Ducking beneath the hooded man's broadsword, Dick's body seized the opening before his mind caught up. He didn't see it, but that hardly mattered. His arm moved on instinct, driving the blade upward. The katana pierced through the man's jaw, splitting bone and tearing its way clean through his skull.
With a harsh yank, Dick ripped the blood-slick blade free. He swung it in a sharp arc, droplets scattering across the stone like rain. His gaze fell to the crumpled corpse at his feet, and he felt nothing.
It didn't feel like he had killed the man, but that his body had acted on its own. And for someone who longed for death, watching life bleed out stirred no guilt.
If anything, it left him envious.
Lucky bastard.
Still, Dick knelt beside the corpse. Pressing one bloodied hand to the cold stone, he shut his eyes.
May you find peace in heaven.
He wasn't a religious man by nature. But after losing his wife and daughter, prayer had become his only ritual. The hollow hope that they had found peace somewhere beyond this life. He knew it was pointless. His words could not guide a soul to heaven, nor could they bridge the void left in his chest.
But he prayed anyway.
Around him, the platform drowned in blood. Screams tore through the air, and bodies piled faster than the living could stand.
However, the battlefield had fallen still.
Everyone had stopped moving.
Dick drew in a ragged breath and swept the carnage.
Thirty left.
Each survivor stood over a corpse, some over multiple. Their weapons were slick with blood, and they were spaced wide apart.
His gaze moved from one to the next. Too small. That one's limping. Too slow.
Every candidate fell short, until he caught sight of a figure across the platform.
A man stood there with a crooked grin carved across his face, a long, curved blade glinting in his hands—a scythe.
Dick's focus sharpened.
Anyone who fights with a scythe has to be strong. His lips curled into something between a grimace and a prayer. Strong enough to kill this damned body.
Beneath the scythe-wielder's hood, a pair of wild eyes gleamed, locking with Dick's stare.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent.
Then they lunged.
Steel shrieked as Dick caught the descending arc of the scythe on his katana. The clash rang out across the platform, sharp and violent.
But the curved blade slid past his guard, kissing his cheek.
A thin line of blood welled up and dripped down his face.
Both men smiled in that instant.
The scythe-bearer's grin was twisted, predatory.
Dick's smile was a desperate hope.
Their sudden clash sent a ripple through the arena.
The other Aspirants froze for a heartbeat, then something shifted. Hunger lit their eyes as the truth struck them. If each of them killed one more person, their dreams would become reality.
The silence shattered.
Shouts erupted, weapons clashed, and the stone platform exploded into chaos once more. Blood splashed across the floor as the Aspirants turned on one another with renewed ferocity.
High above, upon the throne, the divine woman leaned forward. Her eyes never wavered from the outer worlder.
A playful smile curved her lips.
"Finally," she whispered.
In time, the screams dulled, and the arena grew quiet. Only sixteen Aspirants and one battle remained.
No one dared to interfere. The surviving Aspirants—bloodied, breathless, trembling—stood aside and watched, spellbound. These two were faster, deadlier. To step between them would be suicide.
Cloaks snapped in the wind as blades clashed again and again. Sparks showered with every impact.
Dick's body was shredded. The scythe had opened him in a dozen places, his cloak dyed black-red with blood. His vision swam, each heartbeat pounding like a drum in his skull. Yet still his body pressed on, dragging him forward, sword raised, unwilling to fall.
The body fought because it refused to do anything else.
I was right to choose this guy, Dick thought, deflecting a horizontal slash that nearly split him in two. His arms trembled with the force. I've only landed one blow on him… and it barely mattered.
The scythe came faster than before. Too fast.
All fight long, it had been heavy and unwieldy, its arcs predictable even to Dick's inexperienced eye. But now it moved like lightning—faster than his katana could rise to meet it.
His body moved to parry, but Dick knew. Instinct or not, this time it wouldn't be enough. The blade was already upon him.
His eyes slid shut.
I gave it my all.
For a fleeting moment, warmth filled him. He saw Mary's smile, radiant and untouchable. He tried to picture Alice grown older, or maybe still the little girl she'd been the last time he held her.
Then—
Silence.
A long second passed without pain, without darkness.
Then another.
His trembling hand shot to his neck. His pulse still thudded beneath his fingers.
Huh? I should be dead… I didn't feel my blade parry.
His eyes snapped open.
At his feet lay the scythe-bearer's corpse, head severed clean from his shoulders. Blood pooled across the stone, and beside the body, sword dripping scarlet, stood a hooded figure.
Dick's teeth clenched.
"Why!" he roared.
The figure turned slowly and deliberately. A gust of wind tore through the arena, ripping the hood back.
Dick froze.
Blonde hair, shining like sunlight. Blue eyes, so bright they hurt to look at. Eyes he had memorized, eyes he had prayed to remember even as the years dimmed them.
Too young, but unmistakable.
His breath broke into a whisper.
"Mary?"
The girl's gaze met his. She smiled, not his Mary's soft smile, but something youthful and mischievous.
"Who's Mary?" she asked.
The katana slipped from his fingers, clattering against stone. His knees buckled, sending him sprawling backward. Tears blurred his vision, but it didn't matter.
Those eyes, that hair, that face, it was unmistakably her. It had to be her.
Above them, the divine voice thundered across the sea, silencing the arena.
"Congratulations, Aspirants! The Ceremony of Death… is over!"