Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 126: And They Called It Sin

Chapter 126: And They Called It Sin

The gods had used us.

We were there to fulfill their prophecy, yes. To carry on our shoulders the tale they had carved into the heavens. But they had never promised us comfort. Never tenderness. Never protection.

They saw in us neither heroes, nor children, nor even beings.

Just tools.

Fragments of power, temporarily useful.

We were not the jewels of a world seeking renewal. We were pieces. Moveable. Sacrificable. Breakable.

And once worn out, once cracked by battle, by choices, by pain... we would be replaced. Thrown off the board.

That was what we were, in the eyes of the great.

Pawns on a vast chessboard, where every move is decided by hands that do not bleed.

And yet...

In this colossal pit, in this arena devoured by noise, magic, and fervor, my eyes finally found what had always guided them.

Their faces.

My former companions.

Some had aged. Others had changed species, form, essence. A few were masked. But I saw them. I recognized them. Even through the new skins. Even through the unfamiliar postures.

Some masked everything.

Perfect control, hardened, sculpted by survival.

Others, on the contrary, let it show. Let seep through what I myself had not yet admitted. A hesitation. A fracture. A deep reluctance. Like an inner voice that refused, even silently, to say: I will strike.

This wasn’t a tournament.

This wasn’t an honor.

It was a sacred betrayal.

A renunciation offered in the name of progress.

A collective murder — ritual, justified, applauded.

And I... trembled at having to choose.

Around me, the crowd roared.

— Show us what you’re worth! yelled a coarse voice.

— We want blood! shouted another, followed by dozens of echoes.

Some stood up, others pounded their fists against the arena’s gates, drunk on adrenaline, blind to the rising distress.

— Let them devour each other, those chosen by the gods!

Hatred vibrated in the air, carried by the screams of a people who no longer wanted heroes — only glorious victims.

I felt something break inside me.

It wasn’t a shock. It wasn’t a clean break. It was an erosion. A slow crack that had been scratching for a long time, that I hadn’t wanted to see. But it was there. It was spreading. And with every word, every glance cast from the thrones, every cheer from the crowd, it widened a little more.

An anger.

Not a sharp anger.

Not a fire that bursts all at once.

An old fire.

Muted.

Accumulated.

A fire I had contained for far too long, because I had wanted to believe. In them. In this world. In this tournament. In the idea that all this had meaning. That our suffering would give birth to something greater.

But it wasn’t true.

They didn’t want us to become.

They wanted us to fall.

And everything inside me screamed.

Not my lips. Not my voice. But every nerve. Every bone. Every memory I had tried to make gentle. I felt them, one by one, turning. Hardening. Bracing themselves against the very idea of continuing to believe.

I hated this world.

I hated this sacred circus.

I hated those thrones.

I hated those absent gods who had named us, then forgotten us.

And Xylorath.

Xylorath...

I hadn’t yet seen his appearance.

In the curve of the rules.

In the scent of spilled blood.

In the very architecture of this betrayal.

He had taken Anthony.

But more than that, he had taken what I was.

What I could have been.

What I was still trying, despite everything, to protect.

And I felt it, in my hands, in my breath: the gentleness... was fading.

It slipped.

It bent.

It gave way.

Not all at once. Not completely. But it was no longer alone.

Something else was rising.

Something darker.

An image crossed my mind, fleeting: that of a mirror cracking, slowly, from the inside.

And behind it, it wasn’t my reflection. It was a creature with empty eyes, a frozen smile, looking at me as if it knew what I was about to become.

It no longer needed gentleness. Only bite.

Something that, to survive, would have to strike.

Then, in the middle of that muffled tension, of that rising hatred I could no longer contain, something grabbed me.

A hand.

My arm.

I looked down, a bit abruptly, as if the world around had been erased in a single stroke.

It was Lysara.

She said nothing yet, but everything in her already spoke. Her hand trembled. Not from cold. Not from fear. But from that fragile balance one no longer controls. She, who usually stood straight, impassive, almost sculpted in cold blood, had contracted fingers.

I felt her warmth against my arm, unusual, almost feverish.

The metallic scent of blood, carried by the wind, mixed with the softer, more intimate scent of Lysara’s skin.

A note of ash. Of fear.

The roar of the arena grew more muffled, filtered through this single contact.

And above all... her eyes.

Her eyes, usually so flat, so controlled, so unreachable, were about to break.

I thought I saw a tear. Or a hesitation. Or perhaps what, in her, passed for a prayer.

— You have to do something, she said, her voice nearly broken.

Her throat no longer vibrated with the same clarity. Her breathing was short. Jagged. A voice that wanted to scream but no longer had the space to do so.

— There’s something wrong... Only you can save him. Again.

Again?

The word struck. Deep.

I froze.

Not because of the phrase. But because of what it awakened in me without me yet knowing why. Why was she speaking to me like that? Why did those words, in her mouth, sound so right, so sharp, so painful... when they shouldn’t mean anything?

She wasn’t a naive child.

She had never been.

And her voice didn’t tremble for nothing.

— I can’t explain it to you... not now.

She turned her head slightly. But her hand gripped tighter.

— But please... do something.

I didn’t answer.

I slowly raised my eyes to him.

To Lukaris.

To that being sitting there, a few meters away, whose name, history, or gestures I did not know. But whose void had been calling me since the very first moment.

And I saw.

Not a look.

Not an emotion.

I saw absence.

He wasn’t looking at the world. He passed through it.

His eyes caught nothing. Not light. Not shapes. Not life.

It was as if everything around him flowed... without ever reaching him.

As if even reality had lost its grip on him.

And everything inside me screamed that if he fell again...

He would not come back.

But I didn’t have time to understand.

No time to answer Lysara.

No time to form the question burning in my throat, nor even to complete the gaze I cast on him, on that void consuming him.

Someone drew their weapon.

I didn’t see who.

I didn’t need to.

The sound was louder than all the screams, clearer than all the words. A simple metallic click, dry, precise, brutal. The cry of a blade leaving its sheath, loaded with intention. A sound that, in this arena, resonated like a call to murder.

And that was the beginning.

Without preamble. Without official order. Without starting cry.

Chaos.

The uproar returned all at once, stronger than ever. Like a raging sea held back too long. The crowd exploded. Banners were torn. Names were shouted. Spells burst forth. Bodies hurled into the red dust.

The battle had begun.

And the world, once again, had cut us off.

But the one who had drawn didn’t even have time to strike.

I didn’t see where she came from. The figure appeared like a flash without light. A black breath. A rupture in the air.

A form. Fast. Wild. Unstoppable.

The troll didn’t have time to understand. His gaze barely rose, frozen in an expression almost absurd, between challenge and surprise. And the next moment... he collapsed.

His head had been severed.

Clean.

It rose into the air like a grotesque offering, slowly spinning, still animated by the momentum of its own scream. Then it fell into the red dust, bouncing once with a dull sound.

Silence fell.

A muffled silence, almost sacred, as if the world had forgotten how to breathe.

Even magic went quiet. Even the wind hesitated.

Only the blood could be heard... steaming.

A rain of purplish blood rose in a column, then fell again in thick drizzle.

Droplets reached the front rows. I saw a child step back, screaming, his cheek splattered. A woman burst into hysterical laughter.

The ground was already sticky. The blood steamed.

And in that thick vapor, the spectators rose as one, electrified.

— Lukaris! Lukaris!

— Lukaris! Lukaris!

— Lukaris! Lukaris!

A cry. A name. A vertigo.

The ground was soaked with it.

And facing that mute carnage... the figure didn’t move.

My mind couldn’t keep up.

Part of me screamed it was murder. Another... admired it.

Why?

Why did that gesture chill me as much as it drew me in?

Why did that monster... seem more real than anything around it?

It stood there. Unyielding.

Its hand — or rather its claws — still hung in the void, dripping. It didn’t tremble. It didn’t rush. Slowly, with almost ceremonial precision, the creature brought its bloodied fingers to its mouth.

And it licked them.

One by one.

Without emotion.

Not to clean. Not by reflex.

But to savor.

Its gaze rose, finally. It swept over the arena, unhurried, without urgency, without hatred. A black gaze. Deep. An endless night.

And I understood. It was him. Lukaris.

An onyx-faced elf crossed herself slowly, trembling lips.

A goblin burst into tears, on his knees, head in his hands.

A centaur gripped his spear... but didn’t move.

None of them knew whether to flee, strike, or kneel.

In this arena, twelve races were gathered.

Twelve peoples. Twelve cultures. Twelve ancient histories laid here like the pillars of a world that still pretends to balance.

Goblins.Humans.Elves.Dwarves.Trolls.Giants.Demons.Angels.Vampires.Centaurs.Dryads.Beastmen.

All gathered in this place saturated with screams, magic, and dust, come to witness the promise of blood and greatness.

But a single figure, in the middle of that divided chaos, drew their gaze.

The stands stopped vibrating under applause. A common breath passed through the crowd.Not respect. Not admiration.

Fear. Pure. Rational.

I saw a dwarf step back, fingers clenched on his axe. An angel crossed himself. A dryad whispered a prayer in a language I didn’t understand.

Even the winged beasts circling above the arena backed away.

Only one.

And it wasn’t the common enemy.

It wasn’t the designated rival.

It wasn’t even a member of a different race.

It was him.

Not a being. A beast. Lukaris.

He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t raised his arms. He hadn’t threatened. But what he had done, what he had embodied, was enough. He had become an anomaly. An imbalance. A vertigo in the established order. And the gazes of the twelve peoples converged. First by reflex. Then by decision.

And suddenly, I understood. I understood what Lysara meant.

He was no longer her father.

He was no longer Lukaris.

He wasn’t even a vampire anymore.

He was something else.

Something that had renounced being named.

Something that ancient texts would describe not as a man... but as a breach. A crack in the logic of the world. An anomaly so powerful it could only be rejected.

It was a curse.

A curse that had taken shape. And everyone, instinctively, knew what to do when faced with a curse. Extinguish it.

And in the silence that followed, something even more terrible occurred.

A whisper.

— Lust...

One voice, first. Then another, farther.

— Lust.

The word coiled around itself, slid between throats, slipped under helmets and masks, crossed races and beliefs.

— Lust...

It was no longer a name. No longer a race. No longer a being.

It was an incarnation.

A vertigo.

A scourge that the ancient texts would never have dared to name with a given name.

It was sin, made form.

Temptation, made verdict.

And in the heights of the coliseum, even the proudest, oldest lords stood still. Some looked away. Others... stood.