Chapter 18: The Crimson Divide

The labyrinth's walls groaned and shifted, separating stone and forming a treacherous, crimson-lit canyon. The air was thick with the scent of iron, and streams of blood-red water ran through the jagged rock, carving paths that glistened under a dark, cloudless sky. The arena had reshaped itself into a place that pulsed with violence, a realm where the very ground seemed to thirst for conflict.

Alexander the Great stood at the edge of the canyon, his spear held firm in his grip, his cloak billowing behind him in the hot, acrid wind. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the chasm before him, the red waters flowing like the lifeblood of the earth itself. Across the divide, he could make out the silhouette of a lone warrior, standing motionless and waiting.

A cold smile spread across Alexander's face as he recognized the figure. Genghis Khan, the Mongol conqueror, stood tall and proud, his curved saber at his side, his expression one of eager anticipation. The two titans of history, separated only by the crimson river, stared each other down, their silent enmity as palpable as the heat in the air.

“It seems the arena has decided to test us against one another,” Alexander called, his voice carrying with the confidence of a man who had commanded armies and broken empires. “A clash of kings.”

Genghis’s grin widened, feral and hungry. “I have long awaited a worthy challenge,” he replied, his voice a deep rumble. “And you, Macedonian, will find that I do not yield to pretenders.”

Alexander’s eyes glinted, the spark of ambition burning brightly. “I do not need you to yield,” he said. “I only need you to fall.”

The ground shuddered, and from the red waters rose pillars of jagged stone, forming a series of narrow bridges that connected the two sides of the canyon. The arena had crafted a battlefield where only skill, speed, and strategy would prevail. Both warriors understood that this was not just a test of strength but a trial of wits and precision.

Alexander moved first, stepping onto one of the narrow stone bridges with the grace of a seasoned general. His spear was poised, ready to strike, his mind already calculating each move. He knew that Genghis was a brute force of nature, but Alexander had defeated many such adversaries with cunning and intellect.

Genghis stepped onto his own bridge, his movements heavy but purposeful. He had faced storms, deserts, and rival hordes, and a river of blood would not deter him. His saber gleamed, thirsting for victory. The two warriors advanced, their paths converging.

The clash was immediate and fierce. Alexander lunged with his spear, the strike precise and aimed to disable, not to kill. Genghis parried with his saber, the force of the block sending a shiver up Alexander’s arm. The Mongol warlord countered with a wide slash, and Alexander leapt back, the blade slicing the air where he had been a moment before.

The stone bridges were narrow, barely wide enough for two men to fight, and every movement was a dance with gravity. One wrong step, one overextended lunge, and the crimson river below would claim them.

“You fight like a strategist,” Genghis taunted, his voice thick with disdain. “But I wonder if you have the heart of a warrior.”

Alexander’s smile was thin but unyielding. “I have conquered more lands than you can dream of,” he retorted. “Your savagery cannot best my ambition.”

They clashed again, steel ringing against steel. Genghis pressed the attack, each swing of his saber designed to break Alexander’s defense. Alexander, however, fought with the precision of a tactician, every strike of his spear aimed to unbalance and frustrate his opponent. The air around them shimmered with heat and tension, and the red waters seemed to bubble in anticipation.

Watching from a shadowed alcove on the canyon’s edge was Joan of Arc. She had arrived just in time to witness the battle, her heart torn between awe and dread. These men, these conquerors, fought with a ferocity that seemed almost inhuman. Yet Joan knew that the arena thrived on division, on pitting the strongest against each other until only one remained.

Her grip tightened on her sword, and she whispered a prayer, hoping for wisdom in this place that twisted souls and dreams alike. Joan stepped forward, her voice carrying over the battlefield. “Alexander! Genghis! Stop this madness!” she called, desperation threading through her words. “The arena wants us divided. We cannot give it what it desires.”

Both warriors paused, their weapons still raised, and turned to look at her. For a moment, the crimson-lit canyon was silent, as if holding its breath.

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “Why should we heed you, saint?” he demanded, his voice cool and commanding. “This is a contest of kings, not a matter for faith.”

Genghis laughed, the sound harsh and wild. “She fears the clash of warriors,” he said, though his gaze lingered on Joan, curious. “But I do not fear bloodshed. This is what I was born for.”

Joan stepped onto the stone bridge, her courage unwavering despite the perilous height and the menacing warriors before her. “We are all being tested,” she said, her voice calm but resolute. “But this trial is a trap. If you fight each other, the arena will win.”

Alexander and Genghis exchanged a look, their rivalry palpable, but so too was the understanding of Joan’s words. The arena was an entity that thrived on their destruction, and even kings had to recognize a greater enemy when faced with one.

Alexander lowered his spear, though his eyes still burned with ambition. “You speak wisely,” he said grudgingly. “Perhaps there is more to gain from a temporary truce.”

Genghis’s grin faded, replaced with a calculating look. “A truce, then,” he agreed, though the promise of future conflict lingered in his gaze. “But know this, Macedonian: we will finish what we started.”

Joan breathed a sigh of relief, though she knew the truce was fragile, like a blade balanced on the edge of a knife. The arena trembled, the crimson river below growing turbulent, as if displeased with the lack of bloodshed. But for now, they had bought themselves time.

The three warriors stood together on the bridge, united if only for a moment, and prepared to face whatever new trial the arena would throw at them. The Crimson Divide had not claimed them yet, but the labyrinth’s thirst for conflict was far from quenched.