He was feeling guilty. Heavy. His chest felt like it was caged in iron, and every breath came with a burden he could not explain. Aron did not want to fight. He had trained, yes—he had endured pain and trial, yes—but his heart resisted. Something in his soul trembled, whispering for him to turn away.
"Are you afraid, son?"
The voice came from behind, familiar yet distant, deep yet soft. Aron's eyes widened. His breath caught. Slowly, he turned his face, and for a moment, the world itself froze.
It was Agarth.
But Agarth was gone—long gone. Yet here he stood, radiant, as though speaking from the heavens themselves.
"Father…" Aron's lips trembled as tears spilled down his cheeks. He could not move. His body was paralyzed, rooted to the earth by grief and awe.
Outside, chants roared like thunder, rumbling through the crowd that filled the colossal arena. Thousands of voices echoed in unison, shaking the ground itself. They were waiting—for him and for Lilith. The duel everyone anticipated, the clash that would be sung about for years.
But inside, Aron's heart was breaking.
Lilith's voice cut through the storm of chants:
"Today is the day I was trained for. I will show my true strength. I will destroy him!"
His words reached him like knives, sharp and merciless. But before Aron could react, Agarth's voice returned, calm and gentle.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I… I don't know," Aron whispered.
"Then why are you hesitating to go and fight your friend?" Agarth asked. His tone was not harsh, not commanding—it was soft, almost like a father comforting his child.
"Because I cannot hurt my own. I cannot raise my hand against one whom I deeply love from my heart. I cannot hurt anyone. All I want… is to live happily."
Agarth smiled, his figure glowing faintly, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"You truly are your father's son," he said with warmth. His eyes softened as he looked at Aron. "Listen, Aron. From the day you were born, you were pure. You had no enemies. And even now, grown as you are, you still do not carry hatred in your heart. That is your gift. That is your strength. Even if you find enemies, love them, and in time you may see them change. But beware—love is not for those who despise and loathe you. For them, you must stand firm."
Aron's tears flowed harder. He wiped his nose and eyes with the sleeve of his tunic, his hands shaking.
"What should I do, Father?" he asked desperately.
Agarth's expression did not waver. "That is your decision, son. If you truly do not wish to fight, then the best choice… is to quit."
Aron lowered his gaze to the earth. By the time he looked up, Agarth was gone, his presence vanished like mist under the sun. The voices of the crowd seeped back into Aron's ears. He turned his head toward the open gate. The rumbling from outside grew louder, deafening.
And then, Aron made his choice. He turned his back to the arena and walked away.
---
The gates groaned open, and the announcer's voice echoed:
"Lilith!"
The crowd erupted into madness. Cheers and chants thundered into the sky as he stepped forth, confident and fierce, his presence igniting the arena.
Then came the next name.
"Kron!"
But no one appeared.
The gate remained open. Empty. The referee frowned, stepping inside to search, only to find nothing. Lilith blinked in confusion, his expression breaking.
"Where is he?" he muttered.
Panic spread. Whispers rippled across the stands, confusion mixing with anger.
High above, within the royal balconies, the king sat, his face tightening with shock. His eyes narrowed.
In the crowd, far below, a quiet voice whispered:
"Carlos."
Carlos turned in surprise. Behind him, a cloaked figure grabbed his hand and pulled. Carlos's heart skipped a beat. He recognized him instantly.
"Aron…?"
Aron, hidden beneath a black cloak, tightened his grip and urged him forward. Together, they slipped out of the crowd.
Carlos struggled to speak, panic in his voice. "Why? Why did you leave the fight—" But the words died in his throat. He could not bring himself to finish.
They pushed through the people, hurrying toward the stables where their cart and horse waited.
But the alarms were raised.
"Guards!" a soldier shouted. "There is a boy—he escaped! Do not let him leave! The king orders his death!"
The command spread like wildfire. Swords rang out of scabbards. Soldiers stormed the exits.
Aron's heart pounded. His breath quickened. He and Carlos ducked into the shadows, but the words struck like ice.
"See?" Carlos hissed. "Now they want to kill you for running."
They broke into the open ground, desperate to reach the cart. But before they could climb aboard, guards appeared from every side, blades gleaming under the sun.
The commander, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped forward, his eyes hard as steel.
"This is the one who abandoned the fight. By order of the king, for disrespecting the rules—your penalty is death."
Aron raised his chin, his voice steady though his heart trembled.
"I chose not to fight. And for that, you would take my life?"
The commander's tone turned colder. "Surrender, or face the consequences."
Aron clenched his fists. "I will not surrender. If there are consequences… then let me see them."
"Then die!"
At the command, the guards surged forward, their swords flashing like lightning. Aron was barehanded. He dodged, weaved, ducked—each strike a breath away from his flesh. But against so many, it was impossible.
The blades closed in.
And then—
Boom.
A blinding flash tore from the heavens, striking the earth with the force of thunder. Dust and wind exploded outward, sending the guards sprawling, their weapons clattering across the ground. Only the commander remained standing, frozen, eyes wide.
As the dust settled, a figure emerged.
A man, tall and powerful, twin daggers gleaming in his hands. His presence radiated strength, his face sharp and handsome, his very aura commanding respect. He stood like one who belonged to both battlefield and throne.
Luxorious.
"No one will lay a hand on this boy," he declared, his voice deep, his body radiating authority.
The commander stumbled back.
Luxorious turned his piercing gaze toward Aron. "Tell me your name, boy."
Aron swallowed, feeling the weight of the man's presence—like a wall no army could break.
"My… my name is Aron Norm."
Luxorious's eyes narrowed. His voice lowered. "Is your true name… Norm?"
Aron nodded, trembling but firm. "Yes. Aron Norm."
A faint smile curved Luxorious's lips. "Indeed." He stepped aside, his cloak fluttering. "Take your cart and go. Do not look back."
The words struck Aron's mind like thunder. Without hesitation, he and Carlos leapt onto the cart, whipping the reins. The horse surged forward, and in moments they were gone, vanishing into the horizon.
Luxorious turned his gaze back to the trembling commander. "So, you want to fight?"
The commander's lips moved, but no sound came. His body froze as Luxorious walked past him. A single step, a brush of presence—then the commander collapsed, unconscious, hitting the earth with a thud.
Luxorious raised his head toward the sky. "So I have found the successor."
He whistled sharply. A shadow descended from above—the swift, piercing dive of a peregrine falcon. The bird landed on his arm, its sharp eyes gleaming.
"Tell Trail," Luxorious said softly. "I have found the successor."
The falcon let out a piercing cry and shot back into the sky, vanishing into the endless horizon.
Luxorious walked to the castle's peak, standing tall, his eyes closed, the wind tugging at his cloak.