The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the savannah in bruised crimson and burnt orange. Dust devils danced in the fading light, swirling like lost souls over the cracked ground. The air hung heavy with the acrid smell of scorched grass and something sharper — blood, perhaps, or something older still. Kairon stood in the heart of the clearing, waking with no memory of how or why he was there. His wiry frame was silhouetted against the last sliver of light. Thick calluses hardened his hands, each knuckle a testament to years of struggle. His startling electric blue gaze traced the swaying silhouettes of distant acacia trees. Somewhere deep in his bones, a warning stirred. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to him. Not to any of them. There had been no invitation. No promise of greatness. No careful selection. Only small moments — scattered across the world — curious teens touching relics they thought were abandoned, exploring ruins that pulsed too quietly to hear, buying trinkets from markets no one remembered building. Moments where something deep beneath the skin of the world had stirred — and marked them. Unseen. Unasked.
Kairon couldn't remember what he'd touched. Or where. Only that he'd woken here —and that the ground beneath his feet hummed like a heartbeat not his own. The shadows shifted. A low growl rumbled from the thickets. The ruins weren't dead. They were waiting. And Kairon knew, with a sickening certainty, he was not alone.
Around him, the makeshift arena stirred like a living beast. Stone and charred wood framed the space, stained by blood and burden. Fighters clashed in grotesque duels, their cries muffled by dust and the metallic tang of fear. Tattered banners fluttered in the breeze, ghosts of tribes long gone. Kairon could hear his grandmother's voice whispering stories of unity and strength from those who survived the fights—fables now half-buried in ash.
His fingers clenched around his weapon—a jagged shard of metal bound to a rusted pipe. Crude, but in his grip, it was more than a blade. It was a promise he hoped would keep him alive. It thrummed with the weight of resolve, a tool not just for survival but for defiance.
Across the arena, his opponent emerged.
Thoren.
Part machine, part menace—his armor shimmered dully under the waning light, mechanical limbs hissing softly with each calculated step. He moved like a predator built in a lab; his hair was cut in a parted bob style with the same metallic appearance as his mecha arms, his presence stirring hushed murmurs among the other fighters and their opponents alike. Unlike Kairon, who wore no armor but his resolve, Thoren looked like a manufactured resilience, forged by a different kind of cruelty.
"Look at you, Kairon," Thoren said, his voice a gravelly hum laced with contempt. "Just a mere man, trying to be a blade. This isn't your fight. You don't even know the rules."
What rules? The unspoken laws that governed this world—of strength, shadows, and sacrifice. Kairon didn't fully understand them yet, not all their twisted depths. But he knew enough. Enough to fight.
"I don't know how you know my name or what this is. I don't need to know your rules," Kairon growled, surprised at his body's reaction to the impending fight before adding. "But I am going to end you."
The horn sounded, and time fractured.
Thoren surged forward, a blur of alloy and rage. Kairon moved instinctively—sidestepping, the wind from Thoren's strike kissing his cheek. The ground shattered beneath the blow, dust rising like ghosts from the past. Momentum was everything now. His body moved like it had been doing this before, but his mind couldn't fathom what was going on.
He pivoted, low and swift, and slashed at Thoren's thigh. Sparks danced from metal. It was not a decisive hit—but it was a mark. A reminder that he was here and not dreaming. That he had not vanished.
Thoren's laugh was cruel and hollow. "Is that all you've got puny?"
But Kairon didn't flinch. The battle was no longer just between them—it pulsed outward. Around the arena, mechas and fighters dueled, hope flickering in the eyes of fighters. The weight of their trust settled on each fighter's shoulders. Their various garments moved like flashes of light in the wind. That was not usual at all.
Kairon grounded himself. This isn't just survival. This is a rediscovery.
Thoren lunged again.
Kairon ducked, rolled, and struck—steel meeting steel in a clash of willpower and war. For every blow absorbed, a memory stirred. The scent of his mother's cooking, laughter by the fire, the shadow of his father disappearing during the raids. Pain lanced through him, but he channeled it into every movement, following his body's lead despite the growing numbness in his mind.
Thoren struck hard—a monstrous kick that sent Kairon sprawling. Dirt bit into his skin. He heard a voice—not from the other fighters, but from his memory. His grandmother again: "Get up, my lion. Always get up."
He stood. Bloodied, bruised, but blazing with purpose. Thoren advanced, hulking and relentless. But something faltered. His parting of his hair had shifted to the side—barely visible—in his mechanical rhythm. And his breath was drawn slower than before.
And Kairon saw it as a crack in Thoren's armor appearing. Fueled by instinct and muscle memory he couldn't explain, Kairon moved like a current. He struck low, aiming for the vulnerable joint again. His weapon hit true, the clang ringing like a cry for freedom. Thoren staggered, fury igniting his expression.
"You'll regret that!" he roared before adding, "And I will make you watch me wear your skin!!!"
But Kairon had no time for fear. He moved again with focus this time—ducking, weaving, striking—a relentless rhythm of surviving drive. Blow after blow landed, and for the first time, Thoren recoiled. Not from pain, but from disbelief. He didn't expect resistance to carry this much soul.
"I'm not just any shadow," Kairon said through clenched teeth, unsure of how or why the words were coming from within. "I am a lion!"
With a surge of energy—raw and chaotic—he launched upward. His weapon arced like lightning, striking Thoren's jaw with a crack that turned silence into thunder. The arena seemed to still. Time held its breath.
Thoren faltered.
Kairon did not. To an immobilized Thoren on his knees, he yelled in exasperation, "Why am I here and what is this place?"
"You will know that when you survive the third fight. And nobody makes it past the second round," Thoren sputtered. Then one of his now faulty mecha arms swung to decapitate an unsuspecting Kairon while within range. It bruised him significantly as he tried to avoid the blow, and he responded with one final strike almost immediately. To the back of the neck. A deafening clash. Sparks burst into the darkening sky.
Thoren's hair was the first to fall before the head followed. Then his body. That was when Kairon realized it was a wig all the while, and it looked like nothing he'd seen before.
Dust billowed around them as the sound from the other fighters gradually became clearer to his now attentive ears. Kairon stood, chest heaving, the disbelief of his victory pressing down and lifting him at once. The fake hair — the wig — lay in the dirt beside the severed head, fluttering in the dusty breeze. Strange, how it gleamed despite the blood.
His hand moved almost on its own, fingers brushing the strange strands.
They felt... alive.
A memory surfaced — faint, like a whisper caught on the wind. His grandmother's voice:
"Victory demands its mark... but some marks take more than they give, my lion."
Kairon shivered but shoved the feeling aside. Maybe it was just the exhaustion playing tricks. Without thinking too much, he lifted the wig and placed it on his head.
For a breathless second, the world tilted — the sky blurring into earth — and a flicker of something foreign stirred in his mind: a rage not his own.
But it was gone before he could grasp it. The wig fused seamlessly into his hair. He blinked, confused. Around him, the sounds of battle roared on, uncaring.
Somewhere deep inside the island, something ancient smiled.
Above, he could see stars blinking into existence like witnesses to his rise despite the sunset. This was more than a victory. And if his opponent was right, it was only the first of three. "I don't think I like this."
Suddenly, a loud horn blew, and he realized that while his fight was over, others were far from ending. Feeling unable to move. He watched in disbelief and shock as they fought for their lives.