Kairon woke with dirt in his mouth, blood on his hands, and no memory of how it began.
His lungs burned as he gasped for air, his breath ragged and shallow like a frightened animal's. The taste of iron and earth filled his mouth, sharp and bitter, reminding him of the broken world around him. His throat was dry—too dry—his tongue rough against cracked lips. He blinked against the harsh glare of a sun hanging low, its dying light bleeding across the sky in bruises of red and ash.
He tried to move but found his body weighed down by an ache that felt like it belonged to someone else. Every muscle screamed, raw and unfamiliar, yet somehow painfully remembered. The smell of scorched wood and something metallic, like old blood or rusted steel, clung thickly to the air, mingling with the sharp scent of dust and charred leaves.
He didn't remember her name.
Only the warmth of her voice. A voice like a whispered promise, or a warning he couldn't quite place. And the scream—the scream that he thought might have been his. Or maybe hers. Or both.
His fingers flexed, cracking softly. Blood dried in the creases of his skin, gritty with dirt. His hands trembled as he pulled himself to his feet, swaying like a newborn colt testing unsteady legs. The ground beneath him was uneven, stained dark with fresh blood and the ash of something long dead. The ruins around him whispered secrets—words half-heard in the silence, like memories clawing at the edges of his fractured mind.
Were they waiting for him to remember? Or was it just his own broken thoughts giving voice to the stillness?
The arena was a shattered skeleton of its former self. Blackened beams jutted at odd angles, cracked stone pillars splintered in the dust. Torn banners, once bright and proud, now fluttered weakly, their colors faded and scorched. No crowds. No cheers. Only the sound of the wind sighing through the ruins and the distant, uneven breathing of other fighters.
His grip tightened around the weapon in his hand: a crudely sharpened pipe, wrapped in strips of cloth. It was barely a weapon, but it was his. An extension of himself. He could feel the rough fabric bite into his palm, grounding him. The pipe trembled lightly, like his own pulse racing beneath bruised skin.
And then he saw him.
Thoren.
The name came unbidden, like a snap of cold air.
Thoren stood across the clearing, a towering figure carved from steel and menace. His movements were too precise, too practiced. Limbs augmented with gleaming metal, plates of armor fused to flesh, a jawline set in cold machinery. But it was his eyes that held Kairon's attention—dark, gleaming with something feral and alive beneath the cold exterior. More dangerous than the steel that coated his arms.
"Hey, Kairon," Thoren's voice cut through the stillness, thick with contempt. "Didn't think you'd stand up. Thought maybe they'd finally tossed in a broken one."
Kairon said nothing. Words felt heavy, like they'd shatter if he tried.
Thoren stepped forward, each movement measured, deliberate. "You don't know what this is, do you? You woke up and thought this was hell. But hell has doors. This? This chooses you only when it's too late to matter."
Kairon's mouth was dry. He swallowed past the lump rising like stone in his throat.
"I'm not dying for someone else's idea of fate," he said, voice rough.
A cruel smirk twisted Thoren's lips. "You'll die for yours, then. That's the fun part."
A horn blared—a brutal, ancient sound that shattered the stillness like glass breaking.
Thoren charged.
The air trembled with the rush of metal against sand, the blur of motion too fast for Kairon's eyes to track. The clang of blade against stone exploded where Thoren's strike hit.
Kairon barely dodged, twisting on aching joints to avoid the lethal arc. Instinct took over—he spun, countered with a wild slash, metal sparking as his pipe scraped against steel. A shallow cut blossomed on Thoren's thigh, a flash of red stark against the cold metal.
Thoren glanced down, a gleam of surprise flashing in his eyes before a grin cracked his face. "So you do bleed."
The assault came harder. Faster. Each strike a pounding hammer against Kairon's defenses. The third blow caught him, sending ribs cracking, breath whooshing out in a painful gasp. He tumbled backward, spitting blood into dust, rolling behind a shattered column for cover.
Pain screamed through his body—sharp, relentless. His mind scrambled, desperate for answers. What was this place? Why him? Why now?
Then—
A voice.
Like wildfire in his blood.
Not real. Couldn't be.
Storm in your blood. You promised you'd never kneel. Don't you dare start now.
Her voice.
Kairon forced himself up, ignoring the pain ripping through his ribs. He stepped out from behind the ruins, weapon swinging wide in a desperate arc.
Thoren parried without effort, calm and mocking. "I expected better," he said, voice almost regretful. "You've got the look. But you swing like a story waiting to be erased."
They clashed again—steel singing in the air. Kairon feinted low, then jabbed hard beneath Thoren's plated shoulder. Sparks flew. Thoren staggered.
And then he laughed.
"Alright then," he growled, stepping back. "Let's make this hurt."
He lunged—not to kill cleanly, but to maim, to humiliate.
Kairon blocked, barely. His arms shook under the strain. Thoren was bigger. Stronger. Built to dominate.
But Kairon had something else—something fierce, born from terror sharpened into clarity.
He let a strike land, letting it knock him sideways, absorbing the pain. As he rolled with it, his eyes caught a detail: a faint seam where Thoren's jaw plating met flesh.
A weakness.
He came up fast. The makeshift blade struck once—twice—sharp steel biting through metal.
Thoren reeled.
"You little—"
The mecha arm whipped out with brutal force, slamming into Kairon's ribs. Something cracked. Kairon crumpled, vision blurring at the edges. Breath caught, sharp and ragged.
Thoren limped forward. "Tougher than you look. Not smart, though."
He raised his blade. Kairon's fingers closed on the shard in his hand. Reflex, not thought. As Thoren stepped in, Kairon thrust upward with every last ounce of strength. The blade sank deep beneath the mechanical jaw. The noise was sickening—a wet, grinding sound.
The wig fell.
Then Thoren.
Not victory. A mistake that outlived the moment.
Thoren twitched once. Then stilled.
Kairon collapsed beside him, panting hard. He hadn't meant to kill—not like that. Just survive. He lay there for a long moment, disoriented, heart hammering. Then his eyes flicked back to the body. It hadn't been random. None of it was.
Thoren hadn't just been a fighter. The way he moved—like a predator on a leash, like he enjoyed the slaughter, had been waiting for this.
Then it hit Kairon.
Thoren had known his name. Not guessed. Known. A cold chill crept down his spine. His gaze dropped to the fallen wig, glinting faintly in the dust beside the body. Against all reason, he reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the synthetic hair, the world shifted.
The ground beneath him exhaled, the relic field pulsed—like skin under breath.
No one saw what he'd done. But everyone felt it.
Across the arena, fights faltered. Relics buzzed. Shadows shivered. Heat rose—not flame, but presence. Power.
"Victory leaves a mark, K..." Her voice again. Now sharp. Unforgiving. "...but some marks take more than they give."
He didn't know her. But his soul recoiled as if it did.
His fingers hovered, trembling, above the wig. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed it on his head. It fused seamlessly—cold metal, synthetic strands, and flesh blending as one. His vision blurred. Rage, fierce and alien, curled tight inside his ribs. Then faded to quiet.
He stood.
Across the battlefield, a girl with fire in her hands froze mid-motion. She felt it. Somewhere, a whisper carried on the wind. Others glanced around, confused, wary. But beneath their feet, the ground had changed.
Kairon didn't feel chosen. He felt seen. And whatever saw him was still watching. This wasn't over. It hadn't even begun. His thoughts won him over.
If that was just the start… what the hell have I gotten myself into?