Darkness. Cold. The distant echo of dripping water.
Pain.
A deep, searing pain pulsed through his body like fire coursing through his veins. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale sharp as a blade. His wrists ached—no, burned. Something was digging into his skin. He tried to move, but the cold bite of iron stopped him.
"Chains."
His mind felt slow, sluggish, as if submerged in tar. The last thing he remembered was falling—a battlefield bathed in crimson, the clang of metal, the sharp sting of betrayal. Their faces. Their laughter. His fingers twitched at the memory, as if trying to close around a weapon that was no longer there.
"I died."
Then why was he here?
His eyes fluttered open, greeted by a murky half-light. The air was thick with damp stone and rot, carrying the stench of sweat and something metallic—blood. He was in a cell, the walls rough and uneven, carved from jagged rock. Chains rattled as he shifted, confirming what he already suspected.
His body felt… different. Weaker. Lighter. Like he'd been drained of something vital. He forced himself to look down. His hands were not his own—thinner, paler than he remembered. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his ribs slightly visible beneath the dim torchlight. He felt starved, his muscles withered.
Then he saw it.
The Mark.
Just below his collarbone, black sigils coiled like serpents, twisting and shifting against his pale skin. It pulsed—alive, as if it were breathing with him.
A deep, unsettling whisper echoed in his mind. Not a voice, but a memory.
"Only the chosen bear the Mark of Awakening... but the Shadowbrand is a curse."
The thought wasn't his. It had surfaced from somewhere—a past life? Someone else? Or had it been forced into his mind the moment he reincarnated?
His fingers brushed against the mark, and a dull burning pain flared beneath his skin.
One thing was certain. This was not normal. And whatever this mark was… it would make him a target.
A loud clatter echoed outside the cell. Footsteps. Heavy boots against stone. The sound of iron keys scraping against rusted locks.
He turned his gaze toward the cell door as it groaned open, flooding the chamber with flickering torchlight. Shadows stretched against the walls as figures stepped in—four armored men clad in dark leather and steel.
One of them, the tallest, stepped forward, his face partially obscured beneath a hood. His voice was sharp and filled with disdain.
"So, you're finally awake."
The man's boots stopped just inches away, and before he could react—a boot slammed into his ribs.
Pain exploded through his side. He barely had time to cough out blood before another kick struck his gut, forcing him to double over in agony. The chains rattled violently, the cold metal biting into his wrists as he struggled to stay conscious.
The man crouched down, gripping his jaw roughly. His eyes were void of empathy, examining him like a broken tool.
"You think you're special, don't you?" His lips curled into a sneer. "Reborn with that cursed mark? A Shadowbrand?"
His grip tightened, nails digging into his skin.
"It doesn't matter." The man's voice was cold, like stating an undeniable truth. "You'll die like the rest."
The guards behind him exchanged glances, their faces unreadable. One of them spoke, voice hushed but firm.
"Should we inform the Overseer? If he's branded, he might—"
The leader scoffed, shoving his face away as he stood. "Not our problem. If the Abyss marked him, it means he's already damned."
The chains around his wrists snapped open. His arms fell limply to his sides, too weak to move. Two guards yanked him up, dragging him forward despite his body screaming in protest.
Beyond the chamber doors, a vast, open space stretched before him—a coliseum of blood and screams.
---
The roar of the crowd was deafening. Thousands of figures sat in shadowed stands, their faces masked, their voices hungry for blood. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, dust, and iron.
And at the center—a pit of sand, stained with crimson.
He was tossed forward, his knees slamming into the rough ground. He barely caught himself before falling flat, every bone in his body aching. The guards stepped back, forming a perimeter as another set of heavy doors groaned open.
A tall figure emerged. Another prisoner.
The man was massive—easily over six feet, his body corded with muscle and scars. His eyes were empty, like a beast that had long forgotten its own name.
The crowd fell silent for a moment.
Then a single voice rang out.
"BEGIN!"
The giant charged.
Everything slowed.
He saw it—the way the man's muscles coiled, the slight shift of his stance, the angle of his strike. The instincts of a warrior screamed through his mind.
But his body couldn't keep up.
Pain exploded as the first punch connected, sending him skidding across the sand. His vision blurred, his body numb. Blood dripped from his mouth as he gasped for breath.
"Damn it."
The coliseum cheered.
The giant didn't wait. He was already moving again, sand kicking up behind him like a charging bull.
"Move."
His body refused. He was too weak. Too slow. He wasn't the warrior he used to be.
A deep, guttural voice whispered in his mind.
"Devour… or be devoured."
The mark on his chest burned.
Shadows shifted beneath his fingers, curling like living tendrils. The pain was unbearable, like his flesh was being ripped apart from the inside—
But power surged through him.
The giant's fist came down.
And in that moment—the world turned black.