Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 112: The Vampire Tournament (4)

Chapter 112: The Vampire Tournament (4)

The fight dragged on.

Long. Stifled. Slow.

Not from lack of rage or rhythm—no. But because, somehow, the essential was no longer being played out here. No longer in brutality, no longer in spectacle. The confrontation had changed in nature, as if both fighters had become nothing more than messengers of an invisible, slow, perverse will weaving its web before our eyes.

Oltrad reappeared here and there, unhurried, not even trying to be unpredictable. He moved like a man who already knew the end of the story and indulged in the unhealthy luxury of rereading its Chapters. His strikes were no longer lethal. He aimed at the hip, the shoulder, the thigh. He inflicted wounds without pressing. He drew pain, sculpted wear. A fatigue laid down like a black offering, one drop at a time.

And above all... he never targeted vital zones.

He no longer needed to.

The poison was doing its work. Slowly. Meticulously.

He let time do the rest.

And time, docile, cruel, did just that.

Minute by minute, I saw it. Rizork grew heavier. At first, it was nothing—a slightly shorter breath, a stance a bit too firm, a tiny hesitation in the rotation of the hip. But I had watched him. I knew him. And I knew that what was giving way in him wasn’t muscle.

It was sharpness. Clarity. Instinct.

His sword, once so lively, began to drag behind his movements, as if it struggled to follow a fading memory. His footing lost that martial straightness that made him unshakable. A half-second delay. A pressure too light on the back leg. An opening that hadn’t been there before.

And Oltrad, for his part, continued. Without rushing. With that slow execution that said, "I don’t need to beat you. You’ll do it yourself."

He danced, almost. A cruel, nonchalant dance, full of that morbid elegance that had nothing left to prove.

And Rizork... held on. Out of pride. Out of will. Out of rage. He held on as only men who refuse defeat can.

But even armor forged in faith eventually cracks.

And so, after forty long minutes—forty minutes of silent erosion, of millimetric imbalance, of poison slowly infused into pride—Rizork fell.

Not like one collapses. Not like one gives in.

He fell to his knees. In a breath. As one accepts. As one finally lets the world press down.

And Oltrad reappeared.

But this time... he no longer danced.

He walked. Straight. Relaxed. Victory carved into the tilt of his head, into the quiet elasticity of his step. He no longer needed caution. He was the victor. The moment belonged to him.

He stopped one step away from Rizork.

The man was there, kneeling, head bowed, frozen like a post-war statue.

Then, Oltrad raised his daggers.

Calmly. Slowly. An almost solemn gesture. Like an inverted offering. A finishing ritual.

He was going to cut the strategist’s throat. Cleanly. Coldly. Without hatred. Because it was time. Because the plan had been followed to the letter.

But it was then...

Exactly then... that everything changed.

Rizork lifted his head.

And what I saw in his eyes did not come from this world.

A glint. Icy. Pure. A sharp, mechanical light, impossible to fake.

He was back.

Not with a jolt. Not in rage.

In calculation.

And in a single motion—a unique, perfect motion—he leapt.

No dodge. A slide, exactly into the blind spot. His arm struck. A backhand. Sharp. Clean. The daggers were swept away, flung out of reach. And in the same momentum, his torso pivoted, his legs regained their anchorage.

And the sword...

The sword rose.

Black. Silent.

It sliced the air in a taut arc. No scream. No rage. Just precision. Power. The inevitability of the strategist who, even in agony, still calculates.

The blow was launched.

Just one.

But everything was in it. The strength. The balance. The cold rage. The precision of a man who, even on his knees, had never truly let go.

And Oltrad...

Caught. Caught clean. Caught at the heart of the trap.

He had no time. No space. No shadow.

The blow struck him full on.

His body flew.

Thrown backwards, dragged in the dust, crushed in its feigned lightness. The arena, for an instant, seemed frozen. As if it too had believed it was already over.

I didn’t move.

But I understood.

Rizork... had never yielded.

He had faked it all.

The fatigue. The exhaustion. The surrender. He had let the poison work, yes, but only to the edge. He had held on, gnawed, swallowed every breath, every dizziness, until the other believed it. Until arrogance pushed him to come closer.

And then... he struck.

Exactly at the moment when Oltrad’s scorn exceeded his caution.

He had trapped the predator in his own self-importance.

And Oltrad, for all his skill, all his cunning... had been caught.

Like a novice.

Like a child.

Ornée rose, straight as a verdict, and her voice burst through the charged air, loud, irrevocable:

— Second fight. Winner: Rizork.

And this time... the arena exploded.

Not in hushed murmurs, not in measured reactions. No. It was a raw detonation. A roar. Wild cries of joy, thunderous applause, howls carried by chests freed of a breath held for too long.

There was something wild in it. Visceral. Cathartic.

Rizork hadn’t just won.

He had endured.

He had resisted the invisible, the arrogance, even the poison.

He had broken a man without cheating, without staining himself, without yielding a single one of his principles.

And that’s why they loved him.

Perhaps for his silent nobility.

Perhaps for his almost archaic tenacity.

But above all... because he had proven, in this world of shadows and trickery, that even in the face of perfidy, patient intelligence, mute control, and cold strategy... remained fatal weapons.

And that sometimes, a single strike could silence an entire lie.

I slowly turned to Lysara, as Rizork left the arena, supported by two healers, his step faltering but his head held high, like a soldier refusing to yield even after victory.

I placed a hand on her shoulder, gentle but firm, and whispered softly:

— I hope you recorded every second of the fight.

She turned her head slightly toward me, unhurried, her gaze steady, focused.

— Oltrad lost because he underestimated his opponent, I continued. And I know you... you would never make that mistake. But still... show yourself worthy of being my daughter, I added with a light, slightly provocative smile.

Her expression didn’t change.

But I saw, in the quiet brilliance of her eyes, a flame ignite. Serene. Resolute.

— Don’t worry, father, she replied in a calm tone, almost flat, but with each word honed like a blade.

— The next fight will be won with dignity. I already have my plans.

I nodded gently.

Of course.

This girl was an anomaly. A born analyst. Not just a fighter—a sharp mind, a living memory. Every movement seen, every breath heard, every shift perceived—she absorbed it. She learned. She carved weaknesses into weapons.

I looked at her for a moment, in silence.

She wasn’t seeking approval. She wasn’t elated.

But I knew. Yes, I knew.

She was ready.

And something deep inside me stirred faintly—a strange mix of pride... and apprehension.

When the arena was finally repaired—stone smoothed, rubble restored, surface renewed but still bearing the memory of the previous fight—I stood.

And I walked.

With slow steps. Precise. Without emphasis. But each stride echoed in the silence like a promise.

Not a threat.

A truth approaching.

My boots struck the black stone with the dull regularity of solemn moments. With each step, the world seemed to hold its breath, the air tightened around me, barely quivering, as if the arena itself was preparing to record a new memory.

He was already waiting for me, motionless, frozen at the center.

His body was thin, dry, almost sculpted from a substance foreign to life. His skin, spectral blue-gray, seemed to absorb light more than reflect it. He looked like a corpse animated by resentment—and yet, he breathed. Calm. Controlled.

Black gems, broken and shaped like cursed spikes, were embedded directly into his flesh. They traced runic patterns across his arms, chest, and throat—patterns I did not recognize—perhaps ancient, perhaps invented. But they pulsed. Slowly. Like living scars that refused to heal.

And his eyes...

Black. Absolutely black. No iris. No white. Just two fixed chasms, two abysses frozen in quiet hatred.

He looked at me without overt hostility.

But I felt it.

The contempt. The distance. The rejection of everything I was. Of everything I represented.

He wasn’t here to defeat me.

He was here to erase me.

An opponent carved for rigidity.

For ancient resentment.

And for the dry hatred of everything that dares to exist freely.

And yet... I kept walking.

Because deep down, that gaze, that posture, that contained hatred... I already knew them.

I had seen them.

I had worn them, at times.

And I knew what could be done with such a man.

He could be broken.

He spoke first, his voice stiff, locked in an almost sacred posture — as if he were reciting a forbidden verse, as if the world owed him silence just to listen. Each word fell with the ceremonious coldness of a priest at the height of his dogma.

— Nortris Aratris Zalaris II, descendant of the Great Mikaem, Lord of the Forbidden Silence.

Not a breath.

Just a thick, wary, frozen silence.

A silence crafted to impress.

But it didn’t reach me. It didn’t even brush me.

My turn.

I straightened, slowly, with a smile that was mine alone. And I opened my arms, wide, exaggerated, almost lascivious. Like a tragic lover about to declare his love to the entire world.

And I spoke.

With emphasis. With slowness. With that delicious exaggeration that makes tense nerves shiver.

— Lukaris Thalaris Von Eskarion...

I paused. Just long enough for everyone to hold their breath. Then I resumed, in a smoother tone, almost dreamy:

— Chosen of the First Vampire... She who sits at the top of the world. Whose magnanimity is matched only by her strength.

And then, I said her name.

— Anarael.

But it wasn’t just a declaration.

It was an offering.

Each syllable rolled through the air like a caress. As if I were speaking of a forgotten goddess. As if I were her cantor, her sigh, her ecstatic worshipper. I was overdoing it, deliberately. It was the game. The trap. The stage.

And, deliberately, with almost scholarly precision... I ignored Nortris.

Completely.

Not a glance. Not a nod. Not even a breath for him.

Instead, I turned my head toward the Lords’ box.

And she was there.

Anarael.

The First.

The Inaccessible.

Draped in her millennial silence, in that majesty that crushes without sound. She looked at no one. Until my words reached her. And then... she smiled.

Subtly.

But I saw it.

And the entire arena, I’m sure, felt it.

She was smiling.

So I bowed.

Slowly. Theatrically. A deep, perfectly measured bow. The exact angle between devotion and mastered arrogance.

I wasn’t just greeting her.

I was claiming her.

And all the while, I did not look at Nortris.

I didn’t need to see him.

I could feel.

I could feel his noble pride twisting like a blade under heat.

I could feel his jaw clenching, his veins swelling, his silent rage hammering against the walls of his discipline.

He was seething.

His name, ignored. His rank, trampled. His lineage, eclipsed.

He was about to explode.

And I waited.

Very slowly.

Like one waits for a ripe fruit to fall on its own.

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