Chapter 206: Ability Awakened

The pain was akin to fire. Aira had never known anything so consuming, so unrelenting. It was like a searing rod of molten iron had been driven straight into her body, the agony only intensifying the longer it remained lodged within her.Her breath hitched in shallow, ragged gasps as Harriet’s blade pushed deeper through her side. The impact had forced her own sword from her grasp—metal clattering uselessly against the arena floor. She had no strength left to reclaim it. Her body was trembling violently, more from blood loss than fear now. Her right arm, severed and still bleeding, pulsed with each beat of her faltering heart. How was she still alive? Even she didn’t know.

Across from her, Harriet’s face was an unreadable mask. Blank. Cold. Not even hatred lingered in her gaze—only emptiness. As though this act of murder was as natural as breathing. Her hands were steady, pressing the sword inch by inch further into Aira’s flesh, while Aira writhed in excruciating, helpless pain.


Blood filled Aira’s mouth until she choked on the taste of iron, crimson spilling down her chin. She forced herself to lift her head, glaring at Harriet through the veil of agony, and rasped out words through clenched teeth.

"Just—get it over with!"

Her voice was raw, broken, almost drowned out by the deafening roar of the arena. The crowd screamed with frenzied excitement, their chants vibrating through the stone like a war drum. They wanted blood. Her blood. The sound pressed against her skull until she wasn’t even certain Harriet could hear her plea.

But Harriet heard—or at least, she didn’t stop. She didn’t speak either. She simply kept pressing forward, methodically, inexorably. The blade tore muscle, grazed bone, punctured something vital. Aira could feel it inside her, a foreign object shredding her from within.

Her vision blurred, dark spots clustering at the edges. Each blink dragged her closer to unconsciousness, to the still, inevitable silence of death.

Then—suddenly—Harriet shuddered. A wet, hacking cough tore from her throat, violent enough to shake her entire body. The sword faltered, the pressure lessening as she staggered, dropping to one knee.

Aira blinked through the haze, stunned, as Harriet convulsed with another fit. Blood erupted from Harriet’s lips in a grotesque spray, pooling on the ground, thick and blackish as tar. Her already sickly skin had turned ghastly pale, the faint shimmer of life within her dimming rapidly.

The crowd gasped, the noise shifting from bloodthirsty cheers to uneasy murmurs. It was clear to everyone—Harriet’s body was failing her. Whatever she had taken before the match, whatever potion had granted her this unnatural frenzy, was turning against her with catastrophic vengeance. She was dying.

And yet, even in that moment, her eyes never left Aira.

Aira should have felt relief. She should have been grateful that Harriet’s collapse had spared her final breath. But she could only sag back against the dirt, half-blind with dizziness, trembling hands pressing uselessly against her bleeding side. She knew one truth: pulling the blade from her body too soon would kill her instantly. All she could do was endure.

Then, through the fog of pain, a voice echoed in her mind.

"If you kill her quickly, you can still get treatment. You may live."

It wasn’t her imagination. She knew that voice. That detached, steel-edged calm. Zyren.

Aira’s lips curved in the faintest of bitter smiles, even as blood bubbled past her teeth. "I thought you didn’t care," she whispered aloud, though the words were fragile, torn from her like thread unraveling. She didn’t care if he heard her with ears or through the bond—they were meant for him, and she was certain he would hear.

She forced her body to move, scrambling backwards, trying to put distance between herself and the wheezing, blood-spitting Harriet. But Harriet still watched her with unbroken focus, gaze burning with a strange, cruel light.

And then Harriet spoke.

Her voice was rasping, cracked with pain, but there was venom in it—venom sharp enough to pierce Aira’s heart.

"Zyren killed my entire family."

Aira froze, her remaining strength faltering.

"He wiped them out like they were filth," Harriet croaked, staggering to her feet despite the blood pouring from her mouth. Her tone twisted between hatred and grief, her eyes glimmering with fury and despair. "Yes, they were monsters. But his power is shadows—he could have restrained them! He could have spared them!"

Her voice broke, raw and hoarse, but the words struck with more force than her sword had. "He killed them all. Even my little brother."

Tears blurred Aira’s vision, though they weren’t for herself. She heard the anguish in Harriet’s voice, the hollowed-out grief behind her rage. Aira understood. The pain of losing family—the unbearable void it left behind.

Harriet’s gaze hardened, locking on Aira like a predator cornering its prey. "I can’t hurt him. But I can hurt you. You’re bound to him. If I send you to hell, it will tear him apart."

Her hand gripped the hilt of the sword still embedded in Aira’s body. Aira screamed as the weapon twisted, agony tearing through her nerves like lightning. She shook her head weakly, her words trembling, pained.

"He doesn’t care about me! He only cares about pow—"

Her sentence cut off in a howl of anguish. With a final, desperate surge of strength, Harriet wrenched the sword free in a savage, downward arc. Flesh tore, blood gushed, and Aira collapsed to the ground, gasping, choking, drowning in red.

Her limbs trembled uncontrollably. Her breath came in shallow bursts, each one weaker than the last. She knew—this was it. These were her final moments.

The arena fell silent. The cheering ceased. Every noble, every commoner, every lord watched with bated breath as death hovered over her.

And then—Zyren moved.

Slowly, deliberately, the King of Shadows rose from his seat. His motion alone was enough to ripple unease through the lords seated near him. For the first time since the match began, his composure shifted, the faintest crack in the armor of his apathy. He looked ready to intervene.

"So he does care," Lord Noctare murmured, pale lips curling into a sly smirk. His translucent eyes flickered with dark amusement.

Lord Virelle inclined his head, eyes narrowed. "A weakness, then. At last."

"Are you certain?" Lythari interjected from her place beside them, her tone sharp with suspicion. Her gaze never left Zyren. "If he truly cared, why wait? Why let her suffer? Even now he hasn’t moved."

"It’s almost as if he’s waiting for—"

Her words were cut short.

The air shifted.

The entire arena gasped in unison, nobles and commoners alike rising to their feet, their cries ringing with awe and disbelief.

Aira’s broken body, moments from lifelessness, erupted with light.

It poured from her wounds, her skin, her very soul—a blinding, radiant glow, pure and unyielding. White fire bloomed around her like wings, flooding the arena with a brilliance that banished every shadow.

"The God of Light!" someone cried out, their voice cracking with reverence.

Another fell to their knees, trembling, whispering prayers.

And for the first time since the fight began, the arena was not filled with screams for blood—but with silence. Holy, reverent silence.