Blood doesn't sing in the arena.
It screams.
The crowd at The Pit didn't cheer for sport. They howled for slaughter. A toothless mob hungry for violence, packed tight in the mud-and-metal coliseum carved into the slums like an open wound. Rusted cages held the next fighters. Bones lined the walkways like decorative gravel. There were no rules here—only outcomes: die, or entertain.
And Seyric of Haldran had stopped trying to entertain.
The once-royal knight, now stripped of name and title, stood shirtless in the dirt, his body a canvas of faded tattoos, whip scars, and branded sigils burned into his chest—the kind they marked traitors with before discarding them into the underbelly of the kingdom.
He didn't flinch when his opponent charged.
He didn't move when the man screamed.
He simply waited.
Then—
Steel flashed.
Bone cracked.
Blood sprayed.
And Seyric stood over the twitching corpse of his opponent, breathing heavily through broken ribs and spit-soaked cloth.
He had won again.
No one cheered.
Once, he'd been Commander Seyric, the Shield of Haldran, protector of Crown Prince Valen.
Then the prince was assassinated, and someone had to bleed.
Seyric took the fall.
The royals branded him. Stripped his name from record. Cast him into The Pit, where traitors and monsters were made to tear each other apart for sport.
He'd survived seven years.
But today, his knees buckled.
The blade he leaned on wasn't his. It was rusted. Cracked. Mocking.
He stared up at the smoke-covered ceiling.
"This is it," he thought. "This is the day I don't get up."
And then—
"You've bled long enough."
A voice. Cold. Calm. Unfamiliar.
Seyric turned his head. A cloaked figure stood at the edge of the arena tunnel. Unarmed. Unarmored. Eyes hidden behind a veil of shadow.
"I'm not here for mercy," the man said.
Seyric grunted, "Then leave."
"I'm here to give you what they stole."
The knight didn't reply. He was too tired.
But then the cloaked man stepped forward—and Seyric saw his shadow move against the torchlight.
"I know your name," the man said. "Your real name."
Seyric's heart clenched.
"I know who framed you. I know who held the blade that slit Valen's throat. And I know who laughed when they threw you to the dogs."
The man removed his hood.
He was… young. Too young.
But there was something ancient in his eyes. Something that shouldn't exist in a boy's face.
"Who are you?"
The boy didn't smile. Didn't blink.
"The one who read the truth."
He knelt beside Seyric and extended a hand.
"Pledge yourself to me, and I will give you back the strength they stole. I will give you the names of those responsible. I will let you tear their world down."
"And what do you want in return?" Seyric asked, voice dry.
"Everything you are," Elias replied. "And everything you become."
Seyric accepted.
Not because he trusted him.
Because he had nothing left.
And in the next breath, Elias pressed two fingers to Seyric's chest—and whispered in a tongue that scraped at reality like glass on bone.
The world flickered.
Pain seared through Seyric's spine.
And then, the mark on his chest—the traitor brand—peeled itself off, smoking and shrieking as if alive.
Seyric screamed.
And when he opened his eyes again, he saw through walls.
He saw weak points in iron.
He saw structural fractures in stone.
He saw vital arteries in living men—lines of breakage, like a blacksmith inspecting a blade before the strike.
"This is your gift," Elias whispered. "Ruin-Sight. You see all that can be broken."
In the next fight, they sent four men against Seyric.
They brought axes, hammers, shields.
It didn't matter.
He moved like water—dodging before they swung. And when he struck, it was always at a point that shattered—knees, ribs, elbows, weapons.
He didn't just kill them.
He unmade them.
The crowd went silent.
And in the tunnel above, Elias watched, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
That night, in the underground ruin that would soon become Elias's sanctum, Seyric knelt before him—not out of faith, but out of clarity.
Elias had kept his promise.
"I want the first name," Seyric said, eyes burning.
Elias handed him a parchment, blank to the untrained eye—but shimmering with glyphs only a reader could decipher.
"The dagger that slit the prince's throat belonged to Lord Arren Dastyr," Elias said. "Your former commander. He's now the General of the Capital Guard."
Seyric's fists tightened.
Elias leaned closer.
"But you will not kill him. Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because you'll stand at his side… until he trusts you enough to bleed for me."
Seyric didn't smile.
But he bowed lower.
For the first time in seven years…
He wasn't a broken blade.
He was a sheathed weapon—waiting to be drawn by a new master.