Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 118: The Instrument of Fate

Chapter 118: The Instrument of Fate

The tournament had unfolded exactly as I had planned.

Every clash, every retreat, every provocation... it had all served a single purpose. And now that the uproar had faded, the applause had died out, and the arena held nothing but the burning dust of its final battles, I could admit it without hesitation: I had chosen my team.

The one that would cross the portal.

Even though, in truth, no one knew what awaited us on the other side.

No concrete information had leaked. No testimony. No map. Nothing but a dimensional opening and the promise of unknown territories. So... we had to maximize our chances. Calculate the incalculable. Compose with the unseen.

And in that composition, I had left no room for chance.

We had a tank. A true moving fortress.

Lysara.

Virtually invincible in her mythical armor, reinforced with unique enchantments, sustained by buffs and continuously healed by Cassandre, our healer — discreet but devastatingly effective. She didn’t need to strike to kill. Her very presence altered the frontline. A mountain in a black dress.

As for me... I was the link.

The versatile force. Able to pierce, to shield, to vanish and return. A hidden blade in the sleeve. A living calculation.

And above all, we now had Orphéa.

Our mage. Our absolute strike.

The fire priestess, master of ancient incantations and spells whose names even nobles no longer dared to speak. Silent. Lethal. Precise. One hand raised to the sky, and the sky answered. She wasn’t chaos. She was order within chaos.

I observed them for a moment, in silence.

Lysara. Cassandre. Orphéa.

And me.

A strange team. Heterogeneous. Yet coherent.

Exceptional, I thought, nearly aloud.

But already, another thought followed. Quieter. More strained.

Would it be enough?

Worrying was pointless.

I knew that. I had learned not to let projection pollute action. Not to let anxiety repaint the future in the colors of doubt. What was coming would come. And we would face it — together.

Especially since we wouldn’t be going in unprepared.

We were going to receive training.

And not just any training.

Training led by Anarael herself.

The First. The unreachable. The incarnation of silent power.

Her name alone demanded a respect that even the proudest did not dispute. If she deigned — no, if she consented — to train us, even briefly, then we would have no excuse. No margin for error. It would be a privilege... but above all, a burden.

And then, there was the portal.

That threshold of the unknown.

It only accepted those under level 100. Like a barrier, an entry line woven by the gods themselves — or perhaps by a darker will. An absolute rule, non-negotiable.

But deep down... I saw it differently.

It wasn’t a limit.

It was a promise.

A promise of mercy — or at least, a kind of pity for the newly Chosen. As if the filter had been placed not to punish, but to guide. Not to throw the weak too early into the jaws of the void. A subtle help, a gesture of fate hidden within a constraint.

It couldn’t be that bad inside, I thought.

And yet... something in me refused to fully relax.

Like a nerve still tight after a duel. As if the calm was there only to make the coming shock more profound.

But during the tournament... what had mattered more than anything, more than forming our team, more than victories or defeats — was her.

Anarael.

Her gaze.

Her silence.

And above all, that moment — unique, irreversible — when, before the entire vampiric assembly, she stood behind me.

She hadn’t just spared me.

She had validated me.

And that gesture — so brief, so contained — had echoed through the arena like a queen stamping a burning parchment with her seal.

It was an unspoken blessing. A wordless recognition. And all had seen it.

In this world of hierarchy and silence, where names are carved slowly into stone, she had offered me what many bloodlines don’t earn in generations: a marked gaze.

And there was more.

That moment when, without shouting, without spells, without theatrical excess, I had manipulated my own blood in front of them.

Not to wound.

To show.

To remind them — at the very heart of the tournament — that I wasn’t just a fighter, a strategist, or a provocateur.

I was a vampire.

And a vampire worthy of the name.

Capable of calling upon his own blood, transforming it into weapon, into art, into symbol. A rare gift. One that cannot be taught. A gift reserved for those who walk the border between bloodlines and divinity.

And through that display, I had sown something.

A reputation.

Still vague. Still discreet.

But it was taking shape.

In the glances. In the murmurs. In the awkward or fascinated silences. A budding rumor. A name that, soon, would no longer be that of an intruder — but of a true member of the race.

And that...

That would be worth far more than any temporary team.

Far more powerful than the names of my companions at the portal’s edge.

Because I wanted more than a role.

I wanted a place.

Those were my goals.

My objectives, defined from day one, coldly etched into my mind. And I had reached them. With precision. With brilliance.

This tournament had been much more than a contest. It was a stage. An ascension. A coronation without a crown. And now, that phase was over.

It was time to move on.

Time for the training.

And here we were.

In that same arena — yet unrecognizable. Something had changed overnight. Something deep, nearly imperceptible in the air, but evident in the structure.

There were no more balconies.

No more seats for the Lords.

No stands, no observers, no visible hierarchy.

Just a vast circle, empty, raw, carved into white stone of an almost unreal purity. The whiteness of oblivion. Or of the absolute.

The silence was complete. Dense. Vibrant.

And at the center... there were five of us.

Me.Lysara.Cassandre.Orphéa.

Facing a single figure.

Small.

Inexplicable.

Motionless.

A child, in appearance. A presence so calm it seemed to float. Her skin had the delicacy of ancient porcelain, almost unreal under the stark light. Flawless. Perfect. Her hair, black as oblivion, fell down her back in a straight, smooth line — unmoving — like a veil of living shadow.

And her eyes...

Her eyes were black too. But not empty black. Full black. Saturated. An abyss in which everything seemed already seen, weighed, condemned.

She looked at us.

She fixed us.

And in that gaze — cold, silent, patient — there was only one thing: the certainty that we were already dead.

Not because she would kill us.

But because she had already judged us.

The words that followed...

They weren’t violent. Nor malicious. They simply fell into the air — slow, calm, almost gentle — like the first drops of a storm that has yet to name itself.

And yet...

Something in me closed.

I couldn’t say when exactly. Or on what. But in that brief silence after her words, I felt a shift. Slight. Subtle. Irreversible.

It wasn’t a shock.

It was a cut.

A barely perceptible slippage... but deep.

As if those words — spoken by a child of porcelain and abyss — had opened a breach in me that no force would ever truly close again. Something was about to begin. And that something... wasn’t meant to spare me.

Not really.

It would not be training. Nor a test.

But a process. A mechanism slowly setting into motion — in the image of Noctis himself.

And I was part of it.

Not as an actor.

But as an instrument.

I sensed — without yet understanding — that what I believed to be my plans, my choices, my desires... would soon become fragments of something much larger. Something I would no longer control. Something that would speak with my voice, but no longer with my consent.

I wanted to stay myself.

Truly.

But already, I could feel the world... organizing itself around me.

And soon, I wouldn’t know if I walked for myself...

...or for him.

Noctis.