Later in the day, the fights continued, but Aeron had little interest in watching his fellow humans. Their struggles were predictable, their victories and defeats small lessons that did not hold his attention. His thoughts were elsewhere—on strategy, on the laws he had begun to bend to his will, and on the inevitable moment he would face an opponent from another race.
When the overseer called the students forward to draw their tags, Aeron observed with the same detached intensity he gave every battlefield. Each participant betrayed something of themselves in the act. The overconfident clutched their tokens loosely, as though the outcome was already beneath them. The anxious gripped theirs too tightly, knuckles white with nerves. Some wore eager smiles, some tried to hide their dread, but to Aeron, all of them were equally exposed.
When it was his turn, he stepped forward silently and drew a tag. The smooth stone was cool in his palm, etched with the faint shimmer of a number: 13. Aeron stared at it for a long moment, and the corners of his lips twitched. For many, it was an ill omen. For him, it felt… fitting.
"Number 13, huh?" a deep voice rumbled at his side.
Aeron turned to find himself staring at a towering orc. Emerald skin stretched taut over a frame of corded muscle, every movement radiating raw physicality. Yet what caught Aeron's attention was not the brute strength, but the gleam of intelligence in the orc's eyes. He was no mindless savage.
The orc raised his own tag—matching, of course—and grinned broadly. "Looks like we're paired, human."
Aeron slipped his token into his pocket. "So it seems." His voice was even, unreadable. He held the orc's gaze without flinching. "May the best one win."
The orc's laugh was a deep, rolling sound that carried across the hall. "Oh, I intend to."
They separated, each returning to their side of the arena staging grounds. Aeron's mind immediately began mapping the coming battle. Orcs were built for endurance and brute force; their kind could take punishment that would cripple a human. But their size made them slower, and their reliance on power often left openings. With Death energy coursing at his command, Aeron knew how to exploit that.
The first matches unfolded before him—elves moving with graceful precision, dwarves showcasing their immovable resilience, humans relying on cunning and improvisation. Aeron watched every bout with cold calculation, cataloging patterns and flaws. Each fight was another page in his growing library of strategies.
Finally, his name was called.
"Aeron of the humans… versus Gorak of the orcs!"
The crowd erupted in noise, eager for blood. Aeron stepped onto the stone arena floor, his lean frame and composed expression a stark contrast to his opponent. Gorak's massive form dwarfed him, muscles bulging like knotted ropes, tusks glinting as he bared his teeth in anticipation.
They faced one another. The air buzzed with tension.
"Begin!"
Gorak roared, charging with earth-shaking speed, his fists clenched like boulders about to smash through steel.
Aeron waited until the last possible moment, then slid aside with effortless grace. The fist slammed into the ground where he had stood, sending stone splintering into the air. Aeron's palm lashed out, brushing against Gorak's arm.
A faint black mist clung to the orc's skin, spreading like rot through veins. The crowd gasped as Gorak staggered, his movements suddenly sluggish, strength sapped by the creeping tendrils of Death energy.
The orc roared again, forcing his body to respond, summoning a surge of brute vitality to resist the decay. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might overwhelm it. But Aeron was relentless. He moved like a shadow, darting in and out, each strike another infection, another thread of darkness woven into the orc's body.
The arena itself seemed to dim as Aeron's power thickened, a miasma of death feeding on Gorak's vitality.
The orc swung wildly, each blow capable of crushing Aeron flat, but none found their mark. Aeron was simply too fast, too precise. Gorak's strength diminished with every breath until, finally, his knees buckled.
Aeron's last strike sent him crashing into the stone, the giant form convulsing before falling still.
For a moment, silence held the arena. Then the crowd erupted—cheers, applause, even fear. Aeron stood over his fallen opponent, expression unreadable, his presence as cold as the law he wielded.
The announcer's voice cut through the noise. "Victor: Aeron Blackthorn!"
The healers rushed to Gorak's side. He was alive, but broken. Aeron gave him one last glance before turning away. Satisfaction lingered, but no triumph. This was not an end—it was merely another step forward.
.....
The academy's corridors were quieter than the roaring arena. Aeron walked them with steady strides, his footsteps echoing softly against stone walls. The cheers from the crowd were already fading from his mind. Victories were fleeting; the next battle was what mattered.
But tonight, something felt different.
Halfway down a dimly lit passage, he stopped. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Someone was watching him.
At the far end of the hall stood a figure cloaked in shadow. They did not move, did not speak at first. Aeron shifted slightly, weight balanced, ready to summon his power if needed.
When the voice came, it was smooth, calm, almost unsettling in its composure.
"Quite the display in the arena. Impressive… even for someone of your lineage."
Aeron's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
The figure stepped closer, torchlight catching on a veil that obscured her face. A woman—tall, graceful, with eyes that glowed faintly from behind the mask of cloth. The aura around her was cold, foreboding, as though she carried a piece of the grave with her.
"Someone with an interest in your future," she said softly. "Your potential is undeniable, Aeron. But power always comes with a price. Be wary of the path you're walking."
Aeron's jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. "And what path would you suggest I take?"
Her eyes seemed to pierce straight through him. "The one where you do not lose yourself to the darkness you're courting. If you survive the trials, that is."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you are like the rest of them—stepping stones, forgotten, fodder for those who were stronger. But you…" She tilted her head, studying him. "…you are different. Aren't you?"
He said nothing. Silence was a weapon of its own.
She smiled faintly beneath the veil, then turned to leave, her steps silent as falling ash. Over her shoulder, she left him with a final warning.
"Remember, Aeron. In the end, it is not strength that will carry you forward. It is control. Do not lose it."
The shadows swallowed her before he could respond.
For a long while, Aeron stood still, her words echoing in his mind like a lingering omen. He did not believe in prophecy or strangers bearing riddles, but there was something about her presence that gnawed at him.
Finally, he turned and entered his quarters. The door shut with a heavy thud. He sat on the edge of his bed, thoughts circling like vultures. His victory over Gorak had proven his growing strength, but strength alone was not enough. Not here.
At Dusk Academy, survival was more than combat—it was politics, manipulation, alliances. And Aeron knew that the deeper he delved into the Death Law, the more dangerous the path would become.
But that danger… was exactly what drew him forward.