steve was the only one he didn't truly wish to see dead.
But if he was going to do what he planned—if he was going to call that being forth in the arena—then Steve would be standing there too. And there was nothing he could do about it. His throat felt tight. But he only nodded once.
He stood and followed the guard down the hall, the familiar corridors of his family's mansion passing in a blur. Every polished statue, every golden-framed portrait felt like part of a world he was already halfway severed from. He no longer belonged here.
Outside, the carriage awaited—a magnificent construct of polished black wood carved with silver sigils, drawn by four tall white horses. The driver didn't look at him as he climbed the steps and ducked inside.
Unlike the rest of his family, who favored ornate, gold-trimmed carriages drawn by teams of white stallions, he chose a plain, unmarked one — and rode alone.
He pressed his palm briefly against the cool window glass as the carriage jolted into motion. The streets of the city unfurled beyond—cobbled lanes lined with flowering trees, clusters of townsfolk gathered to watch the noble entourages depart for the tournament. He barely saw any of it. In his mind, he was already picturing what would happen when he summoned that power.
After nearly half an hour, the carriage slowed. He looked up to see they had arrived at a second mansion, smaller than the family estate but still impressive, its gates wrought with elaborate ironwork.
Two guards in dark uniforms stepped forward in unison and opened the carriage door. One of them inclined his head.
"This way, Lord Hans."
Liam swallowed the bitterness on his tongue and descended. He followed them up the wide steps and into the building's interior, down a vaulted hall lined with torches.
Then they reached the stairs—broad stone steps that spiraled downward, deeper and deeper beneath the earth. The air grew cooler with every level, heavy with the smell of old rock and the faint tang of lamp oil.
When they emerged at last, Liam had to pause.
The chamber spread out before him was immense—easily twice the size of the mansion that stood overhead. It was shaped like a colossal colosseum, with tiered stone seating rising all around the central arena. Torches burned in brackets along the walls, their flames dancing across banners emblazoned with noble crests. He could almost hear the echoes of a thousand past contests—cheers, cries of pain, the clash of steel.
The guards led him along the edge of the arena, to a heavy wooden door reinforced with black iron. One of them produced a ring of keys, unlocked it, and swung it open.
Inside was a chamber lined with racks—dozens of weapons, glimmering under lantern light. Swords, spears, axes. Suits of gleaming plate armor. Shelves crowded with polished wooden boxes, each marked with the sigils of powerful enchantments.
"You may use any of these, young Lord," the taller guard said, his tone a little softer, as if he could sense the gravity of the moment. "The battle begins in one hour."
Liam didn't answer. He only stepped inside. The guards pulled the door closed behind him, the iron lock clicking home. Silence settled, heavy and absolute.
For a moment he simply stood there, breathing in the cold air, listening to the faint ringing in his own ears.
He ran his fingertips across the hilt of a longsword, feeling the smooth leather wrapping. It was fine work—costly, flawless steel. All of it meant to be used by men like his brothers. Men who'd been born into power and expected to wield it.
But soon…
Soon none of that would matter.
He closed his eyes, steadying himself, and prepared. The silence in the armory pressed in on him from all sides, as if the stone walls themselves were holding their breath.
After a few minutes he forced himself to his feet. There was no sense sitting any longer—he had to make sure he was ready. He began to walk the perimeter of the room, inspecting the racks and shelves with methodical care.
Most of the items here were, in truth, modest. Standard-issue equipment, nothing extraordinary. The weapons glimmered under lantern light, but even at a glance he could tell most were only D-rank at best. Serviceable, but far from the treasures his brothers would have at their disposal.
His own power was even humbler. Despite all the training he'd endured, all the scars he'd earned, he was still only D-minus rank. The weakest in the family—barely enough to stand on that arena floor.
He swallowed the tightness in his throat and forced himself to keep going, moving along the racks until he found a suit of light armor. The plates were thin and flexible, layered over tough boiled leather, meant more for speed and mobility than brute protection. That would have to be enough. He had no illusions about trying to outlast the others—his only chance lay in dodging whatever they threw at him.
Carefully, he buckled the armor on, the familiar ritual giving him something steady to focus on. He checked each strap twice, making sure nothing would shift at the wrong moment.
Next, he turned to the weapons. He ignored the heavier swords and polearms—he wasn't strong enough to wield them well. After some deliberation, he picked up a slender one-handed sword with a faint reddish sheen along the fuller. When he tested the balance, it felt nimble and alive in his grip. A small rune glowed near the hilt, it was a fire enchantment. At least it would bite a little deeper when it struck.
He laid the sword across a bench and began selecting his other tools.
Two small mana crystals, each cut into precise facets, cold and faintly humming in his palm. They were vital. His own mana reserves were pitifully low, not enough to fuel more than a handful of spells unaided. With these, he might manage a little more—though even that would run out fast if he wasn't careful.
A thin silver ring with a twisted band etched in delicate runes—speed enhancement. He slipped it onto his middle finger and felt the faint shiver of magic settling against his skin. Perhaps it would be enough to let him keep ahead of a killing blow.
Finally, he selected an amulet—a small polished stone bound in a wire cage on a simple chain. It had been placed among the lesser items, but he knew its value. A dual enchantment, one to mend wounds slowly over time, the other to sharpen his concentration when fatigue set in. He hung it around his neck and tucked it under the collar of his armor.
He glanced around the room once more. There were dozens of other things he might take—more crystals, talismans, scrolls. But he forced himself to stop. Even with the aid of the crystals, his mana was limited. If he overburdened himself with enchantments, he'd run dry within moments.
And besides…
He patted the inner pocket of his tunic. Folded there was a sheaf of old papers—thin sheets of parchment inked with the elaborate glyphs of his personal spells. He had prepared them over long nights alone, copying each symbol by hand, learning them until he could draw them in his mind without looking.
When he'd chosen all he dared, he settled on the stone bench along the wall. The room felt even larger now that he had stopped moving—echoing, cold, full of too much space he could not fill.
Time crawled. From time to time, he reached into his pocket and drew out a much older scrap of parchment—creased and worn soft from handling. It was the Prayer of the Creator, the words that, if spoken with clear intent and unwavering purpose, could call a spark of divine attention.
He traced the first line with his thumb, lips moving silently as he read it again.
Usually the prayer had to be recited deliberately, every word anchored in focus and faith. Just reading it casually like this—mouthing the lines without conviction—did nothing. It was like repeating an old poem. A habit to keep his mind tethered to something other than dread.
But still, he read it over and over. He had read it so many times by now that he could see every line even with his eyes closed. If it truly had the power to summon a god—or something worse—then so be it.
He didn't care anymore. If he had to burn the world to ash to see his family brought low, he would.
The minutes crept by, each one a small eternity. And still he sat there in the hush of the armory, armor strapped to his thin frame, sword at his side, reciting the prayer over and over to himself, like a final act of preparation before the end.
After a few more minutes, the silence in the armory was broken. The thick wooden door creaked open, and the two guards from earlier stepped in. Their boots echoed against the stone floor.
"Lord Hans, it's time," said the taller of the two, his tone clipped and formal.
Liam nodded without a word. He stood slowly, the leather and light metal of his armor creaking faintly as he moved. The sword at his side felt heavier than it had minutes ago, as if it too knew what he was walking into.
He followed the guards out of the preparation room and into a corridor built of broad-cut brown stone. The walls were old, worn smooth from the passage of countless others who had walked this path before him. It was an archway-style corridor, the ceiling curved high overhead, and the faint scent of dust and old magic lingered in the air.
Their footsteps echoed as they moved, slow and steady, like a funeral march.
Eventually, they reached a vast iron gate—tall, rusted slightly at the hinges, yet still imposing. Beyond it was the arena.
As the gate creaked open, Liam stepped into blinding crystal light. The stone floor of the arena radiated heat beneath his boots. The space around him was immense—an open, circular battleground surrounded by rows and rows of stone benches and viewing platforms. Yet, despite the size of the coliseum, the crowd was small. No more than fifty people dotted the audience stands—elites, family members, nobles from associated houses. Spectators who came not for sport, but to witness control. Domination. Politics wrapped in combat.
Liam's gaze swept across them, lingering only for a moment before finding the elevated viewing box on the northern side of the arena. There, seated in a row, were the ones who mattered most.
His father sat in the center—tall, gray-haired, his stern face carved from stone, unreadable as ever. Beside him sat his three elder brothers.
George and Ben—both smirking, their eyes gleaming with amusement. Their enjoyment was obvious, as if this were just another display of how far below them Liam was.
Then there was Steve, the only one among them with a neutral expression. Not warm, not cold—just quiet. Observing. Watching.
Liam's jaw clenched. For a brief moment, hatred surged in him like bile. But he swallowed it down. He couldn't afford anger—not yet. He needed clarity, purpose and focus.
From the opposite side of the arena, another gate groaned open. A young man stepped through. He was tall and lean, wearing a dark combat uniform tailored to his slim build. A rapier hung at his side, thin and gleaming like silver thread. His stride was confident—too confident. And when he was halfway across the field, he offered Liam a mock bow, his lips curling into a smirk that reeked of arrogance.
"Judging by the look on your face," the young man said, voice sharp with amusement, "I'd say you already understand what's happening here."
He paused, tilting his head slightly, as though savoring the moment.
"Are you ready?" he asked, mockingly. His tone suggested he already knew the answer—and didn't care either way.
Liam said nothing. Instead, he drew his sword. The blade caught the light, glinting with the faint reddish shimmer of its fire enchantment. Slowly, he dropped into a fighting stance. Feet grounded, body still, the hilt gripped tight in both hands.
He didn't speak, but his answer was clear. Today, he would bring this place down with himself.