Everything slammed back into motion.
The hum of wind. The rustle of dust beneath his boots. The subtle creak of the wooden sword in his grip. It was like waking up mid-sentence in a conversation he never started.
But something had changed. Something deep. Discover more novels at N()velFire.net
My mind was spinning with questions. What was that place? Who—or what—was that shadow?
There was no time to answer any of it.
I looked at Bram. He wasn’t looking at me the way he always did—challenging, locked-in, daring me to try something. He wasn’t looking at me at all. His eyes were trained a few inches lower, to my hand.
Except... it wasn’t wooden anymore.
What I held was glowing gold—long, elegant, humming with a strange, vibrant heat. The blade was thin but stretched all the way to the ground. And above it, spinning gently like a star caught in orbit, was a glowing halo.
It looked like Bram’s machetes—but different. Cleaner. More refined. Sacred.
I held it tighter, and a wave of sensation coursed up my arm. It wasn’t just heat. It was power. Not borrowed, not inherited—but mine. The sword pulsed like a heartbeat, as if it was alive—no, aware.
I lifted my eyes back to Bram. And that’s when I saw it.
His expression twisted into rage.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink.
He was fast. Faster than anything he’d done before—like the floor beneath him rejected the idea of friction. But this time, I didn’t panic. I didn’t flinch. Because the sword in my grip—
It pulled me with it.
My arm rose before I could think. The blade swept through the air on its own accord, a clean, effortless diagonal swing. And as it moved, a burst of translucent energy flared from the tip—a ripple, barely visible but unmistakably there.
It shimmered with dust and wind, slicing forward in a straight line, sharp as silence.
His eyes widened. His machetes came up just in time.
The arena erupted in smoke and sand.
A shockwave tore through the space between us, forcing the audience to shield their eyes. The impact was blinding—deafening.
I squinted into the dust cloud.
My heart pounded. I could still feel the weight of that swing. It hadn’t taken effort—it had taken will.
And then the dust began to clear.
His feet were dug into the earth, both machetes crossed in front of him, arms braced to absorb the force. His expression was no longer mocking, no longer amused.
His eyes were glowing. Wild. Furious.
Two long lines trailed in front of him—marks carved into the arena floor from where he’d been pushed back.
"He was pushed..." I whispered.
That single thought rang in my mind.
And in that moment...
After all that time...
I knew that in that very instance...
The silence between the two was deafening. Bram glared at Avin, teeth grit behind his clenched jaw. The dust curled around his boots, spiraling upward like a storm he’d tried—and failed—to contain.
The questions stabbed at him, but there was no time to dwell.
He surged forward again—his motion a blur, driven by anger now, not sport. But Avin didn’t flinch. His red-glowing eyes tracked Bram like a hawk on the wind. He could see it all now—every movement. The twitch in Bram’s shoulder before a swing. The flex in his legs before a shift.
This time, he was ahead of it.
Avin raised his sword again, and the air itself seemed to lean away from it. He swung—another ripple launched, sailing through the air like a crescent of invisible light.
Bram spun, narrowly avoiding it. The slash curved just past him and exploded in the distance, shaking the barrier walls.
But Bram didn’t slow.
He was almost on him.
Avin took a quick step back and slammed the sword into the ground. With a swift upward arc, he dragged the blade vertically, pulling up a wide curtain of dust between them.
But Bram wasn’t in it.
Avin’s ears tuned in—everything else dropped out. No crowd. No wind. Just—
Without thinking, he spun on his heel and swung the sword in a horizontal arc. The blade flared gold. Another energy slash flew, mere inches from its target.
Bram ducked—but stumbled. His footing faltered on the disrupted earth, and he fell to one knee.
And when he looked up...
The golden sword hovered right in front of his face.
The arena went dead silent.
Avin stood above him, calm, unwavering, the weapon still humming with latent energy.
Bram let out a long breath, closed his eyes.
The machetes slipped from his hands.
Avin looked down at him. "I know," he replied.
Then, without remourse...
with satisfaction even—
Bram’s head rolled to the ground.
It thudded once, turned slightly, and came to rest—its eyes sinking into the sand like stones vanishing into still water.
Avin stared at the body.
And then, slowly, from the neck, threads began to unspool. Muscle, sinew, fibers of flesh reaching outward like vines. They coiled around the severed head and began to pull—gently, almost reverently—until the head reattached.
Avin scoffed. "Asclepius, huh? Creepy..."
He turned to leave the arena—only to walk face-first into something immovable.
He looked up, breath catching.
Ashborn towered over him, arms folded, gaze unreadable.
"A god of weapons, huh?" the man said. His voice echoed through the arena.
The real Avin never unlocked that power. This version—this moment—was a mistake.
Ashborn’s presence crushed the air around them. It wrapped Avin in something thick and suffocating, like gravity had turned into guilt.
But his vision blurred.
His knees gave out. His body hit the sand.
And the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Ashborn, still staring down, unmoving, like a statue carved from judgment.