"We were taught about these sins when we were children," said Virumi, her voice distant, as though summoning memories buried deep within. "Makes sense. The Shulvris have divided themselves into subclans based on what they want to support and satisfy their personal interests. But, despite their divisions, they haven't forgotten to teach one common thing to their children, something that connects all Shulvris together—the seven-headed snake symbolism." Said Griswa, arms crossed, but his eyes flickered with a deep understanding. "So, this might be some important information to consider, just in case."
Malaes, who had been lost in thought, shook her head slightly, the weight of the conversation settling into her. "Somehow, it feels important. We met Ms. Somia, thinking she was just a poor, normal woman running a decrepit restaurant, but now... from that one meeting, it's led us to such a significant revelation." She paused, her gaze dark and focused. "Do we call this luck?"
Griswa, ever calm, leaned back and replied, "Based on how useful this information is or will be for our mission, that will tell us how lucky we are." His voice was cold, factual, as if calculating possibilities in his head.
Virumi, who wanted to say something more, furrowed her brows. "Umm, actually... I think I remember something." Her voice was slow, cautious, as she dug through memories that seemed almost hidden from her. "When my companions and I were in the Mordul Uls territory some years ago, we heard of someone called 'The Serpent' and his criminal activities. I remember we visited this very city, too." She paused, something clicking into place. "Ah! I remember now! This is the city of Ul."
"Ul?" Malaes and Griswa echoed in unison, their curiosity heightened.
"Yeah," Virumi replied, her face scrunched slightly in contemplation. "Even though it's short, it's still kinda hard to remember. But that's it—Ul."
Yesdar leaned forward, his voice curious yet pressing. "Okay, so did you get to know anything more about him?"
Virumi looked a bit embarrassed, rubbing the back of her neck nervously. "Uh, well... Yesdar-sama, I'm sorry, I don't know anything else. We were in such a rush to escape, moving from territory to territory, that we didn't spend time investigating 'The Serpent' or the underworld, that was perhaps the last place we'd want to go. We didn't want to get involved in their... messy business." There was a half-hearted chuckle at the end, laced with regret.
Yesdar, nodding slowly, kept his voice calm. "It's okay, Virumi. Don't be sorry, it wasn't your responsibility."
Virumi, eyes widening, leaned in slightly, her voice lowering. "But there is something more I want to say."
"Go on," Yesdar said, his tone laced with authority and curiosity. "Let it all out. Anything you think could be useful, we need to hear it."
Virumi's face tightened with a hint of unease, but she pressed on. "You know, ever since we learned about these sins during childhood, doubts always lingered in my mind. These sins don't seem possible for normal beings. I used to wonder if these sins were even real, or just some cautionary tales to keep us in line. How could someone erase someone's memories? How could a person make someone feel guilt so deeply for something they didn't even do?"
She paused, a deep breath escaping her. "It didn't make sense. The symbol of the seven-headed snake—it felt so... unreal. I couldn't grasp how it came into existence. But now, seeing all of you, and what you are capable of... well, nothing seems impossible anymore noi. I've seen things that I wouldn't have believed before. So, I guess what I'm saying is, these sins... maybe they are real, and maybe 'The Serpent' really did commit them. But, they don't seem to be sins that can be committed in any normal way. It's not something everyone can do, that's why not everyone is called 'The Serpent.' But I don't know... does this help noi?"
Her voice trailed off, leaving the room in a suffocating silence. Her words lingered, swirling in the heavy atmosphere like a storm about to erupt.
For a moment, the trio simply stared at her, their expressions unreadable, intense. The stillness nagged at Virumi, anxiety building in her chest. "What happened? Did I say something wrong?" she asked, her voice small, almost trembling.
Griswa, breaking the tension with a sharp breath, placed his thumb on his lips, a sign that he was deep in thought. "No, not at all. In fact, this is... crucial information." His voice was flat, precise. "These sins... they aren't something any normal person can just commit. There are methods. Special, specific ways to perform them. It means that Danior is a mysterious normal being beyond normal mysteries."
Malaes, her gaze sharp, spoke next. "We won't know the full scope of what you've told us until later, but after this tournament, we will see how relevant this information truly is." Her voice was thoughtful but cautious, as if afraid to dive too deep too soon.
Yesdar glanced at the clock on the wall. "The tournament is about to begin again," he said, his voice tense with anticipation. "The mass battle... it's starting soon."
Griswa, who had been quiet for a moment, nodded. "Yeah, I guess the hour of break is coming to an end."
The silence didn't last long. An announcement blared through the arena speakers, echoing like a distant thunderstorm creeping closer. "The mass battle commences in 15 minutes. Contestants, please start gathering on the ground now. I repeat, the mass battle commences in 15 minutes. Contestants, please start gathering on the ground now."
Griswa's calm demeanor shifted as he stood, the weight of the impending battle settling over him like a dark cloak. "Alright," he muttered, his voice deep and resonant. "My call has come."
As the sound of drums began to rise softly through the speakers, a low rhythm, slow and deliberate, resonated throughout the arena. The sound was both haunting and invigorating, a song for warriors. The guitar strings, harsh yet hypnotic, joined the drums, creating a melody that reverberated through the walls, filling every corner with a quiet, otherworldly anticipation. Trumpets soon followed, their notes sharp and of acclamation.
The crowd, sensing the oncoming storm, began to stir. Their cheers were muted at first, quiet ripples in the sea of anticipation. But they were only saving their screams only for the greater moments they were going to feast their eyes on.
"Good luck, noi!" Virumi called out cheerfully, though her voice held a tinge of nervousness.
Griswa, ever composed, shook his head. "Luck's unnecessary for this. What I'll need for that Serpent's information to be of use for our mission."
Virumi, unfazed, replied, "Then, all the best for that too, noi!"
Griswa cracked a smile, brief but sincere. "Ah, thanks," he said as he walked towards the exit. His steps were deliberate, steady, like a force of nature waiting to be unleashed.
As he moved closer, something caught his eye. He paused, turning to his left, where a display of war masks hung in neat rows. The light bathed the masks in an otherworldly glow—pale green and cold white, casting long shadows on the wall. Each mask was unique, displaying intricate patterns of battle, history, death and simple psychopathic blood-fun if one could notice keenly.
Griswa approached the display, his gaze scanning each mask, searching, calculating. His fingers brushed lightly across a few before stopping on one—a simple mask, plain yet striking in its understatement. It was small, fitting his face perfectly, with sharp contours and angular designs, but it lacked the ostentation of the others.
He picked it up, holding it in his hands as if weighing its significance. After a brief moment, he slid it over his face, the cool material pressing against his skin. It was a perfect fit. He turned, leaving the room without another word, the mask now part of his identity as he walked into the coming battle.
.....
In a ward located somewhere in the arena, the air grew heavy with an unspoken tension. A somber silence hung over the room like a lingering mist, thick and oppressive, stifling the shallow breaths of the injured contestants. The doctors moved with quiet efficiency, their faces a mask of professionalism, yet beneath the surface, there was a palpable sense of dread. The nurses glanced nervously at each other, their whispers barely audible.
"He shouldn't have been saved," a nurse murmured, her voice tinged with fear. Her eyes darted toward the bed where a man lay still, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. "I told you, doctor, we should have let him die. His very breaths scare me. His very existence affects this country."
The doctor, pale and haunted by something far beyond the visible world, responded in a low whisper, "Who would want him to live? But we couldn't risk it. If the underworld found out which doctor didn't try to save him, they would give me a death not even Satan's greatest descendant could survive."
The nurse swallowed hard, nodding, though her eyes remained fixed on the patient. His presence was a reminder of a darkness far beyond the red fog that hovered over the arena.
Suddenly, the man on the bed stirred. His eyes snapped open, wild and disoriented. His sudden movement caused a ripple of panic through the room. Doctors froze. Nurses gasped, retreating a step as if his very presence burned them. The patients in the adjacent beds lay silent, watching with wide eyes filled with both awe and fear.
The man's breaths came fast and shallow, as though he had awoken from a nightmare too close to reality. His sharp face features were chiseled as though carved by his blades itself—high cheekbones casting shadows that deepened the hollows beneath his eyes, which held a cold, calculating gleam. Those eyes, pale and piercing, seemed to see right through people, as if constantly weighing the value of every soul they encountered. Dark curls tumbled over his brow, unkempt and wild, framing his face in a way that made him appear both untouchable and dangerous.
His skin, pale and worn, had the rough texture of someone who had seen too much, lived too long in places men were not meant to tread. A scruff of beard lined his jaw, untamed like the rest of him, hinting at weeks spent in isolation or on the move, always hunting, never resting. His lips, thin and drawn tight, suggested restraint, holding back words that, if spoken, would cut sharper than any blade. Altogether, he carried the aura of a man who had crossed into dark places and returned, but not unscathed.
His presence was a silent threat, a shadowed promise of violence and secrets buried far too deep. He looked down on his scarred knuckles, tracing the lines of violence etched into his flesh with callous indifference. His fingers, rough from years of unseen torment, touched his scarred face as he brushed them over his face, feeling the scars from wars long ago. The absence of his mask startled him for a moment, and then a slow, predatory smile curled his lips.
Danior Somia—The Serpent.
His gaze lifted to the wall across from him, where flickers of dim light cast jagged shadows. His pale eyes, hollow and fierce, locked onto the empty space as if it held the answer to some long-buried question. He leaned forward slightly, folding his legs closer to his chest, resting his scarred hands on his knees. His features, sharp and angular, carved a terrifying image against the dim light of the room.
His stare was unsettling, a strange mix of malice and madness. It wasn't just a stare; it was a declaration, a dare to everything around him. His mind seemed lost in an unseen world, wrestling with unseen demons.
And then, in the strangest silence of the room, a whisper escaped his lips, barely audible yet carrying the weight of a billion promises of a dark future.
"You are interesting... Jesdala."
.....
The red atmosphere of the arena pulsed with life as the drums continued to thrum through the speakers, the intoxicating rhythm that vibrated through the very sands beneath their feet. The anticipation in the air was a living thing, heavy and tangible, as if the arena itself was holding its breath. The crowd began to roar, slowly building to a feverish excitement.
Griswa walked in silence, masked, his figure a shadow amidst the growing crowd of contestants streaming into the battleground. His coat billowed dramatically behind him, the long edges of the fabric catching the red haze in a ghostly dance. Each step he took felt deliberate. The sand plumes swirled/twirled around his feet asking for the Gods to surrender to his might.
In the arena, figures of all shapes and sizes filed in from every direction, through twenty immense alcove entrances carved into the structure. Armored warriors, monstrous beings with grotesque physiques, and those who towered like ancient titans—among them were giants as enormous as Deraji Badeirow, their strides shaking the earth itself.
The arena seemed like a kingdom of chaos assembling for a war that transcended mortal understanding. Yet, amidst this gathering of fearsome combatants, Griswa's presence felt like a quiet storm—a looming terror that moved with the silence of a predator, unseen until it struck. He moved with the crowd but stood apart, his aura unmistakable, almost divine in its quiet intensity.
As the crowd surged ahead, Griswa paused at the base of one of the immense Pillars of Agony that encircled the battleground. His masked face tilted upward, eyes tracing the pale, cracked surface of the pillar. The white structure now bore the stains of endless violence—blood, filth and dust caked onto its ancient stone.
The pillar loomed above him, fading into the red fog that shrouded the ring-arc atop it. The architecture reminded Griswa of the hidden arenas in the deep underground of Ehayor, where gods and monsters once tested their strength. But here, these pillars had seen too much—too many lost souls sacrificed to the whims of battle.
Griswa reached out, brushing his fingertips against the cold, rough surface of the pillar, his touch barely a whisper against the stone. For a moment, everything was still—creepily so. The very air seemed to hold its breath as his fingers made contact, as if the pillar itself was waiting for something.
And then, the silence was shattered.
The pillar trembled violently the instant Griswa's fingertips left its surface. The ground beneath him shook with a force that rippled outward, sending a low, ominous tremor through the sands of the arena. The contestants, already gathering inside the boundary, paused, looking around in confusion as the tremor rumbled through the earth. Whispers of fear spread like wildfire through the assembled crowd, for they did not know the source of this sudden disruption, but they could feel its power.
Griswa, now evanesced into the swirling red fog, disappeared from sight only to re-emerge moments later, his dark silhouette materializing inside the battleground, the last to enter the boundary of the Pillars of Agony. His footsteps were quiet, yet every motion he made seemed to ripple through the very fabric of the atmosphere, disturbing the fog and the tension with simple movements.
The drums continued, their slow, steady rhythm building with anticipation. Griswa's masked face remained still, unreadable, as he surveyed the field of contestants before him, taking in the multitudes of fighters now awaiting the commencement of the mass battle.
As the drums intensified, Griswa turned his gaze toward the battleground's center, where the combatants were gathering in their respective positions. The red fog swirled around them, an ominous veil that enveloped the battleground in mystery and danger.
The battle had yet to begin, but already, the tension was conspicuous, thick as blood in the air.
Pronunciations:
Ul: [OOL]