Two doctors sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the monitors. No audience. No cheers. Just the hum of machinery and the raw clash of two awakened subjects locked in battle within an underground colosseum.
A fight that had escalated far beyond skill—a war of affinities.
Dozens of ice javelins, crackling with streaks of red lightning, hurtled through the air toward 431.
They moved faster than the human eye could follow, faster than any dormant could react.
But 431 was no dormant.
He stood his ground, a grin splitting his face as his body shuddered—not with fear, but exhilaration.
An oppressive wave of bloodlust erupted from him, so potent it shattered nearby ice walls in an instant.
Azriel's voice echoed in his mind, a taunt meant to unsettle.
A laugh erupted from 431's chest, a sound so unhinged it sent shivers racing down Azriel's spine.
"HAHAHAHAHA! DON'T YOU DARE GET COCKY, KID! I'VE FACED HORRORS FAR WORSE THAN YOU!"
The force of his voice made Azriel wince, pressing his hands against his one good ear as his face twisted in pain.
Then, everything about 431 changed.
The grin vanished. The bloodlust dissipated. His eyes grew cold—so cold they seemed to pierce through Azriel.
In that moment, Azriel didn't see a man—he saw a fortress, unyielding and impenetrable. Harmless on the surface, yet the promise of destruction lay beneath.
And destruction came.
As the javelins closed in, 431 stomped his foot against the shattered ground. The arena quaked violently. Azriel clung to an ice pillar for balance as cracks spiderwebbed through the floor.
Then, liquid metal began to ripple around 431, coiling like a serpent before hardening into a dome.
The javelins struck. Each impact sent cracks splintering across the metallic surface. But for every javelin destroyed, the dome fractured further.
The dome collapsed, shards scattering like glass. The javelins were gone, obliterated.
Azriel stared, his heart pounding.
"His mana control… his affinity... it's insane. Completely absurd."
Azriel exhaled sharply, tapping his foot against the ice pillar. It began to melt, lowering him until his ice boots touched the fractured ground once more. The arena was a ruin, littered with jagged ice and twisted metal.
He spared the colosseum a glance, wondering how it could ever be rebuilt.
When their eyes met again, both fighters stood on the brink.
Sweat dripped from 431's face, his chest heaving with every breath. Azriel wasn't faring much better. His limbs trembled, and his vision blurred. Yet, somehow, they both stood tall.
And in their gazes burned one singular, unrelenting desire:
431 raised his hand, summoning nine metallic javelins. They hovered around him, deadly and precise, before shooting forward with blinding speed.
Azriel barely reacted in time. Red lightning crackled around him as he twisted his body, dodging each spear by the smallest margin.
Then, chains of ice coiled around his arms, their ends slamming into the ground. A storm began to swirl around him, the wind howling as white strands streaked through his dark hair.
431 grinned, bending his body into a fighting stance, the metal on his skin gleaming in the dim light.
Both fighters surged forward.
But just as the clash seemed inevitable—
That is enough. Subject 666, Subject 431, stand down. The match is over. Failure to comply will result in disciplinary action.
Doctor Arthur's voice rang out.
Both fighters froze, their wide eyes snapping to the rocky ceiling.
Azriel whispered, his fists clenching. He didn't want it to end. Not yet.
431's voice roared, raw and furious.
"This is a deathmatch! This doesn't end until one of us dies! You can't stop it now!"
Arthur's tone remained unyielding, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Final warning. Stand. Down.
Azriel's teeth ground together as his nails dug into his palms. Slowly, he lowered his fists, his face shadowed in frustration.
Across from him, 431 was no different. His shoulders slumped, his expression dark.
Azriel's knees buckled.
His vision blurred, and the world around him tilted. He swayed, struggling to stay upright.
And then, the void of exhaustion claimed him.
He fell, unconscious.
"How inefficient. They could have ended this fight with an actual winner—and with far less destruction—if they had chosen to fight physically. Instead, they relied on a battle of affinities."
Vincent's cold gaze swept over the two figures lying unconscious on the arena floor. Their bodies were motionless, drained by the strain on their mana cores.
"Foolishness," he muttered, his voice sharp.
"Even with greater affinities and absurd mana regeneration, they squander it. Especially subject 666..."
He narrowed his eyes, studying the unconscious Azriel.
"Two greater affinities. The mana expenditure alone should have overwhelmed him. And yet... he held his own. Not just against the others but against 431—a monster in his own right. He should have lost, but something shifted. Something kept him standing."
Vincent's words lingered in the air, heavy with disdain.
A topic as enigmatic as it was critical. Even now, the exact mechanisms remained a mystery.
When someone became awakened, they unlocked their affinity—or affinities.
What determined which affinity they received?
For most, it was just one. For the rare few, two. Like the Crimson Princess, hailed for her unparalleled mastery of dual affinities.
Was it tied to one's personality?
A reflection of past experiences?
No one knew for sure.
What was clear, however, was the distinction between basic and greater affinities.
Basic affinities—fire, water, earth, and wind—were foundational.
Greater affinities, like ice, lightning, metal, shadows, and light, were rarer, demanding far more mana.
But rarity didn't equate to superiority.
There were no weak affinities.
Vincent's gaze darkened as his thoughts turned to Azriel, a rarity even among rarities. Two greater affinities. The burden of such power was immense. Against someone like 431, who mastered a single greater affinity with surgical precision, Azriel should have been at a disadvantage.
"666 didn't lose," Vincent said, his voice tinged with reluctant acknowledgment.
Arthur, who had been silently observing, finally broke his silence. His steady voice cut through the room.
"It might've been the drug. Or maybe... it was just him." Arthur's gaze didn't waver from the unconscious figures.
"His mentality shifted. At first, all he cared about was survival. But when he was on the brink of death..."
Arthur's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
"...He stopped thinking about surviving. He started thinking about winning. That change—no, that desperation—allowed him to push his affinities to their limits. Even with his injuries. Even with exhaustion gnawing at him. He used every ounce of mana left in his body to secure a chance at victory."
Arthur's voice dropped, his tone edged with dark amusement.
"And with the help of PE-0, he didn't just survive against 431. He fought him to a standstill. Against one of the strongest awakened humans alive, he held his ground. He didn't win... but he didn't lose either."
Vincent exhaled slowly, his expression a mixture of frustration and resignation.
"I still think they're wasted on them," he muttered, glancing at Arthur.
"But we have time. Time to mold them into something... better. A tie, then?"
Arthur chuckled, low and almost sinister.
"Yes," he replied, his gaze lingering on Azriel.
"Let's call it a tie."
When Azriel opened his eyes, he found himself lying on the small, hard bed inside his stark white cell once again.
He wore a fresh gown—clean and undamaged—unlike the one torn and bloodied from before. His injuries seemed to have healed entirely, yet the scars remained, disfiguring his face just as they had when he first entered this facility.
At least he could feel his chest rise and fall again. At least he could hear from both ears.
Still, his body felt frail, his strength stripped away. His arms trembled as he lifted them, placing his hands over his eyes to shield them from the sterile white light above.
There was no doubt in his mind: he'd been drugged with Elenium-5 again. PE-0 was already out of his system, leaving him hollow.
A weak murmur escaped his lips.
Azriel gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling to the surface.
"Even now... why can't I ever win?"
The thought twisted in his mind, a cruel echo. This was all supposed to be a memory—a mere fragment of the past. But Azriel had discarded that notion long ago.
It didn't matter if this was a memory. It didn't matter if it was supposed to be distant, detached, and unreal.
Because for him, it was all still real.
He was experiencing it.
Hurting with every breath.
And that was enough to make it real.
Azriel's trembling hand slowly curled into a weak fist. His voice, though hoarse, carried a flicker of resolve.
"I won't break... no matter what. I'll keep living."
It was a promise—one made to himself.
And the moment those words left his lips, Azriel felt it.
The familiar, suffocating loss of control.
...His body was no longer his own.