"Ziraiah, that pain will only escalate—" Yelleen’s voice cut through the storm in her head, sharp and urgent.
"This isn’t a weapon for battle—it’s a relic designed to torture Vitalists. A charm meant to protect the non-gifted from the gifted. You need to end it. Fast."
The words barely registered through the pain.
Ziraiah roared, a guttural, animalistic sound as the Pesterio blurred forward, four arms flashing.
SLASH!
Steel screamed.
Ziraiah was hurled through the crater wall, stone erupting around her as she burst out into the open arena.
The Pesterio didn’t give her a moment to breathe. She leapt—ten feet of pure muscle and fury—high into the sky, her four swords shimmering with condensed mana.
From below, Ziraiah blinked sweat and blood out of her eyes, one hand gripping her skull. Her breathing was ragged, her veins throbbing with the cursed pendant’s agony.
The Pesterio’s voice roared down like thunder:
“DIE!”
She brought all four blades down.
SHHHHHK-BOOOOOOOM!
Four massive slashes of raw mana erupted from her swords, merging midair into a single colossal arc of destructive energy.
The fused slash slammed into Ziraiah with cataclysmic force.
The ground split apart like paper, a trench two kilometers long tearing open in the earth as the attack dragged Ziraiah across it like a ragdoll.
When it stopped, she was beyond the edge of the arena—dust, rock, and molten stone raining around her.
---
Ziraiah’s chest rose and fell violently. Her top was shredded down the middle, revealing her perfect skin beneath. Blood dripped from her nose, but her body—impossibly—remained uncut, unmarred.
The Pesterio landed with a heavy CRACK of boots on stone, her four swords poised like fangs.
Ziraiah tried to rise—
And screamed.
The pendant’s cursed magic flared, a spike of raw torment lancing through her skull, dropping her to one knee. She slammed her fist into the earth, fracturing it in frustration.
“Damn it—!” she hissed through clenched teeth. I can’t even focus enough to use magic!
---
The Pesterio didn’t wait.
She bolted forward, a blur of augmented speed, her four swords forming a killing spear.
Ziraiah could barely react as the Pesterio drove all her strength into one thrust—
SHHHPK!
The blade slammed into Ziraiah’s chest. For the first time, her skin gave way—barely. The tip pierced a fraction of an inch, drawing the faintest trickle of blood.
The Pesterio grinned, triumph flashing in her eyes.
“I told you—”
She didn’t finish.
---
Ziraiah’s hand snapped up, faster than the Pesterio could register.
Her massive palm slammed against the woman’s chest.
CRUNCH.
The pendant shattered like cheap glass.
Instantly—
The pain vanished.
The world fell silent.
The noise, the throbbing agony—it all stopped.
Ziraiah inhaled deeply, her chest expanding as clarity washed over her like a cold river.
Her eyes snapped up, glowing faintly with emerald fury.
“You…” she growled, her voice low, deadly calm.
“…bitch.”
---
Before the Pesterio could move, Ziraiah gripped the blade embedded in her chest with one hand and the Pesterio’s wrist with the other.
SNAP!
The sword shattered like brittle wood.
“Wha—” the Pesterio gasped.
---
BOOOOM!
Ziraiah exploded upward, dragging the woman with her like she weighed nothing.
They pierced through nearly a kilometer of stone and soil, bursting into the open sky with a thunderous sonic crack.
The world blurred. The wind howled like a hurricane.
The Pesterio thrashed, swinging her remaining blades wildly, but Ziraiah’s grip didn’t falter.
At the peak of their flight—high above the Crucible—Ziraiah’s voice roared:
“I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT PAIN FEELS LIKE!”
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---
She crushed the Pesterio’s arm in her grip.
CRUNCH.
Bone snapped. Flesh tore.
The Pesterio screamed in agony, her sword clattering uselessly into the clouds below.
Then—
SWOOOSH.
Ziraiah twisted her body, swung the Pesterio over her head, and hurled her down toward the arena with all her monstrous strength.
---
The woman became a living projectile—a blazing comet.
She tore through the sound barrier again and again, her body catching fire from the sheer velocity.
The air screamed as she fell.
Then—
KRAAAAAAAAKKOOOOOOOM!!!
Impact.
The arena didn’t just break—it ceased to exist.
The ground vaporized on contact.
A crater eleven kilometers wide bloomed outward in an instant, swallowing the battlefield whole. The shockwave ripped through the Crucible like a divine punishment, collapsing walls and killing dozens of unfortunate challengers in nearby arenas who hadn’t even seen what hit them.
---
Ziraiah descended calmly, landing on the cracked, smoldering stone.
She towered over the massive crater, her chest heaving, her hair whipping in the heated wind.
Ziraiah crouched near the edge of the smoking crater, the heat from the devastation washing over her like a fever.
At first, she thought the Pesterio was still breathing. She wanted her to be. She needed her to be.
But as her eyes focused on the crumpled body at the pit’s center, the truth hit her like a spear.
The woman’s chest wasn’t rising.
Her limbs were mangled, twisted in unnatural directions.
Her face—if it could still be called that—was an unrecognizable ruin of blood and crushed bone.
Dead.
Completely and utterly dead.
---
Ziraiah’s breath caught in her throat.
Her vision swam.
Her hands trembled as the realization sank in.
“No…” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “No, no, no… please—”
She leapt down into the crater, her feet hitting the scorched ground with a thud.
She fell to her knees beside the corpse, tears stinging her eyes.
“Don’t be dead,” she whispered, shaking the body gently as if that could wake it. “Please… don’t be dead.”
Her voice rose into a sob, words tumbling out like they were strangling her from the inside.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her forehead pressing against the lifeless chest. “I didn’t mean—”
Her voice broke completely.
“I didn’t mean for it to end like this. I didn’t want this. I’m so sorry…”
---
She wept, her tears streaking through the dust and blood smeared across her face.
And then—
Her mind drifted.
---
Years Ago — Earth
She was seven.
They were all sitting on the soft carpet in the great room of their home, Valerius in the middle, Ziraiah and Eryndor on either side.
Their mother knelt in front of them, towering even when she crouched, her hair falling like a veil.
Lyriana cupped Valerius’s cheek with her enormous, graceful hand.
“Don’t allow yourself to be provoked, Valerius,” she said softly, her voice like velvet but firm as steel.
“You’re not like them. You’re not normal. If you get angry, people get hurt. And all life is precious.”
Her eyes swept over Ziraiah and Eryndor, holding each of them in that piercing, loving gaze.
“That goes for all of you,” she said. “Never strike someone in anger. Never.”
Ziraiah remembered the warmth of that moment. The softness in her mother’s voice. The way it made her feel safe.
And now—
That warmth was gone.
---
Now
Ziraiah’s shoulders shook.
She dug her fingers into the dirt, clutching it hard.
Her chest heaved, and she tilted her head back, sobbing at the sky.
“I’m sorry!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the crater.
“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want this!”
Her words dissolved into incoherent cries, her forehead pressing against the corpse again.
Her towering frame, so strong, so unstoppable just moments ago, now looked small—broken.
She stayed there, clinging to the lifeless body, begging it to move, to breathe, to do anything but be dead.
But there was only silence.
---
Ziraiah finaly understood the weight her mother had warned them of.
And it crushed her.
---
The Viewing Chambers
In the shadowed depths of the Seer Chambers, the air was thick with incense and quiet greed. The massive viewing device floated at the front, its surface divided into hundreds of glowing panes—each one showing a different battlefield within the Aether Crucible. Thousands of challengers. Dozens of fights. All playing out like an arena of living chess pieces for those who watched.
In one pane, Ziraiah’s battered, tear-streaked face filled the screen.
A man with a deep, raspy voice chuckled, his black mask hiding his expression. “Ooo… I like this one. She’s even prettier than the elf.”
Another leaned forward, his gauntleted fingers drumming lazily against his knee. “Prettier? She’s more powerful. You can have the elf. I want her for my house.”
“No,” a third interrupted sharply, his voice nasal and entitled. “You keep the elf. I’m taking this one. For my son.”
The men laughed, their voices echoing in the chamber like jackals arguing over a fresh kill.
At the far end of the hall, a man in a pristine white suit reclined on a throne-like chair, his posture casual but commanding. His mask and gloves were also pure white, polished so clean they reflected the Seer’s light like a mirror. He sat higher than all the others, cross-legged, arms resting lazily on his chair as if the entire Crucible existed solely for his entertainment.
When he spoke, his voice was smooth, chillingly amused. “You all speak as if she’s yours to claim. Interesting.”
The others fell silent for a moment.
“She’s no prize,” another noblewoman said, her voice laced with sly mockery. “She’s a weapon. A young one, yes… but look how she moves. That strength… that impenetrable skin. I would love to tale her on as my apprentice.”
On the far left of the chamber, a man in a silver mask leaned forward, staring intently at the glowing box that displayed Ziraiah’s crater. “Do you think she’ll win this competition?”
A woman with a velvet voice and violet robes spoke without looking up from her goblet. “Not with that monster of an Earther here.” She let the words drip slowly. “And certainly not with that unidentified challenger still in play.”
At the back, a slim noblewoman with long, pink hair propped her chin on her palm. “It looks like that was her first kill.” Her voice softened with mock pity. “Poor girl. She’s crying for the corpse. How sentimental.”
A fat noble scoffed loudly, his chair creaking as he leaned forward. “Why would someone join this competition if they aren’t willing to kill?”
Another barked in laughter. “Oh, don’t pretend you care about their little feelings. We’re here to see who survives.”
The nobles continued to bicker—half amused, half hungry.
---
At the edge of Ziraiah’s crater, a man stood silently, watching.
He wore a dark blue mask with a single glowing letter C etched across its surface.
A floating camera hovered over his shoulder, its lens fixated on Ziraiah as she kneeled beside the corpse she had created.
Through his feed, the nobles saw everything. Every tear. Every tremor in her shoulders.
The masked man crossed his arms, expression unreadable beneath the glowing letter.
---
Above the arena, glowing runes swirled in the air before forming a single sentence:
> WINNER: ZIRAIAH DELINDOR
The nobles clapped half-heartedly, but their eyes stayed on her.
---
The Lava Zone — Valerius
Far away, in another battlefield, Valerius stood in the blistering heat of the Lava Zone, not a drop of sweat on his face, his eyes shimmering faintly.
Tears had welled at the edges of his vision—but not for himself.
He felt Ziraiah.
Even across the arenas, across the heat and chaos, her grief bled into him like a deep wound. He knew what had happened.
Valerius closed his eyes briefly.
Her first kill…
His fist clenched. He remembered Kintol. Remembered the smell of burning flesh. The way blood felt on his hands when he had no choice.
But for him, there had been no breakdown. No pause. No chance to mourn.
He had been fighting for his life—and for everyone else’s.
---
“Hmm,” a soft voice cut through his thoughts.
He blinked.
His opponent stood a few meters away, her feet planted on the obsidian rocks of the arena.
"She was tall—13 feet—9 inches—with flowing silver hair, luminous silver eyes, and light beige skin that seemed to softly reflect the fiery glow of the molten rivers around them, giving her an almost ethereal presence."
“Your mind is elsewhere,” she said, her tone even, curious. “What happened? You seem… lost in thought.”
Valerius wiped his tears away with his wrist, his voice steadying. “I’m fine.”
She tilted her head. “Liar.”
Valerius glanced at her, finally meeting her gaze.
“So,” he said, his tone sharpening, “you said you know what I am.”
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Oh, I know.”
---
The Mist Valley — Juvian
At the same time, elsewhere in the Crucible, Juvian faced his opponent.
An eleven foot tall Vampire.
He was a haunting sight—pointed ears, pale marble skin, long black hair that cascaded over his shoulders, and blood-red eyes that burned like dying embers.
Fangs glimmered in his grin as he spoke. “Finally. Something worth sinking my teeth into. I wonder, how potent is your blood?”
Juvian cracked his neck, his crimson coat swaying. “Try not to bore me.”
---
To Be Continued…
