Chapter 54: Shadow Games
The warmth of Avalon faded like a distant dream.
Riya's eyes opened slowly, blinking against the sudden shift in brightness.
The familiar scent of flowers and misty wind from Avalon was gone—replaced by the dry scent of sand, sweat, and steel.
The air felt heavier.
Tense.
He stood alone in a vast arena.
Stone walls rose around him, curved and towering, casting jagged shadows under a pale, smoky sky.
Torchlight flickered from sconces embedded in the stone, illuminating bloodstained sand.
The whole place had a Roman coliseum vibe—designed for one thing only.
Spectacle.
From the far end of the arena, a raised marble platform overlooked the battleground.
And standing atop it, watching him with interest, were two familiar figures.
Lyle.
And beside him, cloaked in elegant darkness, was Agrippa.
Lyle leaned lazily on the edge of the platform, a grin already curling at his lips.
Agrippa, ever the shadow behind the curtain, stood upright—hands behind his back, silent and composed, but his presence hung heavy in the air.
One leaned forward with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
His voice boomed unnaturally across the battlefield.
"Well now… took you long enough to crawl out."
"Whatever reality marble that was, it really had you tucked in, huh?"
Riya rolled his neck and dusted off his jacket with exaggerated care.
"Yeah. Dreamland."
"Needed a break from all the wannabe warlords."
The man chuckled.
"Sharp-tongued huh?"
"That's good."
"Makes it more fun."
He raised an arm in grand introduction.
"Name's Lyle. Master of the fourth Floor."
"Don't worry—you haven't missed much."
"Just the usual reminders of your failure."
"Like that little performance back in the Trial of Lust." His grin widened.
"Bit of a flop, wasn't it?"
Riya's jaw ticked, just slightly.
"And this," Lyle continued, gesturing to the silent, robed figure beside him, "is Agrippa."
"He doesn't talk much."
"But that's fine."
"His Noble Phantasm speaks for him."
Agrippa raised one hand.
The sand at Riya's feet pulsed with red light, glyphs igniting across the ground to form a giant sigil—an artificial reality sealed in layers of command spells and cursecraft.
"This entire floor is his," Lyle went on.
"The laws here? His to write."
"His Noble Phantasm makes it so."
"You step into his world, you play by his rules."
He let that sink in.
"Which means," Lyle said, with a mock-pitying tone, "when your Servant contracts were put to the test and you failed… they were forfeit."
He stepped forward on the platform, voice rising with twisted joy.
"By the laws of this world, your Servants are no longer yours."
He leaned in, as if expecting panic.
"They are mine."
"So where are they?"
"Gone?"
"Broken?"
"Hiding?""
Riya looked up.
A half-smile tugged at his lips.
"They're safe," he said simply.
"Somewhere your rules don't reach."
Lyle blinked.
"I left them behind."
That was not the answer he expected.
Riya took one step forward, resting a hand in his pocket.
"So no, you're not getting them."
Then the grin curved sharper.
"The only one you are getting is me."
For a moment, silence stretched.
Then Lyle laughed.
Hard.
Genuinely amused.
"Oh man. That's rich." He wiped his eyes, still chuckling.
"You? Alone? A Master, without even a Servant to back you up—what exactly are you going to do?"
Agrippa didn't laugh.
Instead, he raised one hand and snapped his fingers.
Eleven doors appeared across the arena.
Flat slabs of black void, like gaping maws cut from reality itself.
Each one opened with a sound like bones grinding against stone.
From within them, figures stepped out.
Shadow Servants.
Eleven in total.
Their forms were mostly warped—faces concealed by darkness, features blurred by shadows—but their weapons were clear.
One held a great axe.
Another a long sword.
One held a bow strung with black flame.
Another had nothing but his fists, crackling with energy.
And one—at the far right—marched forward in a disciplined line, dragging a bronze spear behind him, his crimson cape fluttering in a wind that wasn't there.
Shadow Leonidas.
Riya's eyes narrowed.
These weren't proper Servants—not anymore.
Hollow reflections, pale mockeries.
But they still had the strength of legends behind them.
Even weakened... they were dangerous.
"To be honest," Lyle said, crossing his arms, "even one of these should be enough to tear you apart."
He pointed to the axe-wielding Shadow.
"Kill him."
The axe-wielder responded immediately—no words, no hesitation.
It charged at Riya, sand exploding under its weight, the edge of its weapon already swinging for Riya's neck—
SHHK.
The Shadow stopped mid-strike.
A clean line was carved across its chest.
Then… it fell apart.
A heavy thud echoed across the arena.
The first shadow Servant collapsed in a heap of blackened flesh, his axe still mid-swing — though it had never come close.
Standing behind the falling corpse, untouched and composed, was Riya.
His posture was loose.
Casual.
But his eyes—no longer their usual amber—now glowed a piercing blood red, casting a ghostly shimmer beneath his bangs.
Something inhuman pulsed behind them.
In his hands gleamed two curved daggers, faintly translucent, ethereal as mist but gleaming with killing intent.
The blades dripped black blood onto the sand.
Jack's knives.
He tilted his head, examining the corpse like one might a botched painting.
Then, without ceremony, he licked the blade—slowly, deliberately—dragging his tongue along the bloody edge.
"Hmm. Tastes like smoke and regret."
He smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it.
Just teeth.
Too sharp, too calm.
Lyle's voice caught in his throat, confusion twisting into disgust. "What... what the hell—?"
Riya didn't look at him.
Instead, he moved forward, step by step, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the arena floor as if it too thirsted for blood.
He wasn't just using Jack's power.
He was enjoying it.
He exhaled slowly.
A pale mist curled from his lips like smoke, but it wasn't breath—it was fog, creeping low and dense from his feet, slithering across the arena floor in a slow, possessive crawl.
It was unnatural.
Thick.
Stifling.
Jack's domain.
"One down," Riya muttered flatly, voice muffled by the haze.
But there was a curl of anticipation in it—like a butcher tasting the air before the next cut.
Lyle stared.
He hadn't seen Riya move.
Hadn't seen him cast a spell.
Hadn't even felt a magical surge.
"What…?" he breathed.
"But he's a Master!" he snapped, voice rising.
"How can he—?!"
Too late.
Riya stepped into the fog—a silent wraith with red eyes aglow, fading like embers into the mist.
The two nearest shadow Servants moved to intercept him.
One raised a jagged sword; the other mirrored him with dual daggers and a savage grin.
They barely took a step.
A whisper of motion.
A flicker of red.
Then flashes of silver cut across the white.
No screams.
Only the wet sound of steel parting flesh.
When the mist cleared, the two shadow Servants lay strewn across the sand—one without a head, the other disemboweled.
Their weapons lay untouched.
Their eyes still wide, frozen mid-thought.
Dead before they knew they were dying.
Riya walked out of the fog like a ghost made flesh—slow, calm, as if nothing had happened.
The daggers in his hands bled black.
"Three down."
This time, he didn't lick the blade.
He just smiled.
A thin, mirthless smile that made even Agrippa shift.
Lyle took a step back.
Agrippa's eyes finally moved.
His attention shifted to the far end of the lineup.
To Leonidas.
The Spartan stood like a statue, shield braced, eyes unblinking beneath the weight of ancient discipline.
Lyle caught the glance—and a slow, wicked grin crept onto his face.
"…Ah. I see," he murmured, voice low with dawning excitement.
"If they won't break him… then an army might."
Agrippa gave a single nod.
Leonidas stepped forward, his expression blank—emotionless.
The red glow in his eyes flickered, and he drove his spear into the ground.
The air shook.
A ripple of black and gold spread from the impact point, and behind him—
An army began to form.
Hundreds of silhouettes.
Shields.
Spears.
Helmets.
Spartan warriors, born of shadow, lined up in perfect formation behind him.
Their numbers stretched into the arena like a tide of iron.
300 of them stood tall.
"Thermopylae Enomotia," Lyle whispered. And then he smiled wide again.
"Oh, now you're screwed."
Riya sighed.
"...Great."