The giant was dead.
Its massive corpse lay in the dirt like a fallen monument, still twitching with the final echoes of defiance. His blood added to the pool of dark, arterial blood spread across the forest floor, seeping into the roots as if the land itself drank deeply of its champion's defeat.
The air had shifted—no longer heavy with bloodlust, but silence… yet filled with dread.
The Drax tribe warriors, once snarling beasts drunk on battle, now stood paralyzed. Their god had not protected the chosen. Their colossus, smeared in sacred war-paint, had been felled not by divine wrath, but by a mortal man—broken, bloodied, and dying.
Faith fractured in their panicked eyes. Then fear took root. One by one, they turned. Then they ran. Pride forgotten, weapons abandoned. They scattered like rats fleeing a sinking ship—fleeing the man that still stood in what remained of the ring.
Lucian did not chase them. He stood, motionless, hair drenched and matted with sweat and blood. The broken stumps of his broken swords still clutched tight in his hands. Blood dripped from his fingers, his jaw.
He did not speak. He did not move.
He merely watched them run.
To the Drax, he was no longer a man. He was death incarnate. The undying shadow of death. The Mazzaroth.The cursed omen that had struck down their god's will. None dared test if he could still bleed.
Thrown to the edge of the clearing by the giant's earth-shattering smash, Anne and the ginger stared in disbelief. For a long, paralyzing moment, they didn't breathe. Couldn't. Then Anne collapsed to her knees, tears streaming as if her soul had been wrung dry.
"We survived," she whispered, then shouted, grabbing the ginger and pulling him close. "We're alive! We're free!"
They wept, clinging to one another in the ruin of the battlefield. The joy of survival mingled with the guilt of it.
But Lucian didn't join their celebration.
He still stood where the giant fell. Anne ran to him, smiling, arms wide, a song of praise on her lips.But the second she touched him, Lucian's body crumpled. Like a marionette with its strings severed.
The shattered blades slipped from his hands. His weight fell into Anne's arms, limp, breath shallow, eyes unfocused.
"Lucian!?" she screamed.
He didn't answer due to what happened in the dust cloud moments before.
The giant's axe, thrown in that final moment, had not missed but had hit its intended target. In that moment, the axe ripped through his rib cage and tore his lungs to pieces. His heart danced on the edge of failure.
Yet beneath the surface, something else stirred.
From the shattered veil between life and death, the [Ill-Fated Deck] awakened once more.
In the darkness of his mind, twenty-eight glowing dominoes circled slowly through the void. Lucian stood before them, weary but unbroken, his spirit flickering like a dying candle.
He stepped forward.
Again, he rasped.
The deck spun. Slowed. Then stopped.
His finger trembled as he reached out. The tile flipped.
A four. One side blank.
A 64% chance to survive.
"Yes—" he whispered, beaming with hope.
But fate, as ever, had a cruel sense of humor. Blood erupted from his mouth, pouring like a river. His legs buckled in that dream-space, and pain returned in full, tearing him from the brink of salvation. In a twisted turn of events, his 64% chance did not roll in his favor.
"Curse my damn luck…"
And then it came again, the voice uttered.
"Child of Perdition. Will you tempt fate again?"
The voice was cold. Not cruel—but amused.
Lucian didn't flinch.
Death was no stranger anymore. It was a companion. A rival. A shadow that had grown too familiar to fear.
"Again," he growled.
The deck spun faster this time, glowing brighter. Then it stopped.
Lucian hesitated for just a second. His mind was strong and determined to face whatever was on the other side of the tile, but his mortal flesh was weak as his finger trembled.
He chose.
The tile flipped.
Six.
Both sides.
The tile was his salvation and his suffering. A 96% chance to survive, but with a cost. The pain of death would be multiplied sixfold. And so it began.
Every nerve lit ablaze. His bones snapped back into place. Muscles reknit like cords pulled too tight. Blood reversed its flow, soaking back into veins like ink into parchment. But nothing's free in this world. Lucian's mouth opened in a silent scream of pain. His eyes went bloodshot, pupils vanishing into red haze, as every cell in his body revolted against its host. Breathing became agonizing. Could not twitch without fire coursing through him.
But he lived. He endured. Because he had to.
Because he had decided he would not die here.
Back in the present, Anne cradled his body, sobbing uncontrollably. His blood-soaked rags draped his battered and bruised frame, but she held him as if he might vanish if she let go.
"Lucian… please…"
His breath caught. A twitch in his fingers. A soft groan.
Her heart leapt at the fact that he was still alive.