Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 117: The Vampire Tournament (9)

Chapter 117: The Vampire Tournament (9)

As the cries continued in the stands, as the nobles stirred, protested, fumed—some even rising to their feet—disorder slowly reached the upper tiers of the arena. The echo of their fury swirled in the air like a blade of wind, shaking certainties, threatening, for a moment, to break the ritual structure of the tournament.

But me... I looked at only one person.

My gaze was fixed. Entirely. Absolutely.

Anarael.

The First.

The one whose mere presence was enough to suspend laws, to silence oaths.

I stared at her, unable to look away, and in the silence I forced within myself despite the surrounding storm, only one question pulsed—mute, intense: what would she do?

She alone could choose.

She alone had that right.

And then, in this tumult beginning to unravel under her shadow, she rose.

Not abruptly.

But like a wave that rises slowly, inevitably, with no need for thunder.

She stood... and she looked at me.

Straight in the eyes.

And my body... yielded.

I fell to my knees without thinking, without knowing whether it was a command veiled in her aura or an older, deeper reflex—something beyond language, something within me that knew, beyond all thought: this is greater than me.

And around me...

The arena followed.

The cries ceased.

The nobles fell silent mid-word.

Silence fell. Not an empty silence. A filled silence. Vibrant. Sacred.

And she did not take her eyes off me.

She watched me like one weighs a seal, like one sculpts a choice.

And I... held her gaze. Not to resist. But to fully exist beneath her light. Even if it were to consume me.

Then, slowly, a smile formed on her lips. Not large. But real. Present. Charged with an unspeakable power.

And she spoke the words.

Clear.

Sharp.

Irrevocable.

— Orphéa, qualified for the final.

At these words—simple in appearance but with implacable weight—the entire arena froze in absolute clarity. There was no more murmuring, no protest. All the vampires, even the highest-ranked, even those who had just screamed, understood in that same instant what it meant.

She had spoken.

She had given her approval.

And in this shifting play that was the tournament, in this underground strategy where each tried to pull the strings, she had just reminded all of her true place: she was not a spectator, she was not a judge... she was the Queen.

And we were her pieces.

I lowered my gaze.

Not in submission.

But in recognition.

And I bowed a little deeper, in silence, like one bows before a force one understands, one respects, one has chosen not to challenge. She had to know—yes, I wanted her to know—that I had planned everything until now. That every move, every gesture, every word since the beginning of this fight also bore her name, her absence, her gaze.

And she... had agreed to play along.

Despite her status.

Despite the immensity of what she represented.

She had accepted to be present in this performance—to let the theatre unfold at her feet, not to interrupt it. And for that... I thanked her. Not aloud. Not in words. But in that silence, in that deeper bow, in that invisible breath I laid at her feet like an inner offering.

Then, without a word, she sat again.

The world exhaled.

And in the returned calm, without ceremony, without cheers, I left the arena at Orphéa’s side.

My body was already almost entirely regenerated.

There was nothing left to repair.

Neither in flesh, nor in will.

A bit later, once the arena was rebuilt one final time, in an almost ceremonial silence, Lysara and Fixa slowly stepped toward the center.

There was no more tension in the air.

No suspended electricity, no sharp whispers in the stands. Only that strange calm, broad, heavy without being oppressive—that particular silence that precedes well-written endings. The kind one feels not because the action is about to begin... but because everyone, instinctively, understands that the play is reaching its final scene.

Fixa stopped.

She turned toward Ornée, looked at her briefly, without insistence, without nervousness. Just a direct, controlled glance, like a kept promise. And Ornée, as if honoring a silent pact, nodded once.

Then, in a clear, poised, limpid voice, Fixa declared:

— I, forfeit... and yield the captain’s position to Lysara.

No more words.

No justification.

She didn’t need to explain. Everything was said.

She bowed first toward the Lords’ box, in a sober, flawless gesture, without servility. Then, slowly, with stripped-down sincerity, she bowed to Lysara, with unreserved respect—like one bows not to a person, but to a destiny.

And in that perfectly measured breath, in that offering devoid of pride, Ornée stepped forward, impassive, her voice resounding in the absolute calm:

— Winner of the Tournament: Lysara.

There was no acclamation.

No cry.

No thunderous applause from the crowd.

But laughter.

And clapping.

Clear.

Brilliant.

Abrupt.

They came from only one person.

Me.

I laughed.

I laughed full-throated.

I laughed like a madman, like a father, like a strategist thrilled to see his last piece fall exactly into place. I laughed like a lord watching his world bend to his will, and I laughed also like a fulfilled sinner, whose most intimate vice had just been honored, sanctified.

And I applauded.

Without hiding the joy.

Without holding back the excess.

Because the Daughter of Lust had triumphed.

And all, now, knew it.

They knew it in their silences.

In their lowered gazes.

In their lack of protest.

She was no longer a rumor.

She was a name.

And a name... that would echo through History.

And then...

Came the final duel.

The one that would determine third place. Not a consolation, but an affirmation. A strategic, symbolic position—as essential as it was ambivalent. The final duel. The climax. That which would pit order against temptation, structure against fire—the Inflexible... and Lust.

I stepped onto the arena in a silence so heavy it felt like walking across sacred ruins. Each step rang like a death knell, each gesture was weighed, contained, precise. Nothing brutal, nothing flamboyant. A solemn calm accompanied me, like an invisible armor woven of control and awareness.

Facing Rozark, I stopped.

And there, without taking my eyes off him, I bowed.

But not like a warrior.

Like a noble.

A noble among nobles. Not by birth, but by ascension. By will.

My right arm folded before me, palm open on my heart. The other remained straight, extended along my body, like a pillar. My left leg slid gently behind the right, in a fluid, almost danced motion—a bow drawn from ancient art, from the dark courts and forbidden ceremonies.

And in a perfectly controlled breath, in a clear, steady, resonant voice, I declared:

— Lukaris Thalaris Von Eskarion, Grand Varkh of the demonic continent. He who climbed the classes not by the sword, but by wealth. I am he who devours and takes what pleases him. The Vaarkhyr of Lust.

I had offered him a noble entrance.

A declaration of power. An assertion of identity.

And he understood.

Without delay. Without useless pride.

He bowed in turn, with the martial rigor that inhabited him. His gesture lacked my grace—he didn’t need it. He was upright, firm, unadorned.

— Rizork, Elite Commander among elites. He who climbed the classes through steel... and blood. I am he who bears death on the battlefield. Disciple of the Red Siege Strategist himself.

Two names.

Two ascensions.

Two legitimacies forged in opposite worlds.

One shaped in the intimacy of pleasures, in the conquest of desires, in the aura of scandal and seduction.

The other carved in discipline, duty, loyalty to straight lines and orders given under fire.

Two philosophies.

And a final duel.

Not for glory.

But for the world’s order.

Ornée rose.

Her gesture was simple, but it carried the full weight of irrevocable decisions. She did not raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her words rang like an ancient sentence, carved into the memory of the stands:

— Let the fight begin.

Rizork drew his weapon.

A new two-handed sword. Heavy. Solid. Born of silence and steel. The other, broken in the clash with Lysara, already belonged to the past. This one was new, sharp, and carried a promise: to give everything one last time.

Me?

I hadn’t yet touched my twin sabers. They were there, fixed to my hips like discreet witnesses, but I didn’t need them. Not yet. Perhaps not at all.

And he... knew it.

But he charged anyway.

With honor.

With power.

A cry, deep, full of that fierce respect reserved only for true adversaries, tore from his lips, and in a vertical motion, his blade struck down on me—fast, brutal, precise.

The steel landed.

Struck my chest.

And sank in, slicing my flesh in a single blow, clean, perfect, magnificent.

But I did not fall.

I did not bend.

I laughed.

A clear laugh, pure, almost insane. Not mocking. Not arrogant. A pure laugh, euphoric, born of a joy that surpassed pain. A laugh of recognition, as if every fiber of my being celebrated this awaited, orchestrated moment.

Because everything had happened as I had planned.

And now, it was time.

No counterstrike.

No revenge.

But a revelation.

The moment to affirm what I am.

Not as a warrior.

But as a vampire.

As heir to an ancient bloodline.

As the Chosen of Lust, and servant of Noctis.

Then my blood rose.

But it did not gush.

It did not flow.

It danced.

Hundreds, thousands of tiny needles, finer even than rain itself, rose in spirals in the air. Deep red, almost black at the center, glowing with crimson light at the tips, each spark shone like crystal. They floated around me, forming a moving crown, an inverted star, an offering.

A shiver ran through the arena.

Blood manipulation.

A rare power. Sacred. Reserved for the Chosen of Noctis, for the oldest Lords, for beings who do not merely survive—but reign.

I needed nothing else.

No strike.

No cry.

This demonstration was enough.

And all around me, the silence became almost alive.

A respectful silence.

Sacred.

And before me... Rozark.

He didn’t falter. But he understood.

He slowly raised his hands, a calm breath passing over his face.

Then he sheathed his sword.

In a sober, deep voice, imbued with the respect only a true warrior can offer his victor, he said:

— I forfeit.

I looked at him for a moment.

Then I bowed.

Not out of strategy.

Not for the spectators.

But because I respected him.

Because he had just, without knowing it, become the final sacrifice of my play.

— I’m sorry, I whispered sincerely.

Then, after a brief pause, I placed my hand on my heart.

— Upon my name, I will repay this debt.

And Ornée, standing one last time, proclaimed in a clear voice:

— Third and final chosen for the Crystal: Lukaris.

Then I turned.

And facing the Lords, in profound silence, I bowed one last time.

But above all... I bowed to her.

Anarael.

The silent Queen.

The one whose single gaze had validated each of my choices, sealed each of my movements. The one whose presence, more than the rules, had allowed me to play above the tournament.

And in that bow, I laid down everything.

My recognition.

My loyalty.

My ambition.

Then, without another word, I left the arena.

Lysara at my side.

Neither she nor I looked back.

And without regret, without sound, without need for more... I left the tournament behind me.

It had unfolded exactly as I had intended.

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