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Chapter 1 – The Father's Greed.
The grand halls of House Eryx had long shed their purpose of nobility. Once adorned with banners symbolizing honor and legacy, the underground chambers now bore a new truth—etched into every blood-slicked floor tile and every crack in the stone: cruelty reigned here.
The clang of steel rang out, followed by a scream. Then another. Identical faces filled the pit below—young men forged from the same mold, trained to fight, to kill, to survive.
Clones.
Each one a copy Asher. But non were the original.
Above the carnage, seated on a throne of black marble, was the architect of their torment—Lord Eryx. Cloaked in crimson and carved from iron will, he watched with cold fascination as his sons—no, his creations—slaughtered one another beneath his feet.
They were not offspring to him.
They were tools.
Weapons to be sharpened through suffering.
To his left and right, nobles from across the continent sat in gilded chairs, observing the spectacle. Some leaned forward with hungry eyes—like Duke Varyon of the East, who saw opportunity in cloned obedience. Others turned their faces away—like Lady Marielle of the South, whose hands trembled in her lap as blood sprayed upward like crimson rain.
"Marvelous," Lord Eryx murmured, voice low and satisfied. He stroked his beard as though admiring a painting. "They adapt so quickly. Every death is a lesson. Every kill… an evolution."
And in the arena, evolution unfolded in real time.
Among the chaos, one clone moved differently.
Korrin.
He danced through the blood-soaked floor with twin daggers glinting in the low torchlight. Precision. Purpose. Unlike the others, he was not reacting. He was calculating. While most fought for survival, Korrin fought for recognition. To be seen. To be chosen.
But he was not alone.
In the far corner of the pit, another figure stood out—Asher.
He did not rush into battle. He fought with timing, purpose, restraint. Each movement calculated, each strike efficient. He had learned that survival in this pit wasn't about being the strongest—it was about knowing when not to die.
He and Korrin did not speak. They never had to.
They were equals. Opposites. Reflections split at the soul.
And they were both tired.
They had watched too many versions of themselves die—impaled, crushed, torn limb from limb. Different faces, same fate. The same face, repeated a hundred times.
But the test was not yet complete.
With a groan of steel, the iron doors at the far end of the chamber opened. From the darkness emerged a monster of nightmares—a Titanfang Lion.
Towering. Black-furred. Its glowing red eyes shimmered with both rage and magical enhancement. Its roar shook the walls, sent a ripple of panic through the surviving clones.
This was not a test of skill.
It was a trial of fear and survival.
Lord Eryx stood, raising his voice to the chamber. "This is your true test. Kill, or be killed."
A murmur of discomfort moved through the nobility. One of the ministers leaned in, his voice barely audible.
"My Lord… do you not think this is too much?"
Lord Eryx didn't look at him.
"Do you think I have a choice?" he asked coldly. "This must be done. You, of all people, should know why."
"But… they're still—"
"Silence."
Eryx returned his gaze to the arena, to the clones he had created and raised like cattle for slaughter.
"When one is finally chosen," he said, his voice now low and sure, "then they'll understand why I did this."
Back in the pit, blood met dust.
The lion struck first, pouncing on a clone and crushing him beneath a single paw. snapping the bones of some clones that charged at him, screams cut short. Another clone leapt forward, sword raised, only to be impaled on the beast's fangs.
Panic erupted. Some ran. Others fought. But it was all in vain because the beast attacked all who showed weakness.
And yet, two remained focused.
Korrin saw his chance first. As the lion tore through the others, he rushed in low, sliding under its belly. His daggers flashed, slicing deep into the hind legs. The beast roared and turned on him, enraged.
But it never reached him.
Asher moved.
From his perch, he spotted a fallen spear, seized it, and hurled it with practiced force. The weapon whistled through the air and found its mark—driving deep into the lion's left eye.
The beast screamed. Rage turned to agony. And faced Asher.
Debris exploded around the chamber as the lion thrashed. Clones were thrown aside like dolls. Only Korrin stood his ground.
He climbed.
With a single leap, he landed atop the creature's back and, without hesitation, drove his blades into its skull again and again. Blood sprayed like wine from a ruptured bottle. He screamed as he struck, not out of rage, but necessity.
The lion gave one final shudder… then collapsed.
Silence fell like a curtain.
Of the fifty clones who had entered the arena, only seventeen remained. Most barely standing. All soaked in blood, skin torn, eyes hollow.
But not lifeless.
Something darker stirred in them.
A hunger.
Lord Eryx descended a single step and began to clap. Slow. Echoing.
"Impressive," he declared. "Truly. You've exceeded my expectations, Korrin… Asher."
The two names rang across the silence like a death sentence.
"But tell me—how long will you last?" Lord Eryx asked, his voice smooth but sharp. "There are many more trials ahead. And I only need… one survivor."
The nobles murmured. Some in awe. Others in horror.
Asher's hands trembled at his sides.
Not from fear.
From fury.
He had long abandoned the dream of a father's love. But still, some tiny part of him had once hoped there would be meaning behind this madness.
Now he knew better.
His father didn't want a son.
He wanted a sword.
And swords are only useful until they break.
But something shifted then.
Korrin looked at Asher. Not as a rival. Not as prey.
But as an equal.
In that shared glance—bloodied, breathless, battered—they understood.
This would not end with one of them dying to please a madman.
It would have to end with rebellion.
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