Aeron stepped into the arena, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The air was heavy with expectation, thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and faint ozone from the magic that lingered after each battle. The crowd's roar softened into murmurs as his opponent entered from the opposite side.
Elara Voss.
She was the kind of opponent that immediately unsettled the unprepared. Her presence radiated poise, her spear gripped with the casual confidence of someone who had trained long enough to make precision seem like instinct. Each step she took was measured, her gaze unwavering as it locked onto Aeron. Her aura was disciplined power, wrapped in the calm silence of someone who had already decided how the fight would end.
The overseer's voice cracked across the arena like thunder.
"Begin!"
Elara moved first. Her spear blurred, slicing the air with deadly accuracy. Aeron barely twisted aside, the blade grazing his cloak. Another strike followed instantly, then another, each one faster, tighter, deadlier. He was on the defensive from the start, parrying and dodging with movements that felt increasingly desperate.
The whispers of the Death Law coiled in his mind, faint but persistent. Adapt. Do not falter.
But Elara's wind surged around her like a living ally, each gust tugging at Aeron's footing, making his steps uncertain. She pressed the advantage ruthlessly, the spear cutting through the air like a storm given form.
His breaths came faster. Each dodge cost him more energy. His heart hammered against his ribs, a drumbeat of rising desperation. Sweat slicked his palms, his scythe feeling heavier with every exchange.
The book's warning echoed in his memory:
If things turn dire, surrender.
But Aeron's jaw clenched. Not yet. Not here.
Elara's strikes rained down, forcing him back step after step. Her rhythm was unyielding, her composure unbroken. The clash of their weapons rang like harsh music, the sharp sound of metal against dark energy reverberating through the arena. The crowd was entranced, watching the inevitable collapse of the human under her spear.
And then—something shifted.
The whispers of the Death Law, once distant and faint, surged like a tide. They wrapped around his mind, tempting, intoxicating. His pulse quickened, not from fear, but from the heady rush of power clawing at him from within. His vision sharpened unnaturally; the world slowed, edges blurring into shadow.
Only Elara remained clear—her stance, her heartbeat, the rise and fall of her chest. She was no longer just an opponent. She was prey.
Aeron's grip on the scythe tightened. Cold power licked at his veins, burning and freezing all at once. His every nerve screamed for release.
The next clash was different. His scythe, wreathed in a suffocating aura of death, carved through her defense. A shallow cut. A splash of blood.
The scent hit him like lightning. Metallic, coppery, intoxicating. Something primal stirred deep inside, something that had lain dormant but never forgotten.
Memories intruded without warning—cold labs, lifeless bodies, his own steady hands tracing the delicate lines of anatomy as though dissecting knowledge itself. Detached, methodical… until now. Now, that clinical knowledge twisted into something feral. Every weakness, every vulnerable spot screamed at him to strike, to carve, to end.
The crowd gasped as shadows bled into the arena floor. The domain of death spread outward like a plague, swallowing color and warmth. The ground blackened beneath their feet, the air grew heavy with the stench of decay, and Elara's movements faltered for the first time.
Her eyes widened. Confidence cracked, replaced by something sharper—fear.
Still she fought, her spear darting with desperate speed, but it was no longer enough. Every strike grew weaker under the crushing weight of Aeron's domain. Shadows coiled at her ankles, the air itself conspiring against her.
The whispers were deafening now, drowning reason. Aeron was no longer fighting to win. He was fighting to destroy.
And then—Elara's voice broke through the madness.
"I surrender!"
Her voice cracked, the desperation unmistakable. The arena heard it, the overseer heard it. The law of the trials was clear.
But Aeron did not stop. His domain surged darker, his scythe raised high. The madness had him, dragging him into the abyss. Elara's eyes, wide and pleading, reflected nothing but terror as he lunged forward to deliver the killing blow.
And then—
A figure stepped between them.
The impact was not physical, but overwhelming all the same. Authority radiated from the man like a crushing tide, his aura alone enough to make Aeron's death domain shudder and recoil.
For the first time in this world, Aeron felt powerless.
"She surrendered." The man's voice was calm, unhurried—but its weight was undeniable. A decree, not a reminder.
Aeron froze. His chest heaved, his scythe trembling in his grip. The shadows wavered and began to recede, dragged reluctantly back into the depths of his mind.
The man helped Elara to her feet with ease, as if her fear and wounds were inconsequential under his presence. Without another glance, he escorted her from the arena, leaving Aeron alone in the suffocating silence that followed.
The spectators said nothing. Some stared in awe, others in horror. When Aeron finally turned to leave, the crowd parted instinctively, as though he were a wild beast that might lash out again.
His steps were steady, but inside, his body trembled. The rush of the Death Law still burned in his veins, intoxicating, terrifying. His thoughts were a maelstrom of hunger, rage, and something worse—satisfaction.
He barely made it to his quarters before collapsing onto his bed. The silence of his room was deafening. Elara's terrified eyes lingered in his mind, and behind them, the figure who had stopped him.
For the next month, the scores would be tallied. Students would decide whether to remain or to leave. Aeron knew one thing—he could not face them, not now. The stench of death clung too tightly to him, and the echo of surrender—the word he had ignored—still tore at him.
But above all, one thought gnawed at him like a parasite.
The man who stopped him.
That crushing aura.
That effortless authority.
For the first time since stepping into this world, Aeron had glimpsed something greater than his Death Law.
And it made him feel small.