Long before the pit knew Kairo's name, it roared for another.
The arena was chaos that day — faceless crowds shrieking, stone pillars breaking, black sand soaked in rivers of blood. Ninety-nine demons circled a single man.
He was bare-handed, unarmored, his chest torn open, his body stitched with scars. His hair clung to his face with sweat and blood, and his grin cut through the roar of beasts. His eyes burned like molten gold.
Veyrith.
The first demon lunged. He did not dodge. He caught its jaws and ripped them apart with his hands, laughing as its blood washed over him.
The second carved across his back. He twisted, grinning wider, and shattered its skull with a knee.
Five.
Ten.
Twenty.
The demons came in waves, clawing, biting, crushing. Veyrith fought not with grace but with violence sharpened into joy. Every strike was reckless, every motion an invitation to death.
And yet — he did not fall.
When thirty swarmed him, he roared with laughter, dragging chains from the arena floor and using them to smash bones like kindling. When fifty clawed him down, he clawed his way up, breaking spines with his teeth. When seventy piled on him, his laughter shook the pit, his molten eyes wild with ecstasy.
By the time ninety-nine fell, the arena was silent. Even the faceless crowd did not know if it should scream or cower.
Veyrith stood drenched in black blood, his body a map of wounds, his grin savage and unbroken. He looked to the throne above — to Hades himself — and raised his bloodied hands.
"This is the string!" he bellowed. His voice rattled the pit. "The edge between death and victory — the only place worth living!"
And Hades, amused, intrigued, raised his hand.
"Veyrith," he said. "General of Ash and Iron."
The crowd erupted, the pit roaring with his name. But Veyrith only laughed, molten eyes glinting. He cared nothing for the title. Only the fight. Only the string.