They walked in silence beneath a bruised sky, where clouds hung like dying gods and the wind dragged ash across the bones of the earth.
The North Gate rose before them — not a door, not a passage, but a screaming monument carved from obsidian and chained lightning, its jagged arch crawling with runes no one could read. A monstrous eye flickered at its apex, watching them with the patience of stone. It smelled like rust and prophecy.
Rin felt small. Pathetic. The people beside him walked like they belonged here — like wolves bred for carnage. He was not a wolf. He was… a mistake. His hands were still shaking from the last glimpse of the Man in the Black, whose words had nested in his skull:
"When the tower burns, run. Don't be a hero."
Rin didn't understand. He didn't even know what tower. But the way the Wardens had fallen to their knees in silence at the figure's passing — some weeping, some chanting in a dead tongue — it was like the world remembered something it wasn't supposed to.
And now, one final spark needed to ignite the great furnace of the tournament, they stood in ranks of twenty-five before the Gate, breath held in a collective hush.
Then — the Advocate returned.
He walked not from the shadows, but from language. A sentence cracked the world open, and he stepped through — cloaked in parchment robes stitched from unread books, crowned with quills that dripped black ink. His voice was wind through a dead library.
"You come seeking honor. You'll find only thresholds."
The dust bowed beneath his feet. He didn't blink. He smiled — and it was the smile of someone who had buried kings in silence.
He lifted a single, skeletal hand.
"You have reached the First Zone. North Gate. Named for silence. Known for blood."
"Here begins the Rite of Blades."
The contestants shifted, some gripping their weapons, others pretending not to be afraid. Rin swallowed nothing. His palms were clammy. He still wore no armor, no markings, just a plain coat and the weight of not knowing.
The Advocate turned, robes trailing like forgotten dreams.
"Twenty-five enter. Two may pass."
"The others… will become songs. Or ash. Depending on who remembers."
Someone laughed — cruel, barking. A boy not much older than Rin stepped forward, dragging a great axe behind him that tore up the gravel. His grin was all teeth.
"Finally," he spat. "No more speeches. Just meat."
He looked straight at Rin.
"You. You're soft."
Rin flinched.
"I'll kill you first. Get that little warm-up before the real fights."
No reason. No reward. Just hate. Just cruelty. Maybe boredom.
Rin took a step back. Then another.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. But the Gate behind them had sealed, and around him the others were fanning out, choosing opponents, stalking.
The Advocate had vanished into dust and ink.
Rin had no sword. Just a dull dagger strapped to his thigh, and a name he couldn't live up to.
The boy raised the axe.
And charged.
Fear is a living thing. It grips your bones with wet claws. Rin's body refused to move — then suddenly, it moved all at once. He rolled aside. The axe slammed into the earth, sending stone flying.
The boy laughed again. "Run, little rat!"
Rin scrambled up, drew the dagger. It looked like a child's toy. The boy came again, heavy-footed, no technique — just speed and strength. The axe screamed through the air.
Rin ducked.
Slashed wildly.
Flesh opened. A shallow gash along the side. Not deep. But enough for blood to bloom.
The boy snarled. "You cut me! You—!"
He raised the axe again.
Rin didn't think. He moved.
All the training, the nights spent dreaming of being brave — they were gone. He was just trying not to die. He dodged, he slid, he stumbled. His heart was breaking through his ribs.
Another swing — too close.
A shoulder hit him. He fell.
The boy was laughing again, full of fire and blood.
"I'll break your bones for that. Make a flute from your spine."
He lifted the axe.
And Rin — stabbed upward.
He didn't look.
Didn't think.
The dagger went through the throat. The laughter choked.
Then nothing.
A slow, wet gasp.
And a corpse fell beside him.
Rin stared at his hands.
They were red.
Not just wet — stained. Warm.
He crawled away. Vomited in the dirt.
No one helped him. The others had already moved on, dueling in pairs, snarling like beasts. A girl was screaming in the distance. A man with antlers was breathing fire.
Rin sat there.
Knees to chest.
Watching the boy's blood pool into the grooves of the earth, as if the ground itself was drinking.
He had killed someone.
He had killed someone.
Even if it was self-defense.
Even if it was survival.
It still didn't feel like something you came back from.
And then the voice returned — not aloud, but in his mind. The memory.
"When the tower burns, run. Don't be a hero."
Rin gritted his teeth.
He wasn't a hero.
But he was alive.
And now — he would stay that way.
No matter what it took.
Even if he had to crawl through nightmares and ghosts and fire.
Even if it meant becoming something else.
The earth groaned as another duel ended — a scream, then silence. A shape collapsed, far off, twitching.
The North Gate was now a stage.
And Rin had taken his first step into the dance.
The Advocate's voice echoed once, thin and terrible.
"The First Flame is lit. The Rite has begun. Praise the Immortal King."
"And may the last breath be a worthy one."