The arena smelled different the second time.
Less like blood.
More like expectation.
Cyril stood in the corridor beyond the gate, pulse steady—too steady—while something wild clawed behind his ribs. The linen around his arm was tight and clean, but the wound beneath throbbed like a wound in the earth. The Flow pulsed just beneath the surface. Not dormant. Not distant.
Waiting.
There were no chains this time.
Somehow, that terrified him more.
"Ready to bleed again, plaything?"
A voice slithered behind him—acidic and dry.
Master Dren.
Cyril turned slowly.
Dren wore black today. Not the silks of a watching master, but tight robes threaded with crimson blood-colored stitching. His silver hair was pulled back. No jewelry. No expression.
Just a predator, waiting for the meat to twitch.
Cyril didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Dren's presence didn't ask for conversation.
It demanded submission.
BOOM.
The air around Cyril collapsed.
The Flow convulsed, shrieked, and knelt.
Reality recoiled as if ashamed of his presence. Pressure exploded inward. His body buckled—knees smashing into stone, chest crushed against the ground. Not from pain. Not weakness.
Reverence.
The Flow itself yielded.
To something older.
To something stronger.
Every breath was stolen. Every thought drowned. Not fear.
Instinct.
The kind of surrender carved into prey the moment the alpha arrives.
This wasn't magic.
It was dominion.
It was the Anchor of Authority.
"GRAAAHH!"
Cyril screamed. Something primal and ancient tried to rise. But Something deeper was crushed. His spine locked. Fingers trembled against the stone. He was nothing beneath that weight.
Then—
Gone.
The pressure vanished like smoke.
Dren walked past him, regal and slow, a monarch surveying dirt.
"This," he said without looking,
"Should remind you of your place."
"In the presence of absolute power."
And then he disappeared into the dark.
——————-
Later
Cyril's knees still ached as he stepped toward the gate.
The arena groaned open ahead.
Light crashed down like judgment—sun and heat and fire. He squinted, but didn't flinch.
He walked forward.
No guards.
No chains.
No commands.
Just the roar of the crowd, rising like thunder. It wasn't his name they chanted.
Not Breaker.
Not meat.
Something new.
They welcomed him.
This wasn't a grave anymore.
It was a forge.
Cyril stood at the center, breath steady. Muscles tight. The Flow whispered. But he didn't reach for it.
Where were you… when that bastard stood over me?
The gate opposite his opened.
Not one figure.
Two.
Twins. Flow-bound by nature or nightmare. They moved like one body in two skins. One held a crescent blade, curved like a scythe. The other swung a sickle-tipped chain that wouldn't stop moving.
Gray robes shimmered with runes that looked like they'd been written in ink and venom. Their faces hidden. Never speaking, only humming—a low harmonic rythm that made the Flow around them hum back.
The Chorus of Cinders.
The crowd roared.
Cyril rolled his shoulders. The Flow stirred. Not afraid.
Ready.
The twins began to circle.
They moved together as one, with a synergy that made one ask: just how many hours did they train to get this perfect?
The sand lifted, spiraling beneath them. The air grew dry. Heat shimmered. Cyril's breath came slower, harder.
One drew from fire.
The other, wind.
The trap came fast.
Flame roared toward him, a wall of heat that singed the hairs from his skin, while a slicing crescent of wind carved in from behind.
Cyril moved.
Too slow.
The fire caught him, licking across his side as he dove forward. Pain exploded down his ribs.
He hit the sand hard and rolled, smothering the embers along his hip, hissing through clenched teeth.
Wind was already on him.
The chain screamed through the air.
Cyril ducked, but the sickle bit across his shoulder, tearing cloth and skin.
He grunted—pain sharpening his focus.
The Flow snapped into clarity.
He slammed his palm into the ground.
Pulse.
Sand exploded outward. The shockwave staggered both Weavers—but didn't stop them.
The fire-weaver was already mid-air, blade pointed down like a falling star.
Cyril rolled, barely avoiding the strike.
The ground where he'd been erupted in a burst of flame.
He scrambled to his feet—just in time to catch the wind-weaver's chain wrapping around his wrist.
The Flow screamed.
Cyril twisted with the momentum, pulling the chain as he spun, dragging her forward. Her sickle arced toward him—
He ducked.
Surged up under her guard.
Crack.
His elbow drove into her gut.She coughed blood through the veil as she flew backward, landing hard.
But fire was already moving.
Cyril turned—and caught a blast of heat directly to the chest.
BOOM.
He flew backward, skidding through sand and blood. Smoke rose from his tunic.
His vision blurred.
The Flow flickered.
Damn you—wake up—wake up—
Fire advanced, flames wrapping her limbs like dancing armor. Her steps melted footprints into the sand.
Cyril rose, barely.
Breathing ragged.
Then he reached inward.
And the Flow answered.
He caught the current.
Redirected it.
The next spear of flame bent away from him like a comet, spiraling off-course and slamming into the wall.
Gasps.
He didn't stop.
He ran forward—not with grace, but with fury.
She flinched.
Too late.
He slammed into her, one hand on her chest.
The Flow surged.
Not a pulse.
A wave.
She flew backward like a ragdoll and didn't rise.
But he didn't get to celebrate.
The wind-weaver was already back—bloodied, enraged.
The chain whistled toward his throat.
He ducked, feeling it slice his cheek. Too close.
She followed up, hand glowing, drawing from the very breath around them.
Cyril dove in, arms locking around her waist, slamming her into the dirt.
She spat sand and fury.
He slammed his palm against her chest.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
He let the pulse tear through her like a silent command. The Flow obeyed.
He let it flood her.
She screamed once—then nothing.
Silence.
Then—
Eruption.
Not Breaker.
Not Meat.
"FREAK! FREAK!"
Not insult. Not praise. Just awe, wrapped in terror.
Cyril stood in the sand, blood dripping from his lip, burns lining his ribs. His muscles screamed. His vision pulsed.
But inside—
The Flow roared.
It was his now.
And high above, in the balcony's shadow—
Dren watched.
No expression.
But he'd seen it.
They all had.
This wasn't survival.
This was ascent.
The gate behind him opened.
Miren waited, arms crossed. One brow lifted.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Cyril walked past her, into shadow again.
But the light followed him.
And it wasn't sunlight.
It was fire.