The crowd roared as another match ended in brutal glory. A muscular, dual-axe-wielding warrior stood triumphant over a flaming beast, his body scorched but defiant, one arm raised in victory.
Zairon leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. His eyes weren't on the victor. They were on the one walking away unnoticed.
The silver-haired youth.
He had won all his matches with minimal effort, not by overwhelming strength, but by precision. He struck only once, always lethally. His footwork was too refined, too calm. This wasn't some ambitious young genius.
This was a trained killer.
Selene, ever vigilant, stepped closer. "He's hiding his spiritual fluctuations. Too perfectly. Want me to take him out?"
Zairon smiled, eyes glinting. "No, no. Let him try. I'm in the mood for a little dance."
That night, the coliseum dimmed.
Fighters rested. Healers worked tirelessly. The air was thick with incense and tension.
In the shadows of the outer balcony, the silver-haired figure moved. His cloak fluttered like a whisper, daggers coated in a gleam of spirit poison.
He was fast. Silent. The best of the assassin order from the Western Frostlands.
His target sat on the throne — alone, unguarded, sipping wine. It was too perfect.
He lunged.
A blur.
A whisper of wind.
A crash as his blade met steel — no, not steel — a hand.
Zairon sat there, smiling, wine cup in one hand, the assassin's wrist in the other.
"You should've come with more confidence," he whispered. "And maybe something sharper."
With a flick, he disarmed the man. With another, he drove the dagger into the floor beside the assassin's head.
"You have five seconds to tell me who sent you."
The assassin trembled but didn't speak.
Zairon stood, towering over him. "Four."
No answer.
"Three."
A bead of sweat rolled down the assassin's cheek.
"Two."
"Frost... Frostlands," the assassin gasped. "King Arvold... he sent me... he said you were a monster."
Zairon tilted his head. "Well... he wasn't wrong."
Then he turned to Selene, who stepped from the shadows behind the throne. "Send a message to the Frostlands."
"What should it say?"
Zairon grinned, madness flickering in his eyes. "Just one word: Run."
Meanwhile, in the Frostlands...
King Arvold stood near his frozen throne, the cold unable to hide his unease. His most prized assassin had not returned. His spies in Sovereign Territory had gone silent.
Then, a bird of fire landed in the snow outside his court, melting ice with every flap.
It opened its beak and screamed one word before exploding into flames:
"RUN."
Back in the arena, Zairon sat again, watching the arena blaze with lights and fresh blood.
His grin was wider now. His presence, heavier.
"The world will throw blades and bombs at me... but all they're doing is feeding my fire."
The madness inside him stirred again, curling around his heart like a serpent. But he no longer fought it.
He wielded it.