Corvus had won five more fights in a row. Each victory stoked the fire burning within the Tiamats, and their war cries echoed across the square. With each new win, their voices grew harsher, transforming into furious marches of war. In Corvus’ person, a challenge was issued to all tribes—friend or foe alike. The power in the Tiamats’ shouts, fused with the involuntarily emanating Lightstone energy within them, left no doubt as to why they stood at the pinnacle. This energy swept across the square like an invisible but palpable wave, revealing the Tiamats’ superiority like a cold slap to the face for the other tribes.

  Yet behind this chaotic frenzy within the square, there were also sharp eyes watching in silence. Many were closely observing Corvus, analyzing his every move, every breath. The display of such power by this young warrior was a mystery difficult to comprehend for even the most seasoned fighters. He had only recently made a name for himself after taking down one of Rhazgord’s strongest warriors. But these eleven battles… they pointed to something on an entirely different level. His opponents weren’t just skilled—they were real fighters forged in battle and soaked in blood. Especially his last five adversaries had long years of experience consuming and wielding Lightstone energy effectively. Yet all of them had collapsed, one by one, before Corvus.

  But the truly terrifying part was Corvus’ seemingly endless energy. Throughout these eleven fights, the Lightstone energy that should have been depleted only grew more intense, casting a dark cloud over the battlefield. Far from diminishing, it seemed to multiply with each encounter. This was a phenomenon so baffling that even the knowledge of Sakhaar struggled to explain it. It defied the laws of nature. Everything that was considered known and certain was crumbling around Corvus.

  Yet there were those who knew the answer to this mystery. From a far corner of the square, hidden among the crowd, Baldrek and Zarqa watched without drawing attention. They knew Corvus’ secret well. They knew he was using the Power Nests he had discovered… The Power Nests within Corvus’ body replenished the energy expended in battle instantly, creating a living cycle of energy. These reserves stored deep within his body elevated him far beyond an ordinary warrior. No one in the square could begin to comprehend the extent of the potential Corvus carried within.

  When it came time for the final battle, the atmosphere visibly changed. Tension drifted through the air like a sharp blade. The murmur among the spectators gave way to a hushed anticipation. The next opponent was a name known to every soul in Rhazgord at least once—Zrakor Birun. This aged warrior had once fought shoulder to shoulder with Drakar in his youth. He had once been one of the mighty Sharazirs, ranked among the top ten. Over the years, he had become withdrawn, sinking into silence and becoming a Wandering Warrior. Now, here he stood—clearly seeking an honorable end.

  As he stepped into the center of the square, he raised his thick, curved blade high. The sword wasn’t a mere tool of battle; it resembled a butcher’s deadly tool—heavy, curved, and terrifying. It bore the marks of years and battles. Its steel gleamed dimly under the moonlight, standing as a threat before blood-soaked Corvus. Corvus’ body was nearly unrecognizable—his face, arms, and armor covered in dried blood. But his eyes still burned bright. Something inside him still burned.

  Zrakor lowered his blade slightly and looked at Corvus. In Corvus' eyes, it was as if he were searching for the traces of Drakar, his old friend.

  “Corvus of the Tiamats! You are a warrior worthy of Rhazkar! It’s clear in every way that you carry Drakar’s blood!” he said, then turned his head to steal a brief glance at his old companion. His eyes drifted to the past, to his youthful years. Then he looked back at Corvus, his voice now carrying both respect and threat.

  “But you have no chance against me! I don’t want to take the life of a young warrior like you! Step back!”

  Corvus felt neither anger nor mockery at these words. In truth, he felt nothing at all. Through eleven battles, his mind had grown foggy, and his human side had slowly retreated. His consciousness was shaken; the beast within had begun to surface. First, a guttural growl escaped his lips, like the warning of a wild animal. Then he spoke in a tone that no longer resembled a human voice.

  “Draw your sword, old man, so I can send you to Rhazkar!”

  His eyes burned like two dark torches beneath the shadow of battle. In his gaze shone a darkness born of fury, exhaustion, and pain. And in that moment, death alone spoke within the square. Thousands shouted, cheers shook the sky—but even that roar seemed to freeze in time as the two warriors faced each other. Zrakor hesitated for a moment and looked to Drakar, as if seeking approval. What he saw was a wide and peaceful smile, burning in the midst of all this savagery. Drakar was so sure that his grandson would not lose that the smile struck the battlefield like the seal of a century-old conviction.

  The signal was given.

  “Spill blood for Rhazkar!” roared Sakhaar.

  And in that instant, Corvus lunged forward like a lion freed from its chains, caged for years. Each of his steps shook the square; dust rose with every footfall. As he drew nearer, the Lightstone energy radiating from his body surged in waves. This energy wasn’t just expanding—it was exerting pressure. That pressure seeped into Zrakor’s bones, trying to drag him to his knees as if heavy weights were chained to his limbs. But Zrakor did not waver. When Corvus’ blades clashed with Zrakor’s massive, cleaver-like sword, a spark shot out like lightning. At that precise moment, Corvus’ eyes widened. All the Lightstone energy he had been emitting vanished in an instant—or rather, it was swallowed whole by the overwhelming force rising from within Zrakor. Before he could even understand what had happened, a sudden kick from Zrakor sent him flying backward.

  If the Tiamat warriors standing behind hadn’t caught Corvus mid-air, he would have crashed dozens of meters away. The tribe members frantically lifted him and pushed him back into the battlefield. Corvus’ head was spinning, his breath unsteady. As he tried to stay upright, he shook his head like a wounded beast. Blood dripped slowly from his lips, falling to the ground from his chin. He felt unbearable pain in parts of his body. Several bones were certainly broken.

  Zrakor, on the other hand, hadn’t moved an inch—he stood like a statue. Resting his sword casually on his shoulder, he waited for Corvus to return with a calm yet respectful expression. It was as if a hunter awaited the final move of a lion trapped in his snare. This time Corvus didn’t charge directly. With swift and skillful movements, he tried to circle around and get in close to Zrakor. His aim was to eliminate the distance and render the wide sweeps of the enormous sword ineffective. He had just reached the position he wanted and was preparing to raise his blades when Zrakor stepped back with a graceful, almost dance-like motion. He then swung his cleaver-like sword in a deadly arc. Corvus barely managed to block the attack with his blades, but the impact hurled him back several meters, sliding across the square floor.

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  Now it was clear: Corvus could not survive this battle without using his full strength. The instinct echoing within him screamed it out loud. He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. He released all the Lightstone energy he had stored in his Power Nests. Suddenly, the air around him thickened, vibrations could be felt even within the crowd. The energy that swept across the square like a storm of lightning expanded in visible waves. Seasoned warriors among the crowd who sensed this change flinched. This was power equal to Rhazgord’s top five warriors. And the youngest among them was at least twenty years older than Corvus.

  Zrakor immediately sensed the energy too. His eyes narrowed slightly. He considered striking before his opponent could fully transform into a threat. But the expression on Corvus’ face stopped him. Something had changed. A strange, indescribable smile had appeared on the young warrior’s face. A smile as menacing as it was terrifying. It was as if he was speaking with another being within.

  Corvus began to rub his eyes. His vision was blurring. At first, he thought it was due to the blood smeared across his face, but the blood he touched was already dry. He now realized that everything in his field of vision had turned red. This wasn’t just blood—it was something beyond consciousness. The redness engulfed his entire world. Then came a sly and deep headache, drilling into his mind like a nightmare nailed into his skull. As he struggled to understand what was happening, suddenly Zrakor’s laughter echoed through the square. This laughter was less that of an old man, and more the cackle of a demon mocking death.

  Corvus tried to rub his eyes again, but the reddened vision wouldn’t change. Everything—the square, the swords, the people, the sky—was painted blood red. There was no peace even behind his eyelids. Darkness and crimson intertwined, and the strange whispers echoing in his mind turned into a headache. His heart was pounding rapidly, and it felt like liquid fire, not Lightstone, was coursing through his veins. As he tried to understand what was happening, a voice rang out. A naked voice. The voice of madness.

  “The world is being covered in blood, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Isn’t it? Isn’t it? ISN’T IT?!”

  Zrakor’s voice was forked. It was like the sound of a rusty dagger scraping against bone. His words came in fragments, his breath was wild and erratic. These maniacal words made Corvus involuntarily turn his gaze toward him. They locked eyes. And Zrakor saw what he was looking for in that gaze. Madness. Divine contact. His eyes lit up, his face brightened with childlike joy. He began to laugh—but this laughter wasn’t of joy; it was the embodiment of an obsession that had gnawed at his soul for years.

  “HAHHAHHAHAH! Rhazkar, God of Gods!” he shouted. His arms stretched out wide toward the sky. The madness in his voice spread across the square.

  “Do you see?! He’s here! He’s HERE! Accept him, Corvus! Our god… is MANIFESTING in your body!”

  The crowd had fallen silent. Even the wind seemed to have gone quiet. Zrakor took a few steps toward Corvus, his eyes crazed, frothy spittle trailing from between his teeth as he continued to speak. His voice now dropped to an almost whisper, yet it was far more menacing as he murmured:

  “You… are Rhazkar’s chosen one. You see through his eyes now, don’t you? That red veil… it’s not blood. This isn’t the world. That’s Rhazkar’s gaze. You’re breathing RHAZKAR’S BREATH!”

  Zrakor’s voice rose again, spiraling into madness. His hands went to his chest, as if he wanted to rip out his heart and offer it up.

  “ACCEPT HIM! Accept him, Corvus of the Tiamats! Surrender your body to him! Our god shall descend to this world through YOUR flesh! The earth will burn with his breath, and we... we will prostrate at your feet! The harbinger of the apocalypse, the seed of the holy war… IS YOU!”

  Corvus tried to shake his head. The voices clashing inside his mind merged with Zrakor’s words. He closed his eyes, but Zrakor’s voice was now within his thoughts. The square was no longer a battleground, but a site of ritual. And Zrakor, no longer a warrior, had become the divine priest of madness.

  Corvus couldn’t take it any longer and launched into an attack. The battle was no longer just one of strength—it was a battle of will. Corvus’s swords danced, Zrakor’s blade cleaved the air with each swing. Every clash echoed like thunder through the square. Sparks and energy waves bouncing off stone reached the faces of the spectators, while the accumulating Lightstone aura scorched the air.

  When Zrakor swung his massive sword from the right, Corvus dropped to the ground at the last second to dodge the blow. Using the power of his knees, he sprang up and delivered a knee strike to Zrakor’s chest, then crossed his twin swords and retreated. Every movement was instinctual. But Zrakor did not step back—he didn’t react to any blow. With a blood-soaked body, he advanced again like a formidable darkness cloaking him. His eyes were as empty as a grave, and his voice as cold as a curse:

  “As I die, Rhazkar is born! My god, break my body, burn my bones! Feed your sacred fire with my flesh!”

  Suddenly, he roared and drove his blade into the ground. With the Lightstone vibration rising from the earth, the ground cracked for a moment, and a reddish shockwave spread around. Corvus leapt back but lost his balance. Seizing the moment, Zrakor yanked his sword from the ground and raised it over his head, bringing it down on Corvus like a bolt of lightning. But while lying on his back, Corvus pulled his legs to his chest and rolled to the side just in time. As the sword struck the ground, dust and stone burst into the air.

  Corvus launched an attack the moment he got back to his feet. His first sword targeted Zrakor’s blade—to deflect the blow. As Zrakor swung it aside, Corvus struck Zrakor’s side with his second sword from the left. The slash wasn’t deep, but it disrupted Zrakor’s balance. Seeing an opening, Corvus began to rain down blow after blow. His swords whipped through the air like wind. One distracted, while the other struck its target. No matter how much Zrakor tried to defend himself, his bulky weapon couldn’t keep up with the speed. Cuts began to open—on his shoulder, ribs, thigh, and arms—each one starting to bleed.

  But Zrakor was still laughing.

  “My blood! It flows to him! To Rhazkar! The God of Gods is coming to lead the holy war!”

  Corvus clenched his teeth. His mind was foggy, his body tired, but he had to end this. Holding his breath, he prepared for one last move. He changed the direction of his attack, drawing Zrakor’s attention to his right sword, then with his left hand, struck a powerful blow from below across Zrakor’s knee. Zrakor staggered. At that moment, Corvus brought both swords parallel and spun his body on its axis, delivering a deadly slash to Zrakor’s chest. After the cross-cut, Zrakor was thrown back. His sword slipped from his hand and clanged against the stone floor, echoing as silence fell over the square.

  Zrakor fell to his knees. His blood pooled on the stone, yet he kept smiling. His eyes still gleamed with conviction.

  “What… great honor…” he whispered with his last breath, “to die in the hands of Rhazkar…”

  Then he collapsed to the ground. He didn’t move again.

  Corvus, breathless, his swords dripping with blood, let them hang at his sides. His chest was heaving, and sweat and blood streamed down his forehead. Everything around was silent. Even the wind had fallen mute. The only sound echoing off the square was the breathing of the victor.