The arena loomed ahead like a monstrous maw, its towering walls stretching high into the blood-red sky. The sounds of battle—a cacophony of roars, screams, and the clang of steel—echoed in the air, each sound sharp and jarring. The ground was stained with crimson, a grim reminder of the countless warriors who had fought and died within these cursed walls. This was the *Trial of the Damned*, a brutal contest designed to forge the strongest of the strong, where only the cruelest and most ruthless emerged victorious.
Ethan—or rather, Darius Morgath—stood at the threshold, his mind sharpening with a clarity that cut through the bloodlust in the air. His new body, though unfamiliar, had already begun to feel more like his own. He could feel the surge of magic coursing through him, the raw power of his father's bloodline rising with each breath. His senses were heightened, his instincts razor-sharp. But it wasn't just the magic that made him deadly—it was his mind, honed by years of brutal fighting on Earth.
This world might be ruled by swords and sorcery, but he had fought in the most unforgiving of arenas, where fists were the only things that mattered. That experience would serve him well here.
The gates of the arena opened with a grinding screech, and a wave of heat rushed over him. The crowd's roar was deafening, their cries urging the combatants into battle, their bloodlust palpable. At the center of the arena stood a massive, obsidian throne, from which a figure draped in black robes watched with cold, calculating eyes.
It was *The Warden*—the overseer of the trial. His face was hidden in shadow, but his power radiated from him like a storm. Ethan could feel the pressure bearing down on him, the weight of expectations, but his focus remained unbroken.
"You have been chosen," a voice boomed from the arena speakers, filling the air with an eerie, mechanical tone. "To prove your worth, you must fight, kill, and survive. Do not disappoint."
With the announcement, the first wave of combatants materialized before him—warriors clad in iron, their eyes burning with the same savage hunger that filled the arena. They were all different, from hulking brutes with massive axes to lithe, dexterous assassins wielding curved daggers. But there was one thing they all shared: a deadly determination to emerge victorious, and a willingness to kill without hesitation.
"Let the trial begin," The Warden's voice said again, cold and unfeeling.
The moment the signal was given, the combatants surged forward. Ethan's senses flared as he took in the chaotic scene unfolding before him. The ground beneath him trembled with the weight of warriors charging, their weapons raised, their intent clear. It was a massacre in the making.
His instincts kicked in. As a former champion fighter, Ethan had been through countless brutal matches—though none quite like this. His body moved on its own, dodging a heavy swing from an axe-wielding brute, ducking under a sword strike, and then twisting with the grace of a serpent, his leg sweeping out to take an opponent's feet from under him.
The warrior fell, crashing into the dirt with a loud grunt. Before he could react, Ethan was upon him, his hands flashing like lightning. With a single motion, he snapped the man's neck—quick, clean, efficient. The corpse crumpled to the ground, a lifeless husk.
But there was no time to savor the kill.
Another fighter, a lithe, hooded woman, was already upon him. Her dagger was a blur as it slashed toward his face. Ethan moved just in time, the blade grazing the side of his cheek, leaving a thin cut. His heart pounded, the taste of blood igniting a primal hunger within him. He didn't hesitate—he lunged, grabbing her wrist mid-strike, his grip like iron. With a brutal twist, he wrenched the dagger from her hand and drove it into her chest.
The woman gasped, shock and pain flashing across her face as she crumpled. Blood spurted from the wound, staining the ground beneath them. Ethan didn't look back as he moved away, eyes scanning the battlefield for the next target.
The arena was chaos, and chaos was his element.
A large figure appeared from the shadows—another warrior, his muscles bulging beneath thick armor. He was a mountain of a man, wielding a massive greatsword that seemed to hum with dark energy. The man's eyes locked onto Ethan, and for a moment, a flicker of something passed between them. A shared understanding. The man was no fool—he knew exactly who Darius Morgath was, and what he represented.
"You're the bastard son of Bartholus, aren't you?" the warrior snarled, his voice grating like gravel. "I've heard tales about your bloodline. Let's see if you live up to the legend."
Ethan's eyes narrowed, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of the short sword at his side. He didn't answer. There was no need. Actions spoke louder than words.
The man charged with a roar, swinging his greatsword down in an overhead arc. Ethan sidestepped, his movement fluid, almost effortless, and with a vicious slash, he drew his sword across the man's side. The sword sliced through the armor like paper, cutting deep into flesh.
The warrior let out a strangled roar of pain and staggered back, but Ethan wasn't done. He pressed forward, quick as a serpent, his blade flashing. He stabbed, twisted, and pulled—the warrior's throat was cut open in a single, brutal motion.
As the man collapsed, Ethan stood over him, panting heavily. His body was alive with the rush of battle, but his mind was calculating. His bloodline, the legacy of his father, burned within him like an insatiable fire. He would be no mere participant in this trial. He would dominate.
But there was something else lurking in the corners of his mind—something darker. He could feel the pull of power, a whisper at the back of his thoughts urging him to take more. To take everything. He was the son of Bartholus Morgath, and the Morgath bloodline was built on cruelty, manipulation, and domination. And now, as the arena echoed with the dying screams of his enemies, Ethan realized just how far he was willing to go to embrace that legacy.
The first wave was over, but the trial had only just begun.
---