A choking silence finished off the arena, as if the world itself had held its breath. No cries, no whispers remained—only still bodies waiting for the verdict of the god who had risen from the ash. I stood in that hollow, my breaths rasping in a dry throat. Everything around me was… flat: faces without sight, hands frozen mid-appeal… and the echo of the machine voice repeating what had been said a moment before like an irrevocable sentence.
Then the haze began in my eyes. It was not an ordinary shadow but a grey screen that swallowed edges. I saw the world fraying at the limits of my vision; letters lost color, hues faded, boundaries were erased as if a scraper worked over a painting. I tried to move my eyes, but sight had become a burden—every glance increased the ache at the back of my head. The drum of the slaughter thudded slowly inside my skull: a price taken from the eyes.
A cold, mechanical voice appeared in my head as if a tone had been struck in the throat of the universe:
> "Alert: Continued use of skill 'Show Me Death' has produced partial ocular hemorrhage in the user. Expected blindness ratio: variable. Do you wish to activate emergency rescue protocols?"
I looked around as if someone would utter a single human word to me. I croaked, "Where… where's the supply? What use are those scrolls?"
The system answered without delay:
> "There are three restorative scrolls in the secret repository — 'Nidr Scrolls of Light'. They are used to temporarily bind the eyes, restoring functional vision up to 80% for a limited period. Security notice: each scroll extends recovery duration but ties vision to an artificial system; subsequent side effects possible. Do you wish to withdraw them?"
The whole world seemed to lean on the word possible like a blade, yet the best thing my self asked for in that moment was clarity. I whispered, more to myself than to the machine: "Give them to me now."
The screen flickered, and a small window opened with animated images: three scrolls wrapped in dark bands, each stamped with a silver glyph.
> "Repository → Shelf 7 → Unit 3. Use command 'withdraw' or speak the scroll's name."
I spoke the command without thinking: "Withdraw — Nidr Scroll of Light (1)."
Immediately I felt a cold prick at the back of my head; something threaded through my veins like a digital filament. A small box of air manifested before me, its lid sliding open, and inside lay a tongue of fabric covered in blazing script. I took it with trembling hands—the cloth was cold as a sleeping hide.
The system said: "I will explain the procedure. Tie the scroll over your eyes—do not look directly prior to binding. Then execute the synchronization vocal sequence I will provide. You will feel intense pain for a few seconds, then recover vision to approximately 80%. Activation enforces a digital link between the scroll's weave and the retina. Do you confirm?"
I hesitated a heartbeat. I did not want to drown myself in another machine's command, but the red haze in my ears and the loss at the edge of my vision pushed me toward a choice: "I confirm."
I sat on the arena floor among stone-like bodies, gripped the scroll with both hands. I noticed the glyphs moved—lines like ancient symbols, flowing like roots. I raised the cloth, closed my lids, and began to bind it around my head like a warrior putting on a helm. With every wrap the fabric warmed, as if a spark in its weave tried to match the pulse of my eyes.
The system began whispering the synchronization sequence: short tones of numeric syllables—vibrations that trembled in my chest. I uttered them slowly, word by word. Suddenly my skull became a single sound; I felt a blockage, then energy surging from my veins into my retinas. A sharp pain stabbed behind my eye-sockets, but I did not cry out. My heart was loud in my ears—beat by beat—until the pain subsided as the system had promised.
I lifted my lids slowly.
The haze shattered.
Color returned—not whole, but present. I could make out the arena's silhouette with increasing clarity; edges returned, faces before me were clearer; fear's lines were carved but legible. The system sent an assessment:
> "Visual recovery: 78%. Record: successful. Estimated stabilization: 3–5 hours. Note: first scroll established a soft link to the system—remaining two scrolls may be activated when needed. Warning: each scroll increases program-binding load and shortens safe-rest intervals."
I drew a long breath that nearly tore my chest. The faces I could now see clearly were not merely inert bodies; they were a map of my choices. I looked at my hands; the blood on my palms seemed less black now, as if showing me that what the eyes took had become something else inside me.
The system spoke with its manufactured calm: "Sub-skill tab unlocked. Choose 1–3 to initiate trial."
I did not answer at once. All I wanted then was silence to clear my head, a small space for cold thought. I sat, the Nidr Scroll wrapped around my head trembling with metallic hums, and the city around me sighing heavy.
Then for the first time, I whispered words without their tremor—an unemotional resolve: "I will not be a king without sight. I will not be a tool. I will choose when I need your light and when I will cut it off. This city will learn the price of its gaze."
I stood. The world ahead—broken, silent—was ready for a new decree. Most importantly, my eyes gave me 78% of vision, and that meant I could see the next path clearly enough to plan it.
In the hollow of my chest regret and relief mixed; the full cost of the scroll was not yet revealed. The system awaited my next choice—the sub-skills I would unlock—but before choosing, I had to absorb one reality: this world, Valdran, gives nothing for free. Every boon is a knot, and every knot has an owner. Death Tiger could now see, but he was indebted—if only for part of his sight. His first true decision was to make the city pay for a game in which he would no longer be the victim.