Prologue — The Mirrorblade

The crowd roared, a living tide of voices echoing across the colossal arena. Dust and heat swirled around the stone stands, but Kaelen Drayce, the masked champion, felt none of it. His focus was absolute.

Four years. Four years undefeated. Every opponent had fallen before him. Every fighting style, every technique, perfectly mirrored and surpassed. Yet today, the cheers were hollow. The adoration had turned to disdain. Whispers of “cheater,” “fraud,” and “dishonor” hissed through the stands like vipers.

Kaelen adjusted his stance. His black and crimson aura flared subtly, a silent storm curling around him. One opponent after another had tried to challenge him, thinking brute force, skill, or cunning could shatter the Wall. The Wall had never broken.

He had not always been this way.

Ten years ago, Kaelen had been a boy who fell with every punch, every strike a lesson in failure. Talent had eluded him. Strength had mocked him. Desperation had been his only companion. Day after day, he watched the warriors around him. Their techniques, their movements, their weaknesses—every lesson etched into his mind. He had no magic. No gift. Only observation, mimicry, and relentless practice.

And slowly… painfully… he had become the perfect reflection of every fighter he faced.

But perfection came at a price.

Today, the audience jeered. They did not see the hours of bloodied training, the nights spent in shadowed arenas practicing movements until his body screamed. They only saw the outcome: a man who could copy anyone, a man who could win effortlessly.

Kaelen exhaled, calm, emotionless. He had made his decision. The world would not appreciate him. The Colosseum would not honor him. And so, he would leave.

As the last challenger fell, Kaelen’s boots echoed across the sand-strewn arena. The mask hid his face, but his eyes, golden and unyielding, burned with resolve. Four years as a champion, undefeated, yet unappreciated. Four years of perfection, and now it was time to vanish.

The gates of the Colosseum opened, and Kaelen stepped into the world beyond. Dust rose behind him, the echoes of cheers and jeers fading into the wind. For the first time in a decade, he walked not as a champion, but as a traveler—a man seeking strength, truth, and something the world had never given him: respect.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, he would find a fight worthy of him. Somewhere, a challenge that would not be defined by copying, but by his own will.

And so, the legend of the Mirrorblade began—not in the Colosseum, but in the shadows of a world that had yet to understand him.