Chapter Five -Fighting the Echo

Chapter Five -Fighting the Echo

Night hung over the Grand Arena like a velvet curtain, torn only by the shimmer of a thousand torches. Their flames cast restless shadows across the vast battlefield, dancing over bloodstained stone and cracked pillars—remnants of battles fought and legends born. The crowd, a churning sea of voices and color, trembled with anticipation.

Kael stood at the threshold of the arena’s great gate, the cold metal beneath his feet humming with tension. His hands were steady, though his heart thundered like a war drum.

Above the din, the Announcer’s voice split the air, amplified by the enchanted glyphs woven into the stadium walls.

“Tonight’s long-awaited match is finally here!” he boomed, the crowd falling into a hush. “On one side, the undefeated nightmare of the arena, the monster forged in the fires of war…”

A pause—long enough to let the weight of expectation settle like a boulder in every chest.

“VEYLEN!”

The roar was instant—and deafening. Thunderous cheers erupted from every direction as Veylen stepped into the light. He walked slowly, confidently, each footfall a threat. Ash drifted from his broad shoulders in lazy spirals, as though he were eternally smoldering. His eyes glowed dimly, a volcanic orange, and his bare chest bore the scars of countless battles. The ground seemed to recoil from his presence.

Kael’s eyes narrowed. Veylen wasn’t just strong. He was built like a weapon meant to break men—not beat them.

“And facing him,” the announcer continued, “a man some call fearless, some call foolish—the one fighting to carve his own fate… KAEL!”

The reaction was mixed. A tide of boos, jeers, and mockery swept through the crowd, but beneath it, there were voices of curiosity. Support. Hope, perhaps. A few clapped—brave or stubborn. A flicker of resistance.

Some shouted.

“Why did he even enter? He has no elemental powers!”

“A traitor’s son shouldn’t be allowed in the Defense Force!”

“At least he has the guts to stand here. That’s more than most!”

Kael stepped forward, his boots meeting the arena floor with quiet resolve. He didn’t flinch at the insults. He’d heard worse. Much worse.

In the stands, Master Ryzen leaned against the railing, his knuckles white with tension. His sharp eyes followed every breath Kael took, but his lips were sealed. He had trained the boy—shaped his instincts, taught him how to see in ways others couldn’t. But now... now he could only watch.

Farther up, cloaked in shadows at the edge of the royal balcony, the Royal Man surveyed the arena with idle amusement. A silver clasp at his throat caught the torchlight as he tilted his head, eyes locking on Kael.

“Let’s see if he lasts even a minute,” he murmured, smirking.

Beside him, his assistant leaned closer, whispering with no hint of hope. “Veylen’s not one to play with his prey.”

The gates sealed behind Kael with a resonant boom. The battlefield was his world now.

Across from him, Veylen flexed his fingers, and fire flickered to life along his arms. Not a blazing inferno—but a slow, seething heat. The kind of fire that waited. Smoldered. Killed with patience.

Kael took a breath.

The crowd fell silent.

The bell rang.

And the match began.

The deep gong rang through the arena, its sound reverberating in the hollow silence that followed. Kael readied his stance, eyes locked on Veylen, waiting for the inevitable. His feet were steady, his body tense with anticipation—but there was no movement from his opponent. Veylen merely stood, his expression unreadable, as if the fight were already decided in his mind.

A pulse of heat. Then the air thickened, swirling as dark gray ash exploded from Veylen’s body. It moved like a living thing, swirling violently around him, enveloping him in a suffocating cloud. The smoke choked the air, and the heat that followed was suffocating—like the very air was trying to steal his breath.

Veylen’s voice cut through the thickening fog, calm and taunting. “Let’s see if you can breathe.”

The ash surged forward. It wasn’t just smoke—it was as though the very darkness had come to life. Tendrils of it lashed out like sentient smoke, aiming directly for Kael’s face. He barely had time to react, his heart racing. He leapt backward, but the poison-like mist grazed his arm. A searing pain shot through him. His skin sizzled, the contact leaving a trail of blisters and burns.

Kael’s breath hitched as his vision blurred for a moment. He froze, his body trembling against the overwhelming heat, the suffocating cloud. His mind began to slip—away from the arena, away from the fight, and into the past.

There was a time when our home was filled with laughter. When my father’s presence meant warmth, not pain. When my mother’s embrace shielded me from every fear. I thought those mornings would last forever… until the day everything was taken from me.

________________________________________

The warmth of the morning sun poured through the wooden windows, casting long beams of gold across the rustic kitchen. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, rising gently from the oven, and the earthy fragrance of the forest beyond their small home. The kind of morning that promised nothing but peace—a peace that Kael, in his youthful innocence, had believed would never end.

Inside, young Kael was all laughter and joy, his bright eyes reflecting the joy of a child who knew nothing of hardship. His father, General Alden, stood tall, his broad shoulders a tower of strength, his face softening as he looked down at his son.

With a playful grunt, Alden lifted Kael onto his shoulders, the motion so natural, so effortless that it felt as if it were something they had done a thousand times before. The boy's legs hung around his father’s neck as he clutched his dark hair for balance. They both laughed—Alden, in that deep, rich way that Kael had always admired, and Kael, in that unrestrained giggle that made everything seem safe.

Alden (grinning, his voice filled with pride):

“One day, you’ll be taller than me, Kael. And stronger.”

Kael (with the wide-eyed enthusiasm only a child could possess):

“I’ll be the strongest warrior ever, like you, Father!”

Alden’s eyes twinkled with pride, but he didn’t let his son see the flicker of weariness that crossed his features. He glanced at Kael’s mother, who was in the kitchen, tending to the hearth with a calm smile. The scent of kneading dough mingled with the smells of the morning—her presence, a steady warmth in their home.

Mother (looking up, her voice gentle):

“And what of wisdom, my son? Strength without wisdom is like an arrow without a bow.”

Alden chuckled, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, and he reached out to rest a hand on his wife’s shoulder. She was his equal—calm, wise, the steady center of their family.

Alden (smiling warmly at her):

“He’ll have both. He’s my son, after all.”

The air was light with laughter and comfort. To Kael, there was nothing greater than this—nothing more beautiful than the sound of his parents’ voices, their shared warmth filling the house. In those moments, he was certain of one thing: life would always be like this. Secure. Safe. Untouchable.

But life had a way of taking what was most dear, and Kael would learn that lesson soon.

________________________________________

The Knock at the Door

Without warning, the peaceful scene shattered.

There was a loud, jarring knock at the door—sharp, insistent, a sound that rang out like a harbinger of something terrible. The sound was out of place, unwelcome, and it made Kael freeze for just a moment. He turned, and his father, Alden, looked toward the door, his brow furrowing slightly.

Kael (confused, voice rising in uncertainty):

“Father? Who could that be?”

Before his father could answer, the door burst open with a force that made Kael’s heart leap into his throat. Guards in full armor stormed into the house, their heavy boots ringing on the wooden floor. Kael stumbled back, feeling his pulse quicken in his chest. His breath caught as the figures moved swiftly, seizing his father without a word.

Alden didn’t resist. He didn’t flinch. He stood tall, but his face—there, for a fleeting moment—betrayed a depth of emotion Kael had never seen before. A quiet resignation.

Kael’s feet felt like they were cemented to the floor, his heart a loud drumbeat in his ears as the guards dragged his father toward the door. His mother, who had been so composed just moments ago, was now wide-eyed in disbelief. Her hands trembled as she reached for Kael, pulling him toward her, but he was already running—his legs carrying him toward the door, toward his father.

Kael (shouting, panicking):

“Father?! What’s happening?!”

But Alden, ever the pillar of calm, met his son’s eyes with an unspoken understanding. He didn’t speak, not then, but there was a brief exchange between their gazes—one that Kael would never forget. It was a silent promise, a promise that he would be back. That everything would be okay.

But it was a promise that would never be kept.

Outside, the villagers had gathered. Faces twisted with anger and betrayal. Once, these had been their neighbors. Friends. But now they stood with fury, with judgment. Their voices, sharp and accusing, rose above the scene like an overwhelming storm.

Villagers (chanting, bitterly):

“Traitor! Traitor!”

Kael’s blood ran cold. Betrayal. The word hit him like a blow to the chest. His father—his father—was being dragged away, accused of something unthinkable. Kael’s world, his perfect world, began to crumble.

Kael (his voice rising, desperate, shaking):

“They’re lying! Right, Mother? They’re lying! Father would never—”

His mother, her face a picture of pain, collapsed to her knees as the weight of the situation crushed her. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she held her son’s gaze—trying to give him strength even as she was being torn apart.

Alden (whispering, barely audible, his eyes meeting Kael’s one last time):

“Stay strong. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The guards dragged him out the door, their hands brutal, unyielding. Kael reached out, his hand trembling, but it was too late. Alden was gone.

For a brief moment, their eyes locked—a fleeting connection before the iron gates slammed shut between them.

And then—there was nothing but the empty echo of the guards’ steps.

Kael collapsed to the floor beside his mother, his small hands clutching the hem of her dress. His voice broke, raw with agony, as he screamed for his father—the man who had once promised to always be there.

But he wasn’t there anymore.

Kael’s breath returned in ragged gasps, the present reality crashing back around him as the smoke closed in. His shoulder burned where the shadow-spikes had slashed into him, blood seeping through his shirt. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

The crowd murmured as they watched. Some with pity, others with cruelty.

Spectator 4 (sneering):

“He’s done for. He can’t even see through that poison fog.”

Kael could feel the weight of their eyes on him, the sting of their judgment. But he couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not now.

He refocused, forcing his mind back into the present. His vision wavered as the ash cloud twisted and churned around him, the air thick with poison and heat. Veylen stood, unbothered, watching him with a calm amusement. His dark eyes gleamed as he controlled the smoke, shaping it into serrated spikes that surged from the ground, aiming for Kael’s body. One of them slashed his shoulder again, and this time Kael barely registered it as his body grew numb from the pain.

But he refused to give up.

Kael (gritting his teeth, whispering to himself):

Not like this. I won’t fall like this.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, the last words he ever heard from him. Stay strong.

The smoke closed in. But Kael stood tall. He was not the boy from the past anymore.

This wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be.

And just like that... my father was gone. Labeled a traitor. Stripped of his honor. Our home, once filled with warmth, turned to ashes.

The words echoed in Kael's mind like a bell tolling in an empty hall—hollow, final. Rain pounded the alleyway, each droplet cold and uncaring as it soaked through the thin cloth sheltering him and his mother. The scent of wet stone and refuse clung to the air, but it was the murmurs, not the weather, that made Kael shiver.

They sat close, his mother's arm wrapped tightly around his small shoulders. Her once-vibrant eyes were dull now, dulled by grief and scorn. Her clothes, like their dignity, were worn thin.

Voices slithered by like snakes in the dark.

"That’s the traitor’s wife and son."

"They should have been punished too."

Kael heard every word. The world didn’t whisper quietly enough.

He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. His young heart, too bruised to cry, burned with something heavier than shame.

“I’ll prove them wrong,” he whispered, voice trembling with resolve. “I’ll clear Father’s name.”

Darkness swallowed his vow. But the fire remained.

Mud and blood mixed beneath Kael’s boots. The battlefield was chaos—a whirlwind of steel, screams, and smoke. He stood hunched, body trembling from the blows he’d endured. Vision hazy. Breath shallow.

Before him, an enemy soldier grinned, confident in Kael’s collapse. The smirk of someone who believed victory was already theirs.

But then—A voice rose from within. Not a memory, but a presence. Strong. Steady.

"Stand, my son. Show them your strength. Show them the truth."

His father’s voice. Alden’s voice.

Kael’s eyes snapped open. The pain faded, or perhaps it simply became irrelevant. The fire in his chest—his birthright—blazed anew.

With a cry that cracked the sky and chilled every enemy bone, Kael surged upward. He was no longer the broken boy in the rain. He was his father’s son.

And he would not fall.

The crack of Veylen’s fist was like thunder against Kael’s ribs. Air fled his lungs. He hit the ground hard, a cloud of dust rising around him. The crowd roared, but it all sounded distant, muffled, like voices underwater.

Above, on the stone throne of the arena, the Royal Man leaned back with a sneer, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

“Like father, like son,” he drawled, “weak.”

Kael’s fingers dug into the dirt, anchoring him. He drew in a breath—slow, deep, defiant. He rose.

The arena fell silent. Even the wind held its breath.

In the stands, Ryzen’s eyes widened, a whisper escaping his lips. “There you are...”

Across the arena, Veylen cocked his head, amused. “Still standing?

Kael’s voice was low, but each word carried like a blade slicing through the hush.

“I’ve been knocked down before. Doesn’t mean I stay down.”

The fight wasn’t over. Not yet.

The ash came fast—thick and biting—but Kael was faster.

A sharp sidestep. Then a roll beneath the swirling grey. His movements were no longer desperate—they were deliberate, honed, precise.

He slipped under the veil of smoke and shadow, weaving through it like a dancer in a storm. Veylen loomed ahead, towering and confident. Too confident.

A swipe came. Kael ducked low, the air hissing above his head.

Then—he struck.

A burst of power surged through him. His fist slammed into Veylen’s side with the force of a collapsing wall. The arena floor trembled with the blow. Veylen staggered back, gritting his teeth.

"Hmph," the warrior grunted. "That actually hurt."

The crowd reacted like a dam breaking—gasps, cheers, the sound of shifting tides.

“He’s reading Veylen’s attacks!”

“How the hell is he moving that fast now?”

Kael didn’t hear them. His mind was clear. His pain, his shame—they were fuel now, not chains. He moved without hesitation, without fear.

Ash curled again. Another strike. Kael twisted in mid-air, narrowly avoiding the blow. He was inside the guard now—close, too close for Veylen to counter.

His fist crashed into Veylen’s face. Then a crushing kick to the knee. The giant wobbled.

Kael grabbed his arm, twisted, flipped—then slammed him to the ground. Dust exploded around them.

For a heartbeat, the arena held its breath.

Then—

Thunderous cheers. Disbelief and elation surged through the stands.

The announcer’s voice cracked, stunned but electrified. “Veylen is… DOWN! KAEL HAS TURNED THE FIGHT AROUND!”

Veylen lay flat, breathing heavy. Then, to Kael’s surprise, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Heh,” he muttered. “Maybe you’re not weak after all.”

Kael, chest heaving, extended a hand.

Veylen stared at it. Then—grinning—he took it, pulling himself to his feet.

Above them, the Royal Man leaned back in his high seat, arms crossed and voice low with veiled threat. “Hmph. I’ll get you next time.”

His assistant glanced at him nervously, but said nothing.

In the stands, Ryzen exhaled slowly, a grin tugging at his lips. “Not bad, Kael… not bad at all.”

The crowd’s roar was deafening. But to Kael, it was distant.

For the first time in years, the fire inside him felt... right.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the world bathed in torchlight. Flames danced on stone pillars, casting long shadows across the Grand Arena. The scent of sweat, dust, and anticipation hung heavy in the air.

The announcer stepped into the center, voice ringing like a trumpet across the hush.

“For our next match,” he bellowed, “we bring you a clash of nature’s finest forces!”

The crowd leaned forward, eyes wide, hearts pounding.

“On one side… the sculptor of shifting dunes, the desert’s phantom—SAHIR!”

The crowd roared as Sahir stepped forward, barefoot and calm, the very ground beneath him shifting like it was part of his body. Sand coiled around his ankles and danced in swirling eddies around his cloak, reacting to every movement, every breath. He looked more like a myth than a man—fluid, untouchable. From the opposite gate came his challenger, met by a chorus of cheers. Lyra strode into the arena with the surefooted weight of a mountain. Her light armor shimmered with veins of crystal, catching the torchlight in iridescent flashes. Jagged gauntlets of stone wrapped her forearms, heavy and brutal, contrasting the elegance of her armor. She radiated force, immovability, the opposite of Sahir’s ethereal flow.

The gong rang.

The air snapped into stillness. Sahir moved first, sliding into a low stance as the sand around his feet liquefied and shifted with uncanny grace. Lyra didn’t budge—she stood planted, grounded, her gaze unwavering.

“You’ve got nowhere to run,” Sahir said, his voice light and amused, “when the ground itself betrays you.”

He stomped, and the arena rippled. The sand under Lyra churned, threatening to swallow her like a predator beneath the surface. But she showed no fear. With a thunderous clap of her gauntlets, crystalline pillars erupted from below, hurling her skyward away from the trap. She landed in a crouch, smirking.

“And you’ve got nothing to stand on when the ground turns to stone.”

With a punch, jagged crystal shards shot forward like spears. Sahir twisted, sand spiraling around him to form a barrier that deflected the deadly projectiles. The crystals buried themselves into the ground where he stood moments before.

Not wasting a heartbeat, Sahir swept his arms wide. Sand surged forward, taking the shape of a colossal hand that lunged at Lyra like a living creature. She held her ground. The impact struck with the force of a landslide, but her crystal-armored form gleamed with metallic light, unmoved. The sand cracked and shattered against her, falling apart at her feet.

“Heh,” Sahir chuckled, genuinely impressed. “You’re tougher than you look.”

Lyra charged. Her gauntlets pulsed with energy as she swung. Sahir ducked, but the sheer force of her missed punch shattered the earth beneath, sending crystal debris flying in all directions. Sahir launched himself back using a wave of sand, barely dodging the razor-sharp fragments.

“Running?” Lyra called, narrowing her eyes.

From midair, Sahir grinned. With a flick of his wrists, the arena floor shifted again. Sand collapsed into quicksand, spreading like spilled ink. Lyra leapt onto a rising crystal platform, avoiding the sink—but it was a trap. In the blink of an eye, Sahir snapped his hands and the quicksand solidified into jagged spires, encasing Lyra’s legs and locking her in place.

“Checkmate,” he said, with maddening calm.

Lyra’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, but she grinned right back. She raised her foot and slammed it down with titanic force. A crystal shockwave exploded from her, shattering the spikes that held her and filling the air with blinding dust and glittering shards. Sahir flinched, shielding his face for a heartbeat.

It was enough.

Lyra blitzed forward, closing the distance like a bolt of silver lightning. Her fist rose in an arc of raw force—and connected. The uppercut landed square in Sahir’s gut, lifting him off the ground and sending him crashing into the sand. He groaned, coughing... and then laughed.

“Guess I should’ve kept my distance,” he rasped, wiping blood from his mouth.

Lyra stood over him, offering a hand, her smirk victorious. “Guess you should’ve. Huh!”

But Sahir’s grin didn’t fade

“You thought you won?”

Lyra’s smile faltered. The ground beneath her began to tremble. Sand, like fingers creeping out of the earth, climbed up her boots, tightening with every passing second. Her eyes widened.

“What is happening!” she gasped, trying to move—too late.

She looked up just as Sahir launched himself toward her, the final strike already in motion. His fist collided with her midsection, and this time, she went down—flat against the ground, breath knocked from her lungs.

“I couldn’t dodge that…” she murmured through gritted teeth, winded, stunned. “Bloody sand had my feet…”

She didn’t rise. She didn’t argue. With a tired, almost amused sigh, she lifted a hand in surrender.

The match was over.