The Red Coliseum was a theater of madness—a sanctuary of bloodlust and cruelty where savagery was not only tolerated, but exalted. Its very soil reeked of despair. The crowd roared with elation at every scream, every bone crushed, every life extinguished. Here, humans and Noble Beasts alike were reduced to spectacle—fodder for the insatiable appetite of a jaded, monstrous society.
Klaus stood among them, his expression unreadable beneath the borrowed flesh of a Warmonger he had slain. He wore the man's face like a mask—bloodstained, brutal, broken. It allowed him passage into this den of insanity. And so, as a beast among beasts, he strode through the arena, casting corpses aside as though they were refuse, each discarded life an afterthought in a world that had forgotten mercy.
But deep within, beneath the surface of his cold disguise, something old and bitter coiled in his chest. Revulsion. Disgust. A weariness that gnawed at the edges of his soul like a slow, patient fire.
He had come in search of a creature of darkness, a nightmare whispered of in half-sentences and scattered screams. But after the grand massacre that had consumed the arena a week prior, all known Abominations had been butchered—slaughtered in their cages by a shadow none could name. And now, desperate to fill the void, the Warmongers once again scoured the wilderness, capturing corrupted beasts to pit against one another in this grotesque arena of death.
To Klaus's grudging surprise, they were efficient—terrifyingly so. They moved like hounds of war, bred for this exact purpose. And perhaps that was the truth. They were not born; they were forged in the crucible of conflict, sharpened into perfect instruments of pain.
He adapted quickly to their customs, slipping into the role with disconcerting ease. All it took was madness. Bloodlust. The abandonment of all reason and restraint. Klaus played the beast, and no one questioned him.
Yet each night, when the cries of the damned were muffled by the earth above, he meditated in the silence—desperate to anchor himself to sanity, to still the growing storm inside. He knew too well that he was not whole. Not sane. The hunger within him was not mere desire—it was a gnawing, endless need. Hope's influence whispered to him constantly, feeding his darker instincts, and he feared the day he might lose the ability to resist.
Still, there was clarity in his madness. His aspect granted him profound awareness—of the world, of others, and of himself. He dissected his thoughts like a surgeon, peeling back layers to find the rot beneath. And in this introspection, he remained human… barely.
It was during one of these grim excursions, in the bowels of the Coliseum, that something shifted.
He wandered the underground, where the forgotten were stored like meat awaiting slaughter. Rows of iron cages lined the walls, each imprisoning some twisted mockery of life—giant serpents with glassy eyes, gnarled wolves with too many teeth, stone gargoyles that twitched at shadows, writhing mounds of flesh with hungry circular maws. Even humans were among them, crumpled and broken, their gazes void.
He felt it—a gaze. Someone was watching.
His awareness flared. He paused, scanning the dim corridor with subtle tension. But there was nothing. Only the clinking of chains, the distant drip of water, the breathing of the caged.
Then, he froze.
She stood before him like a dream conjured from the ashes of sanity. A woman of such transcendent beauty that the world seemed to bend around her presence.
Her skin was pale ivory, flawless and soft like the petal of a sacred flower. Her hair—a cascade of chestnut silk—fell over bare shoulders, gleaming in the faint light. Her eyes shone like silver stars, luminous and gentle, yet carrying the weight of centuries. A simple red tunic draped her frame, revealing elegance, not arrogance. She bore no weapon, yet the very air around her whispered of divinity.
The moss on the stones seemed to lean toward her. The thin beams of sunlight, filtered through cracks in the ceiling, bent from their path just to grace her skin. It was not she who belonged to the world—the world belonged to her.
Solvane.
Her name echoed in his mind like an ancient hymn.
A beauty meant to be worshipped. A curse cloaked in allure. Legends whispered of men driven mad by her presence, kingdoms falling at her feet, warriors breaking oaths to kneel in her shadow. She was beloved by the world, and yet… utterly alone.
She looked at him with quiet curiosity, noting the silence that met her entrance. No desire, no awe, no madness in his eyes. That alone set him apart.
Of course, Klaus felt it. The raw, primal lust clawing at his insides, urging him to possess, to surrender. But he had mastered it long ago. There were times he failed—times the hunger won—but not today. Not now.
He bowed low, voice reverent but cold:
"Lady Solvane. It is an honor to stand in your presence. May your next battle grant you the glorious end you seek."
A strange thing to say, yet she did not frown. She smiled—softly, knowingly. Because she understood. Solvane wished for death. Not any death, but one worthy of her station. She could not take her own life; to surrender without a fight would be heresy to everything she believed in. And so she endured… waiting.
Waiting for someone worthy to strike her down.
Her silver eyes shimmered with amusement as she studied him. And for the briefest moment, something flickered behind them. A spark of clarity. A glimpse of lucidity piercing the veil of madness. Then it was gone.
"Continue your efforts," she said, her voice like a melody sung by gods. "Ascension draws near. I've heard much of you, Omian. A week ago, an apostle of War fell—not with glory, but to treachery. A shadow took his life, stealing the death he was owed."
Klaus nodded solemnly, his voice as fervent as any zealot:
"I will fight for glory, my lady. Without suffering, without struggle—there is no ascent."
Solvane raised a brow, her smile deepening.
"You understand the goddess's teachings well," she said, her voice a silken thread. "May you earn a glorious end, brave warrior."
With that, she turned and vanished into the gloom, leaving behind the scent of flowers and the weight of silence.
Only then did Klaus release the breath he had been holding. His chest tightened with unease, and for a moment, he merely stood there—grateful to still be himself.
Solvane's curse was not her beauty, but the madness it inspired. The more one lingered near her, the more they longed. And that longing… it consumed.
It was a cruel, lonesome existence—to be a most beautiful yet forever untouched.
And as Klaus stared into the shadows where she had vanished, he could not help but wonder…
What if she, too, was just another prisoner—longing for freedom?
Klaus shook his head and continued down the dim corridor, boots echoing faintly against the cold stone.
He was still observing captured Abominations. Hours passed after Solvane's departure and still nothing.
He sighed in disappointment but then he halted—his body frozen as a wave of oppressive aura rolled over him like a tide of ice. It radiated from one of the cages up ahead. Even with the Collars designed to suppress the Abilities of captives, the sheer presence of this being could not be muted.
His amethyst eyes flared, ethereal cracks of light spreading from his pupils and branching out like lightning across his cheeks. The oppressive gloom of the underground parted before his gaze, revealing something that made his heart skip—a thrill, not of fear, but of rapacious wonder.
What had once been lust, now crystallized into greed.
Within a solitary cell sat a being wreathed in darkness—not merely cloaked by it, but woven from it. Like a river of darkness condensed into form. But Klaus's gaze pierced deeper, and within that living night, he discerned a figure—a silhouette of a creature clad in dread.
A knight. Not just any knight, but a relic of wrath and ruin.
This was no ordinary Saint. While the Saints were beautiful creations of the Nether, this one was different. Klaus's eyes widened in desbilief and awe as he remembered words he once read in ebony tower.
[In the deep darkness of the underworld, a prideful demon forged seven suits of splendid armor for his favorite creations. The intricate shells were both a boon and a test since only those worthy of his regard could unlock the mantle's true potential and bear its weight.]
This was... Loved one of Nether... But why was he abandoned?
His flesh was not the pale porcelain of other Saints, but obsidian—polished and seamless, sculpted from pure night. His form exuded dominion. Even shackled in confinement, there was no despair in his posture. No bend in his spine. Only stillness.
The dark armor adorning him shimmered with silent malice. Crimson flames flickered in the depths of his ruby eyes, casting a bloodlight that danced on the cell's walls. Spikes jutted from his pauldrons, each jagged like the teeth of a predator. The helm—like a echo of old crusaders from earth—merged dread and grandeur into one. And draped over his back was a ragged black cloak, fluttering in a wind that did not exist.
Klaus's pupils shrank, gleaming with avarice. He reined it in, reminding himself to proceed with care. Slowly, he stepped toward the swirling veil of darkness that guarded the cell and crouched.
He did not know how Saints communicated, but perhaps this one—this knight—understood runes. With a glint of resolve, Klaus drew his dagger and carved symbols into the stone.
"Do you want freedom? Choice? A chance to escape?"
The knight did not move. He remained motionless, as though Klaus were beneath his notice. But then, ever so slightly, his head rose. Crimson eyes locked with Klaus's, mirroring the glow of amethyst.
He reached down, claws of his gauntlet scraping across the floor, and began to write:
"Yes. But. You. Desire. Something. In return."
Klaus grinned, and without hesitation, dropped to one knee to face knight. He carved once more, this time with greater flourish, his blade singing across stone.
"Only your loyalty. Your devotion. I want your power, yes—but not as a master to a slave. I want you as my knight. I know what happened to you—how your creator cast you aside in loneliness. I give you my word: I will never forsake you. You shall stand beside me, not as a discarded weapon, but as my loyal sword."
The knight's eyes blazed, briefly illuminating the chamber in a flash of molten red. He carved again, each word a chisel of suspicion:
"Why. Should. I. Believe. You. You. Could. Be. A. Liar. Like. The. Rest."
Klaus's expression softened. He stared at the dagger in his hand, then chuckled under his breath. Yes—this one was different. Proud. Wounded. Worthy.
He placed the blade inside the cage and leaned closer, eyes unwavering.
"Then pierce my heart. Let my life be the proof of my truth."
The knight regarded him for a moment—expression unreadable. Then he grasped the dagger and brought it to Klaus's chest. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed it inward.
The blade bit into flesh, drawing no sound from Klaus. No flinch. No hesitation. The knight paused, eyes narrowing. The knife hovered a mere centimeter from Klaus's heart. Still—nothing.
He withdrew the blade. A silent verdict. Then, in one graceful motion, he knelt.
A knight's oath made without words.
Klaus's eyes shimmered brighter, lips curling into a victorious smile. He finally spoke, his voice low and commanding:
"Then it is your turn. End your life. Prove your loyalty. Accept me not just as your savior, but as your sovereign and Acknowledge my presence as it is gift."
Without hesitation, the knight raised the dagger to his chest and plunged it in.
But no blood flowed. Instead, shimmering ruby dust drifted from the wound, catching the faintest light like the final breath of a star.
He collapsed.
In that cold, forsaken cage of the Coliseum, the knight fell—not in defeat, but in devotion. For a moment, doubt had lingered within him. But courage overcame it. In the end, faith won.
Then the air grew dense.
Spirit essence poured from the knight's corpse like an ancient river being set free. Ritual circles—intricate and glowing in amethyst—flared to life around the cage.
Klaus opened his arms wide, embracing the flow of power. He closed his eyes, focusing on the spell etched in sacred geometry.
Spirit is eternal. Everything is temporary. Everything can be destroyed but not spirit. It will flow and fuse with cosmos, becoming part of it for eternity.
A sphere of darkness emerged above the body—suspended in the air, trembling with raw, arcane might. It inhaled everything: the knight's essence, the lifeforce of nearby prisoners, even the remnants of breath that dared linger in the stale air.
Klaus glanced around. No time. The Warmongers were closing in. Solvane, thank the abyss, was absent. Had she been here, he would have been struck down before the first word of the ritual.
But Klaus had waited. Had planned. He knew Solvane had departed for the Ivory City. He did not know the reason, but he had used her absence perfectly.
As the last whisper of essence vanished into the darkness, Klaus sagged against the bars of the cage, chest heaving.
The ritual was complete. The runes dimmed. The sphere was gone. The air was still again.
But not empty.
In the vast cosmos of his soul sea, Klaus felt it—a presence, kneeling amid the stars. Silent. Regal. Bound by oath.
The Dark Knight had returned to life not as a captive, but as a loyal knight.
Klaus smirked and vanished into the shadows of the Coliseum.
The King had claimed his knight.
New Spirit was born.