thief of fate-Chapter 97: conflict 2

Under a cracked sky, and with the ground trembling under the weight of creeping ruin, annihilation crept into the arena like an irreversible decree.

The screams, the flames, and the wings of the Arkanis flapping in the air—all were the backdrop to a conflict that had begun to take the shape of a madness-written epic, not one of heroism.

Valerian planted his feet. His right hand extended, drawing a curved dagger, dark in metal, as if its shadow preceded its blade. The other hand followed with a second dagger, smaller, but darker—so dark that light itself refused to cling to it.

He breathed deeply, and it seemed his body was unbinding from itself. His hesitation vanished. The weakness vanished. What remained of his consciousness screamed a single command: fight to confirm you exist.

He moved.

The Mirage Stab wasn’t an ordinary strike, nor even an understandable skill. It was a flow. As if his body was freed from the laws of this world and given the choice to decide which point of the Arkanis he would stab—and which point he would pretend to.

And with every dagger that pierced flesh, with every movement slicing through air, his breath returned to him. He returned.

No sound to his steps. No warning to his motion. In one second, he was in front of an enemy—in the next... behind them.

The bodies of the Arkanis collapsed, twisted, melted—some screamed before dying, and some returned from death only to be killed again.

As for Zenith...

He was a storm.

His sword never left his hand, and his hands never ceased. Every strike carried within it the ferocity of a tiger and the sharpness of an old wound. He wasn’t merely defending—he was surging forward, fighting as if blood were fuel, and rage his only instinct.

Each time he stood before one of them, he felled them. Whenever a hand stretched toward him—it was severed.

And yet... their numbers didn’t decrease. Every strike was met with another surge. Wave after wave. A battle with no peace.

And with every moment, something in him was changing. Slowly.

The sword began to glow with another color. Blue at first... then violet.

As if the weapon itself began to overflow with something it was never meant to contain.

On the other side of the arena, where the smoke was denser and the noise more choking...

There stood Kyle.

Staggering, retreating, advancing. Gasping.

In front of him—Diros. No... not one version—two now.

One laughed. One cried. Both had the same body, the same face, but the eyes... were entirely different.

The laugh was cruel, mocking every moment in Kyle’s heart, while the weeping was a broken sob that disrupted the balance of his strikes.

Kyle dodged a double attack, rolled on the ground, then stood—blood dripping from his arm.

"What kind of monster are you?!" he screamed, blocking a sword from the left, then ducking to avoid a stab from the right.

Laughter. Weeping. Then the words came out of both versions—simultaneously:

"I’m hungry."

Kyle flinched, startled, hesitated in his next strike. That hesitation cost him a wound to the side.

He stepped back, breathing hard, then shouted instinctively:

"I won’t hold back!"

But the reply was insane:

"But you’ll be my meal."

And a third appeared.

Same body.

But his eyes were empty.

Three Diros, each with a different madness—and all of them attacking him as if they knew when he’d err, and where he’d hurt.

Kyle, despite the skill he had gained, was not prepared to fight three against one.

At the heart of the arena, Valerian and Zenith met once more. The Arkanis increased in number, but they weren’t the true enemy.

It was what lay behind them.

Everything that had happened, every trial, was only to shatter what remained of their identities... to prepare them.

Axel’s voice returned—bodiless.

"You’re merely struggling. What’s coming next... you stand no chance."

The sky exploded.

And something else appeared.

Something shapeless. Boundless. As if a thought had escaped the mind of a dead god.

Everyone fell to their knees.

Except one.

Valerian—or... Ethan.

He stared at the incoming thing.

And it... stared back.

For a moment, it seemed this was what Axel had wanted from the start.

The breaking point.

The battle hadn’t begun yet.

Everything that happened... was just the prelude.

The sky cracked again—but this time, not because of the Arkanis... but because of the light.

A streak of light split the horizon, followed by a sharp hiss... like whistles, like sharp whispers from another world.

Then, the sky rained.

But it didn’t rain fire or blood... but arrows.

Countless arrows, flowing with non-human grace, as if rage itself had taken a physical form.

Millions of arrows, each one perfectly crafted, coated with a faint layer of pulsing blue light, diving toward the Arkanis as if they recognized them—as if they could distinguish them from everything else.

Some Arkanis tried to fly.

Some screamed.

But the arrows... never missed.

They embedded into their bodies, their heads, their chests... and with every hit, the body either exploded, evaporated, or turned to ash.

At the edge of the wreckage stood Sigard.

His body pulsed with limitless energy, his eyes blazing with a light he hadn’t possessed during the tournament round. He wasn’t the same person whom Valerian had defeated.

He was something else.

His arms were raised to the sky, and the air around him trembled as if the laws of nature were retreating before his will. Each passing second, he reshaped thousands of arrows from nothing and unleashed them in relentless, unending waves.

He was the flood itself.

And in the heart of all this, a faint hope shone.

The arrows weren’t saving everyone, but they were opening a path... reducing the chaos... granting a chance.

And in the middle of the scene, King Yaram raised his hand.

He whispered words, and worlds began to form.

Illusory worlds.

Each had trees, streets, people running, armies advancing, fire, light, darkness. Complete illusion.

The Arkanis paused. Some rushed toward the new world, thinking it was a new slaughter path.

But they found only... nothingness.

Yaram didn’t fight them—but distracted them.

And within the chaos created by the fake worlds, dozens—then hundreds—fled.

And those who remained... began to fight back.

Soldiers, warriors, unknown fighters—all began to attack, finding angles, landing blows, defying fate.

It wasn’t victory... but it wasn’t surrender anymore.

Axel, who had watched all this, remained silent... until now.

He looked up, where Sigard still unleashed his arrows as if nothing could stop him.

He laughed.

A dry, stagnant laugh—like the sound of wind in an open grave.

Then he said, in a voice heard by all despite the noise of battle:

"And finally... the rat has left its hole."

He took a step forward, raising his eyes once more to Sigard:

"One of the Chosen, then? So that’s it... your blessing is limitless energy?"

He paused for a moment, tilting his head as if listening to something inaudible.

Then he continued, with sarcasm tinged with curiosity:

"But the question isn’t: will you kill them all? Rather... will your body withstand what you’re creating?"

And another voice, whose source no one knew, whispered as if speaking to the spirits of the earth:

The others chose interesting people.

And above... the arrows were still raining.

But blood began to drip from Sigard’s nose.

His right hand trembled, and his left eye started to burn brighter than it should.

His heart began to beat faster... faster than he could bear.

But he... did not stop.

For he wasn’t fighting to survive.

He was fighting... because those behind him had no choice but to believe that someone would endure.

From Sigard’s Pov

The sky is still raining... but it wasn’t just raining from above me.

It was raining from me.

Every arrow, every flash, every speck of light... comes from me. From my marrow, from my ribs, from something deeper than bone.

It’s not a technique. Not a skill. It’s something... I’ve given everything I am to.

I feel my heart writhing.

My lungs are burning.

My hair falls out with every new surge of power.

But I can’t stop.

If I stop... they die.

A scream in my head.

Not from myself. Not from the world.

A feminine voice.

Soft. Firm. Deep, like it rose from the root of the first tree.

"Stop, Sigard.

This is not your path.

You are consuming yourself for a plan that isn’t yours...

If you continue, you will shatter before you reach the end."

I answered her without sound. Without moving my tongue.

I answered her with my heartbeat, with my gaze, with the ash falling from my lashes:

"If I stop, many will die. Don’t speak to me of paths... the path ended the moment the first Arkanis descended from the sky."

"And do you think you alone will change that?

Who promised you survival? Who gave you that blessing?

You’re being used, Sigard.

You are just fuel in an engine that doesn’t care if you burn."

The arrows did not stop.

Even as I listened to her... my hand still raised.

The sky still opened before me.

I admit... my chest is tightening, my bones trembling, my joints screaming as if begging for mercy.

But I saw the child crying under the rubble minutes ago.

And I saw the soldier who carried him and ran toward the illusion the king created.

And I saw how he survived... only because I continued.

"Use me. Burn me. Drain whatever is left of me."

"But don’t let them die."

"You... are not ready to pay the price."

"This power will not only destroy you."

"Is that a prophecy? Or just fear?"

I said to her with an internal voice, laced with weariness and sarcasm.

"I am not a hero. And I don’t want to be one.

I just... refuse to die while others scream for salvation."

Then came the next wave of arrows.

Stronger. Faster. Wider.

And fresh blood began to pour from my ears.

But my eyes... were still fixed on the sky.