Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 114: The Vampire Tournament (6)

Chapter 114: The Vampire Tournament (6)

Soon... only three would remain. Three chosen ones to join Cassandre’s team in the mini-world, that mission woven with secrets and risks that even the most attentive spectators could not yet fathom. Three survivors selected not only for their strength, but for their role in a future already being drawn, far from the arena’s cries.

And among those who had passed the first round, it was time to apply the tacit rules... or, when needed, to bend them.

This was where things got serious.

The term was never spoken aloud. Too crude. Too human.

But everyone understood.

Match fixing.

The two finalists of the tournament, whoever they were, would automatically be selected. Their victory already sealed their place. There was no doubt about it — the logic of the showcase demanded it. Grandeur had to be visible, with fresh, brilliant names, carriers of stories and spectacle.

One remained.

The choice of the third chosen.

And that choice... belonged to me.

The one who would join Lysara, Cassandre, and me in the final trial — that trial that tolerated neither hesitation nor mediocrity — would be designated not through a vote or a council, but through a duel between the last two losers of the first round.

A duel.

Or rather... a justification.

An elegant way to settle a preference already anchored.

My gaze slid across the two names.

On one side, Rizork: discipline incarnate, the martial resilience of a mind forged in war, a silent tactician, hard, cold, but reliable. Every movement in him answered a strategic logic, every breath was a calculation. He never wavered. He advanced.

And on the other...

Orphéa.

Magic.

Erudition frozen in granite calm. Ancient knowledge embedded in slow movements heavy with consequence. She did not shine with charisma or boldness, but with that mystical rigor that, well used, can bend the very laws of the world.

And I... I knew.

I knew the cost of magic.

And its power.

I knew what it demanded, what it consumed, what it transformed inside. I knew it forgave no mistakes, that it granted nothing for free, and that, in the right hands, it could annihilate entire armies without a single cry.

My choice naturally fell on her.

On Orphéa.

Not because she had shone more brightly, not because she was more useful to me immediately — but because I knew. I knew what she could become.

I thought of Lucas, for a fraction of a second. And of that strange light that had lit up in his eyes, the very first time he cast a spell — clumsy, trembling, but filled with a naïve and burning hope. An almost childlike spark. As if he still believed, at that time, that the world could be saved with bolts of lightning.

An invisible sigh passed through me. My gaze drifted for a moment, drawn into an older memory I did not wish to summon.

Melancholy brushed against me like a cold breeze, soft but persistent.

But I did not let it in.

Not this time.

I knew the road.

And I knew that magic, even betrayed, even broken, could still — sometimes — open doors no steel would dare force.

But it was Lysara who brought me back to reality.

Without a sound. Without a flash.

She had risen.

Simply. Naturally.

Straight, calm, perfectly aligned with herself — as if the world around her had only been a temporary backdrop, and that she was now, by standing, returning to her rightful place in the universe.

I saw her. And everything in her spoke of silent mastery. Nothing in her face betrayed emotion, and yet... every fiber of her posture vibrated with a quiet, disciplined fire, held deep within. She was ready. She expected nothing. She moved forward.

— Lysara, I called in a neutral tone, almost gentle in its sobriety.

She turned toward me.

Her gaze, attentive, calm, passed through me without ever striking. There was no challenge, no submission in her eyes — just complete, total listening, like a thread stretched between us, tenderness and duty woven into a single breath.

I didn’t shout.

I didn’t smile.

I made none of those gestures fathers make when they want to be seen.

I simply spoke. Slowly. Steadily. As one states a natural law, a reality so self-evident it suffers no contradiction:

— Win.

She looked at me for a moment. Then nodded once, with that restraint that belongs only to her, that secret language made of gestures reduced to the essential.

— Yes, Father.

She added nothing more.

And without another word, without a glance at the rest of the arena, she stepped forward. Her stride was gliding, fluid, almost too light to be real. And yet, with each contact with the ground, it was as if the stone itself bowed under the precision of her will.

Her kimono rippled around her like a living cloth, accompanying her movements with a supernatural grace, a blend of feline suppleness and martial discipline. A sleek silhouette, quiet, silent — but sharp, like a blade that does not seek to wound... only to exist.

And I watched her go. My daughter. My gamble. My promise.

Her gaze never left Fillin.

The war master was already there, motionless, a figure straight like a living statue, hands clasped behind his back in that calm and terrible posture of men who know that death, when it comes, never asks permission. He waited. Not for the fight. But for the moment. And Lysara, she stared at him without flinching, as if the whole world had shrunk to the invisible line between her and him.

The fight was about to begin.

But before the arena sealed their exchange in fire and stone, the two opponents stepped forward — one step only — and, according to custom, stated their names. Not as introductions. Not as requests. But as declarations. Beacons placed upon the stage.

They sought neither emphasis nor flair.

Only accuracy.

Only truth.

Rizork spoke first, his voice deep, simple, projected effortlessly but charged with all the loyalty a soldier can anchor into a name:

— Rizork, chosen of Fillin.

Not a word more. Nothing to add. Everything was there: fidelity, legacy, respect for an authority he recognized as his own.

Then came Lysara’s turn.

Her voice, younger, clearer, did not tremble. She didn’t seek to impress. But in her calm softness, in her icy intensity, something struck — like a silent wave, something so pure it needed no embellishment.

— Lysara, daughter of Lust.

No title. No masked heritage.

A bare affirmation.

And that was all.

But in that simplicity, in that strange sentence, both beautiful and terrible, resonated the weight of a lineage without lineage. A name forged in shadow, in desire, in instinct and chaos. A name not given — but taken.

And in that moment, they looked at each other.

Nothing else moved.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

As always, Ornée stepped forward, upright, unmoving like a monument, and spoke, her voice bare, devoid of doubt or effect:

— Let the battle begin.

And the world shifted.

What followed was brutal, of an almost unbearable intensity, a fight rarely seen — not because it was bloody or long, but because, from the very first second, it carried an obvious truth: this was no longer merely a duel. It was a clash of wills, of symbols, of worlds.

Two figures collided in a storm of contained violence, forging chaos through metal, speed, and absoluteness.

One, small, almost entirely cloaked in shadow, seemed to glide through space rather than occupy it. Her armor, of mythical black, distorted the light around her, repelling it, denying it. With each movement, it pulsed like a living entity, oppressive, crushing. On her back, a hammer larger than herself, disproportionate — a weapon forged for gods.

The other, broad, grounded, immense. Rizork. A living mountain. A wall of flesh and steel, wielding a two-handed sword with terrifying ease. He didn’t move — he cleaved. Each strike seemed sculpted to break ground, air, and body alike. He didn’t feint — he leveled.

Blows rained down. Sword against hammer. Raw strength versus transcended power. At each impact, a wave of force rippled through the arena, lifting gusts of wind, tearing stones, shaking the very foundations. Even the stands seemed unsure whether they would hold.

Rizork had the advantage of mass. His attacks were wide, relentless, striking like a blind titan, as if slicing the mountain itself. He didn’t aim to trick — he crushed.

But Lysara... Lysara danced in the shadows.

Accustomed to being physically outmatched — after all, she had always trained against me — she didn’t back down, she glided. She didn’t resist, she enveloped. Each blow received, each dodged strike became an immediate lesson. She combined precise feints, oblique strikes, unpredictable rotations, and that near-supernatural agility woven from memory and speed.

Then Rizork struck with his heel.

The ground trembled beneath the impact, echoing like a war drum.

Lysara was thrown back, her body carried by the seismic detonation, spinning through the air with the grace of a body not fleeing, but realigning.

I recognized the posture. She had shown it to me. An improbable, counterintuitive move. And she had surprised me, too.

Using the weight of her hammer as a pivot, she reoriented mid-flight, spiraled elegantly, and released the stored force, slamming it toward the ground in a silent cry.

The impact shattered the arena.

Stone cracked, blocks flew in all directions. The ground became a field of ruins, a mineral chaos, a whirlwind of debris.

Rizork lost sight of his target.

A heartbeat.

Just one second.

But it was enough.

In the storm, hidden by the stones, extensions burst forth — mimetic hands, black, supple, born from Lysara’s shadow. They tore through the air and latched onto his legs, solidifying in the rock, chaining him to the ground.

A moment of stillness.

And in that brief pause, Lysara emerged.

She surged from the chaos like an arrow, hammer in hand, her body propelled by a force that seemed to come from elsewhere. She descended on him like a goddess upon the world.

Rizork, caught off guard, managed to raise his sword just in time, parrying the blow with admirable reflex.

But he didn’t have time to breathe.

Another hand, black as liquid night, rose behind Lysara, reinforced with nocturnal plates, and aimed for his throat.

Rizork dropped his sword. He chose to save his life. With bare hands, he tore the extension off.

But the void he left...

Lysara struck him.

Three times.

Not test blows. Blows meant to destroy.

Into his sides. Just under the ribs. Where even armor no longer protects.

Blood burst from his mouth. A spray of red, vivid, violent.

But Rizork... Rizork did not fall.

He caught his sword mid-air, with a bloodied hand, and Lysara, without waiting, did the same with her hammer. A new dance began.

He spun.

The extensions chained to his legs were torn away, carried by the vortex of his strength.

A tornado rose.

His body turned like a cyclone of steel. The sword screamed, shredded the air. Even the wind seemed to bow under his will.

Lysara stepped back, leapt, pivoted.

But Rizork was already on her.

The tornado did not weaken. Each step was a quake. Each motion, a tearing.

And then — the final strike.

The sword came down on her flank.

And broke.

Clean.

A metallic shard rolled across the stone.

Silence fell over the arena like a guillotine.

She hadn’t even flinched.

Not a twitch. Not a shiver.

The armor had absorbed everything.

For she was the Daughter of Lust.

And she was armed accordingly.

Then, as if to mark the invisible boundary between the human and the absolute, she activated one of the armor’s abilities.

A burning breath spread.

A radiant, infernal, suffocating heat flooded the arena. The air bent. The stone sizzled. Some vampires, too close to the edge, stepped back hastily, arms raised, faces scorched just from proximity.

And at the center of this furnace...

She walked.

Lysara.

Black. Silent. Majestic.

The hammer on her shoulder, her gaze fixed ahead.

She moved like a goddess in her realm of fire.

Rizork was on his knees. Alive. But defeated.

She approached slowly, without haste, without triumph. Then, in a measured gesture, she placed the hammer against his chest.

Not to kill him.

But to say: it’s over.

Not with contempt. Not with cruelty.

But with superiority.

And Ornée, this time, stepped up to the edge.

Her voice, pure, immutable, crossed the arena like a law carved in stone:

— Qualified for the final: Lysara.

4o

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