The sun above reigned supreme, hot and merciless. The ground trembled beneath from the stomping of countless feet, and the air—it quivered with tense anticipation, laced with the scent of bloodlust. The Drax tribe had become a frenzied mass of primal howls, screaming in their savage tongue, some frothing at the mouth, intoxicated by the dreadful stench of death that permeated the atmosphere.
The arena had been formed—not of stone or wood, but of flesh, bone and muscle, a tight circle of Drax warriors baying for blood. At its heart stood the monstrous giant, now smeared in a thick, black, tar-like substance that clung to his skin like the blood of demons. Tribal markings slashed across his face and arms in jagged symbols, transforming him from a brute into something infernal. A living nightmare to those who feared him.
Lucian, the bard, and the ginger stood alone and terribly mortal at the circle's edge.
A tribesman approached and thrusted a clay pot into the bard's hands. She opened it slowly—and instantly recoiled, gagging at the awful stench. Rot, death, madness in liquid form. She glanced at Lucian. He didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the giant, on the axe still slick with fresh gore.
She steadied her breath, dipped her fingers in the muck, and painted his arms slowly, deliberately. Two black sleeves just like that of the giant; a ritual of war.
Behind them, the ginger shivered violently, like a leaf in a windstorm, sweat pouring from his face. Fear gripping his every fiber. "We… we are so dead."
The bard shot him an angry glare. "Bloody coward", she thought.
Feeling her disdain, he shrank, then turned desperately to Lucian.
"You know I'm right, don't you? Look at you—you're barely standing. You're bleeding like s tuck pig!. No offense but… you're not exactly confidence-inspiring right now."
Lucian didn't turn his head. "Offense taken."
The ginger moved closer to the bard, his voice sounding like a frightened animal..
"We should be figuring out how to beg for our lives, not dressing up for this sick pageant! This is just… just delaying the inevitable." His voice was more desperate now.
No one answered.
The bard finished the war-painting, her fingers stained pitch black. She stepped in front of Lucian, her pointed chin tilted upward as she gazed at him and whispered in a low voice..
"What is your name, golden eyes?" Her voice, almost seductive.
"…Lucian."
A mischievous smile crept across her face—wide and wild, a flicker of light in the suffocating darkness. "Fitting. Lucian means light. Either fate has a cruel sense of humor… or it believes you're our only hope of survival. The light that will cut through this fucked up situation that we find ourselves in."
"I'm Eric," the ginger muttered, almost pitifully.
Neither of them acknowledged him.
Lucian tilted his head backwards, eyes drifting to the shards of sky through the twisted canopy above. He could feel the weight of this moment crashing down on him. Losing meant they would all die. But winning also meant crossing a line that couldn't be uncrossed—taking a life, there would be no coming back from that.His first.
'Fate's never done me any favors. So to hell with that notion. I decide my own destiny. And I've decided—I will not die here.'
The bard—grabbed his face. Her hands were small but steady, forcing his forehead to press against hers.
"Don't overthink anything, kill him. Survive. And when it's over, I'll sing about it in every corner of this cursed world. I'll make sure they remember what happened here and the handsome handsome slave Lucian who dared to defy death itself."
Lucian, still in the firm grip of the bard, wondered if she could have heard his thoughts. He somehow felt reassured by her words and also decided to stop calling her the bard but now by her name,Anne.
A sudden hush came over the crowd; almost ghostly.
The wall of warriors parted like the Red Sea, revealing a figure soaked in the blood of the dead; black marks mixing with blood; malice radiating from his very being .The Drax giant. His gaze fiercely fixed on Lucian with cold, eager anticipation.To him this was entertainment for his god; for Lucian, this was life or death. He had decidedly chosen life.
Lucian's grip on the bone daggers tightened.
'This is it.' No time to retreat. Not a single thought of surrender.
Without breaking eye contact, they stepped into the circle—one clockwise, the other counter. Slow. Ritualistic. Every step a heartbeat. Every heartbeat, a countdown to the inevitable.
Lucian knew he couldn't drag this out. The ginger may be a cowardice asshole but his words did carry some truth. If this fight lasted more than a minute, he was already dead. He needed to end it swiftly.
Now.
Lucian dashed forward—fast, sharp, a blur of motion, every step with precision.The giant moved almost instantly, the axe whistling downward in a brutal vertical arc—not at Lucian, but where he would be. Anticipation.A dreadful mistake.
But Lucian was no fool.He had been honing his skills for years on end.
He pivoted mid-dash, the axe missing by inches—enough to shear a few strands of hair. The blade cratered the ground, kicking up a storm of dirt and dust mixed with the blood of the fallen..
Before the giant could react Lucian erupted from the swirling dust behind it, blades raised high, eyes wide with the fire of desperation. His movements, deliberate. He slashed—both daggers in perfect harmony—aimed straight for the vulnerable nape of the monster's neck.
Crack!
For a moment, he felt it. No resistance at the point of impact.
'I did it!' he screamed inside. (this blind optimism again).
The dust cleared, and so did the illusion of victory.
The giant stood, unmoved. Two shallow scratches marred his neck. That was all.
Lucian looked down. His weapons—shattered. Bone splinters in his hands.
'What…?' His jaws dropped to the floor.
This wasn't a trial, but just another ploy. It was a rigged execution.
And he'd just played into it.
He didn't even have time to react before the giant's axe came sweeping in from the side, low and brutal. Lucian tried to move—tried to close the distance again—but his body betrayed him, he stumbled forward.
The blade missed its intended mark.
But the bone handle struck with bone cracking force..
A sound like dry firewood snapping echoed throughout the arena—his ribcage shattered instantly. The force of the blow lifted him from the ground- air exploding from his lungs–pain flaring through his ribs.He flew like a ragdoll,limbs flailing, crashing through the crowd before slamming into a tree beyond.
He hit the tree with brutal force–then slid down its trunk almost lifeless.
Blood sprayed from his mouth. He gasped. Once. Twice.
Anne's scream caught in her throat, eyes wide with horror. The ginger's body beside her sank in defeat to the ground as their last chance at surviving had now been shattered along with Lucian's ribcage. Lucian's body laid against the tree, twisted and broken. The crowd parted where his limp form had torn through, faces frozen in a mixture of awe and revulsion. He see anne shouting, screaming his name… but Lucian heard none of it. The world had gone silent.
Then came the voice.
Not a whisper. Not a thought.
A declaration.
"Ill-Fated Deck: Activated."
Time fractured Before Lucian, suspended in a void beyond reality, twenty-eight spectral domino tiles arranged themselves in perfect formation. Each hovered silently in the ether, gleaming with an otherworldly sheen. Without warning, they flipped—blank ivory faces turning to conceal their marks—and shuffled by some unseen hand.
Lucian didn't need instruction. He remembered the words of the curse: he had to choose.
His fingers, though battered and bloodied, reached out into the spectral mist.
A single tile moved.
It flipped.
5 | 1
The numbers blazed with ethereal fire.
The larger number, 5, pulsed with salvation—fate's mercy extended, granting him an 80% chance to escape death's grasp.
The smaller, the 1, carved itself into his nerves.
The pain came not as a scream but as a flood—hot, sharp, and laced with vengeance. His ribs knit back together in unnatural silence, but the agony remained, coiled around his soul like a serpent.
His breath came in shudders.
At that very moment, Lucian could hear footsteps and Laughter.
Two Drax tribesmen approached from the edge of the ring. Warriors by blood, jackals by spirit. One crouched low, he spat on Lucian's face. His filthy hand snaked through Lucian's hair to drag him like spoil.
Mockery died in the man's throat.
Lucian's eyes swang opened—brighter, darker, illuminated by rage.
And he lunges, catching the man by the neck.
His Teeth tore through flesh with animal fury. Blood gushed from the man's throat as he fell back, clutching at the open ruin that once held breath and voice. Crimson soaked the earth.
The second man stumbled backward, eyes wide with horror, weapon clattering from trembling hands. And in that moment as if the towers of Babel had crumbled and a veil lifted, Lucian understood every word he uttered in his native tongue.
"He's [Mazzaroth]. He's the [Shadow of death]."