Soren's body was still sore from his first training session with Lira when he was awoken at dawn by the sound of iron bars rattling. The guard's impatient voice rang out, echoing through the stone halls of the Colosseum's underground cells.
"Get up. You're expected in the training grounds."
Groggy and still aching, Soren pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness. He knew the coming day would be grueling. Lira had promised that yesterday's session was only a taste of what lay ahead. She intended to strip away any weaknesses, any hesitation, until he could wield his strength without a single wasted movement.
As he stepped into the dimly lit training grounds, Lira was already there, inspecting the rows of weapons arranged along the walls. Her sharp gaze flicked up as he approached.
"Good. You're early," she said. "Today, we're pushing past raw instinct. There's no place here for mistakes, no mercy for weakness." She picked up a pair of wooden training swords and tossed one to him. "Let's see if you've learned anything from yesterday."
Soren caught the sword, feeling its unfamiliar weight. Despite being worn and cracked, it felt sturdy enough to endure a fight. He took a steadying breath and faced Lira, who had already dropped into a stance, her expression cool and unreadable.
With a flicker of movement, she was upon him, striking in a rapid series of feints and direct slashes. He reacted, his grip tight around the hilt, raising the sword to block, but each time she countered, using his movements against him, forcing him off balance.
"Stop relying on pure force!" Lira snapped, circling him like a wolf. "You have strength—that much is clear. But if you can't control it, you'll be nothing more than a brute."
Soren grimaced, his arms trembling from the force of her blows. The chains around his wrists pulsed faintly, a reminder of the strength he carried. But using them felt like a risk. He didn't fully understand their power yet, and the memory of the shadows in his mind lingered, a warning of the danger that lay in blindly trusting them.
But he couldn't deny the pull of their energy. With each clash, he felt the chains' faint warmth urging him forward, like a second heartbeat beneath his skin. Taking a steadying breath, he decided to open himself just a bit to the power within them, allowing a whisper of that energy to guide his movements.
Lira advanced again, this time faster, her strikes almost too swift to follow. Soren met her assault, and something shifted. His movements grew sharper, more precise, his reflexes guided by an instinct beyond his own. He parried, ducked, and countered, each motion flowing with a fluidity that felt almost unnatural.
For a fleeting moment, he felt himself merging with the chains' rhythm, the hum of their power sharpening his focus.
Lira's eyes narrowed as she noticed the change, and her strikes grew fiercer, pushing him to his limits. But Soren held his ground, refusing to be overpowered. With a final swing, he caught her blade mid-strike, locking their swords together.
"Not bad," she murmured, pulling back. She eyed him with a mixture of caution and curiosity. "There's a shift in you. A control I didn't see before."
Soren straightened, breathing heavily, his muscles burning. "I'm learning to control it," he said, his voice steady. "I'll get better."
Lira nodded, seeming almost pleased. "Good. But remember, strength without purpose is dangerous. The power you're tapping into—whatever it is—will consume you if you don't master it completely."
Soren nodded, but he said nothing. He was beginning to understand that wielding the chains meant walking a razor's edge, balancing his own will against the energy they offered.
Hours later, bruised and weary, Soren made his way back to his cell, his mind buzzing with exhaustion. But as he crossed the dim corridor, he noticed a small figure waiting by his door. It was Lark, his friend's thin frame casting a shadow in the torchlight.
"Soren," Lark whispered, his voice urgent. He glanced over his shoulder, checking for any guards. "I've got news. Something big."
Soren straightened, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "What is it?"
Lark pulled him into the cell, closing the door quietly before speaking. "There's a fight happening tomorrow—a special one. They're bringing in someone from outside. Not just any fighter, either. They call him 'The Executioner.' Word is, he's the Colosseum's way of getting rid of anyone who's… troublesome."
Soren felt a chill run through him. He'd heard of fighters being brought in from outside, brutal specialists who ended matches with ruthless efficiency. The Executioner was a name he'd heard whispered among the other prisoners, a figure as feared as he was mysterious.
"Why are you telling me this?" Soren asked, his voice low.
Lark's face was tense. "Because I think they're setting you up to fight him. The masters don't like that you survived the Gauntlet, and they certainly don't like the fact that you're growing stronger. You're a risk to them now."
Soren clenched his fists, the chains responding with a faint pulse of energy, a reflection of his mounting frustration. "So they want to use this Executioner to get rid of me."
Lark nodded. "Yes. But I think… I think you can beat him. If anyone has a chance, it's you. You've survived this long, and you have something none of us have."
Soren met Lark's gaze, his resolve hardening. "Then I'll face him," he said, his voice steady. "I've been holding back, trying to control the chains, but maybe it's time I pushed them to their limit. If this Executioner thinks he can crush me, he'll learn what a mistake that is."
Lark's face lit up with a flicker of hope, though it was tinged with worry. "Be careful, Soren. This man is known for being merciless. But if you're going to face him, I'll do whatever I can to help."
Soren placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Thank you, Lark. I won't forget this."
Lark left soon after, disappearing into the shadows of the Colosseum's corridors, and Soren sat alone in his cell, preparing himself for the battle that lay ahead. He knew he would need to rely on the chains fully if he was going to survive. He had to push past his fears, to accept the risk and embrace the power within them completely.
Tomorrow, he thought, clenching his fists, I'll prove my strength.
The day of the fight arrived sooner than Soren expected, and the Colosseum was packed, its stone benches filled with spectators hungry for blood. The crowd's energy was electric, a buzzing anticipation that filled the air as they waited for the next spectacle. Soren stood in the shadows of the entrance, the heavy iron gate blocking his view of the arena, but he could hear the roar of the crowd and the rhythmic chanting of his opponent's name.
"The Executioner… The Executioner…"
The guards shoved him forward, and the gate creaked open, revealing the blinding light of the Colosseum floor. Soren took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as he stepped into the arena, his chains pulsing with a steady, reassuring rhythm.
Across the arena, the Executioner emerged from a separate gate, a massive, armored figure draped in dark, bloodstained robes. His face was hidden behind a steel mask, and in his hand, he held a wicked, double-edged axe, its blade gleaming in the sunlight.
Soren's gaze met the Executioner's, and he felt a chill run down his spine. This was no ordinary opponent; this was a killer, someone who had likely ended countless lives without hesitation. But Soren refused to let fear take hold. He focused on the chains, feeling their energy merge with his own, filling him with a calm, powerful resolve.
The crowd fell silent, and the announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
"Today's match: The Gauntlet Survivor… versus… The Executioner!"
The horn blared, and in an instant, the Executioner charged, his movements deceptively fast for his size. Soren barely had time to react, dodging to the side as the axe came crashing down, sending a tremor through the ground. He rolled to his feet, his eyes narrowed, his focus unbroken.
The Executioner's strikes were brutal, each one meant to kill, but Soren danced around them, his movements guided by the chains' faint pulse. He felt their energy surge with each dodge, each block, as if they were feeding off the intensity of the fight, growing stronger with every heartbeat.
But he knew he couldn't just avoid the Executioner's attacks forever. He needed to strike back, to find an opening.
Gathering his strength, Soren lunged forward, his blade aimed at the Executioner's side. The chains flared, their energy fueling his attack, and for a moment, he felt as if he was moving with a speed and power beyond his own.
The blade met resistance, striking the Executioner's armor, but the impact wasn't enough. The Executioner snarled, swinging his axe in a deadly arc, and Soren barely managed to duck, the blade grazing the top of his head.
The crowd gasped, their anticipation building as the fight continued, each clash pushing Soren closer to the edge.
But he was determined. This fight wasn't just about survival—it was about proving his strength, his will to break free.
I won't let them win, he thought, his grip tightening on his blade, his determination sharpening. I'll overcome this, no matter the cost.
With renewed resolve, he charged at the Executioner, his movements faster, more fluid, the chains' power pulsing stronger than ever. He would prove himself here, against this unstoppable foe, or die trying.