Darkness was not the absence of light. Not here. Not in the pit Ryon had fallen into. This darkness had weight, it had texture, it had the taste of iron and ash on his tongue, and it pressed against him as though he had been flung into the belly of a mountain that wanted him crushed into silence. His breath echoed, or maybe it didn't—he could not tell. The duel circle had ended, but the circle remained inside him, carved into his marrow. The commander's last words still vibrated in his skull like a broken bell: "Strength is not survival. Will is not enough. What do you carry that endures?"
He staggered in that void, or maybe he crawled. His legs were heavy as if chains hung from his bones. Somewhere above, a faint seam of crimson light glowed, not like dawn, not like flame, but like the bleeding crack of a wound. His hands were raw. He remembered gripping his blade until his palms tore open, remembered the sound of steel screaming against steel until his arms felt like they would shatter at the joints. He remembered blood—his own, the commander's, the circle's—and then the weight of the final blow. After that, he remembered nothing but falling.
Now he was here.
"Ryon."
The voice was neither whisper nor roar. It was inside him, and yet it came from all directions. He froze, throat working dryly. It was the commander's voice, but altered, deeper, stretched thin like the strings of an instrument wound too tight.
"Show me," the voice said. "What endures."
The crimson seam above widened, spilling down light in jagged strips. Ryon lifted his arm to shield his face but found his arm pale, almost transparent, as if his flesh had been bleached away. Panic rushed through him, hot and suffocating. He looked at his chest and saw not skin but a lattice of scars glowing faintly, like molten runes carved into him by a hand he had never seen. They pulsed. With every pulse, pain spread outward, burning him from within.
He screamed, and the sound did not escape. It turned back inward, bouncing inside his skull, filling his mouth until he thought he would drown on it. He staggered, reached for his sword—but his belt was empty. The blade was gone.
"No." The word tore out of him, jagged, desperate. "No—you don't take this from me. You don't—"
The crimson seam spat out sparks, and from them came shadows, hundreds, perhaps thousands. They took form with the silence of predators: men, women, children, his army, his lovers, his enemies, every face he had carried in memory since the war began. They ringed him, shoulder to shoulder, the circle now infinite. They did not breathe. They did not blink. Their eyes glowed red like burning embers, each gaze a nail hammered into him.
"You lead them," the commander's voice rumbled. "You claim their lives. You claim their faith. You claim their deaths. But what endures?"
Ryon backed away, but the circle closed tighter. His mother's face was among them, hollow-eyed, lips sewn shut. Behind her, Elena's face—no, not Elena. That was another life, another wound he had tried to bury. He saw the faces of his companions: Kael with his grin carved into emptiness, Seren's dark eyes stripped of fire, Mira's hand severed at the wrist but still reaching for him. Even those he had killed came forth—the brigands from the south, the assassins from the veil, the knights who had fallen beneath his storm. All of them. Everyone.
"I never—" His throat caught. His knees gave way. He knelt in the circle, fists pressing into the stone that was not stone beneath him. "I never asked for—"
"Liar."
The word broke him like a hammer. The shadows leaned in. Their mouths opened, and from them came no screams, no curses, but the sound of a thousand blades being drawn.
"You wanted this," the commander's voice said, now closer, heavy with accusation. "Power. Legacy. A throne forged from war. You wanted to rise higher than the fathers who buried you. You wanted their fear, their awe. Do not lie to me, boy."
"I—" Ryon's chest burned. He clutched it, trying to breathe, but air had turned to smoke. His mind fought itself: he wanted to deny it, to scream that he only wanted survival, that he only wanted freedom. But deep in the marrow of him, truth gnawed. He had wanted more. Always more. He had wanted his enemies to kneel, to never feel powerless again, to never bow his head under another man's hand.
The shadows surged forward. Their weapons—axes, spears, scythes, swords—rose high. Ryon scrambled back, slipping on nothing, falling on nothing. His fingers clawed the air. He had no sword. He had nothing.
"Then fight empty," the voice commanded. "If you cannot carry truth, you carry nothing."
The first blade fell.
Ryon flinched—and felt it cleave his shoulder open. Blood spattered the ground, black in the crimson light. He screamed, scrambled up, another cut opening his thigh. A spear thrust into his ribs. He staggered, gasping, reaching instinctively for a blade that wasn't there. More cuts tore him open, yet he did not die. Pain multiplied, spread, became unbearable and endless. His vision blurred. He stumbled, fell, crawled, rose, fell again.
Somewhere in the storm of wounds, he felt laughter. Not the commander's. His own. A ragged, broken laugh clawed up his throat. "Is this it?" he snarled through blood. "You want me crawling? You want me to bleed out on nothing? You think I'll beg?"
The circle halted. The shadows froze. The commander's voice returned, low and cold. "Then show me."
Ryon dragged himself upright. His body was a ruin, blood pouring, vision dimming. Yet something inside him hardened. If the circle wanted him to die weaponless, so be it. He curled his hands into fists, raw and split, and lifted them. "Come then," he rasped. "I've bled too much to crawl back now."
The shadows surged. He swung bare fists into steel, and bones shattered, but he did not fall. He bit, clawed, drove his ruined body forward, and the circle roared with silence.
Then, as his knees buckled, as the last of his strength fled, the crimson seam flared white. A sword fell into his hand—his sword, but changed. The metal glowed as though forged from his own blood, runes alive with fire. He stared at it, barely breathing, then lifted it in both trembling hands.
The shadows hesitated.
Ryon bared his teeth. "Now," he whispered. "Now we end this."
He struck. The blade cut through shadow like cloth, tearing them into smoke. With each strike, strength flooded him, pain dulled, rage sharpened. He roared, he bled, he carved his way through the circle until the last face dissolved into nothing.
And then the voice spoke again, quieter now. Almost—almost human.
"What endures?"
Ryon stood alone in the void, sword dripping with light. His chest heaved. His vision burned. He lowered the blade, closed his eyes, and whispered:
"The will to carry them. All of them. Their lives. Their deaths. I carry them."
Silence followed. Then, slowly, the void unraveled.
The crimson light faded to gold. The weight lifted. The circle dissolved.
Ryon collapsed to his knees. His sword dimmed, cooling in his grip. He breathed, and this time the air was real.
When he opened his eyes, the duel circle was gone. He was lying on hard earth, the night sky vast above him, the stars sharp and merciless. His body ached with every breath, but the wounds from the trial were gone—though the scars, deep and burning, remained.
He lay there, silent, sword across his chest, and understood one thing with clarity sharper than any steel.
The war outside had only just begun.