The pit reeked of blood, iron, and ash.
Nyxia stood alone beneath a pale, unforgiving sky, framed by rust-colored stone and the hushed murmurs of gamblers who hadn't yet decided if they were watching a fight or a funeral. The crowd hadn't swelled yet, but the silence was already heavy, waiting to break.
Her polearm rested in the sand beside her. The weapon felt heavier than usual—not in weight, but in memory. The dried blood on its blade clung stubbornly, like it wanted to be remembered.
Her ribs ached beneath tight bandages. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth. Her mind whispered, Not again.
And yet—here she was.
Across the ring, the iron gate groaned open.
An orc stepped through.
Broad, brutal, and void-tainted. His bare chest was veined with oozing tendrils of violet-black that pulsed like heartbeats, his tusks cracked and jagged. His cleaver was wide enough to decapitate a horse, and his eyes glowed with that same otherworldly sickness.
He grinned at her. "You're smaller than they said."
Nyxia's gaze didn't waver. "You're dumber than I hoped."
The gate slammed shut behind him. The bell rang once.
And the fight began.
She moved first—always first. Her polearm flashed low and fast, a sweep aimed at his knees. He leapt, impossibly quick for his size, and brought the cleaver down in a brutal arc.
Steel met steel with a shriek. She twisted, pivoted, and drove the blunt end into his jaw.
It connected. He staggered, lips splitting.
Then he laughed. And countered with a roar.
She tried to duck—too slow. His shoulder caught her full-force. The world flipped, and then the sand was in her mouth, her ribs screaming as she slammed into the arena floor.
She spat blood. Rolled.
The cleaver struck where her skull had been a heartbeat before.
She rose to one knee, swept upward with her polearm—cutting a line across his arm. Blood splattered the sand.
The crowd—sparse but hungry—howled with delight.
She got back to her feet. Breathe. Move. Forget the pain.
She spun into a rhythm, polearm singing in her hands, slicing low, twisting high, slashing across his thigh.
He grunted. Grinned. "You hit like a spark."
"And you smell like a corpse."
He feinted.
She read it.
Too late.
He grabbed her weapon mid-strike. Wrenched it from her hands and hurled it aside.
Now she was unarmed. Bleeding. Trapped.
And still, she stood.
She backed away, hands raised in a fighter's stance.
Then—
The air shifted.
Her eyes flicked across the pit.
There—at the far wall, behind the stands—Arioch.
Leaning. Watching. Smiling.
He lifted a goblet of blood-dark wine in salute.
She blinked—and he vanished.
No, not vanished. Moved.
Now behind her opponent. His lips moved, whispering something she couldn't hear.
The world distorted.
Her vision blurred.
A voice echoed in her head—not hers.
"This is what you are now."
Ves. Hollow-eyed. A ghost. Judging her.
Nyxia's step faltered.
And the cleaver slammed into her side.
CRACK.
Pain tore through her.
She screamed, blood fountaining from her lips as she crashed to the ground, coughing and choking, darkness pressing at the edges of her vision.
She tried to rise. Collapsed again.
The orc laughed and circled her like a beast savoring the end.
From somewhere far away, she heard Arioch's voice, cooing in her skull:
"Come now, girl. Give in. Let the void make you whole."
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't think.
The void stirred beneath her skin, a low hum rising.
And then—a roar.
Not from the stands.
From above.
CRASH!
The window shattered.
Loque'nahak descended like a falling star, a comet of spectral flame and primal rage. Mist and starlight spilled behind him as he landed, slamming into the earth with a roar that shook the pit.
The orc had no time to react.
Loque lunged.
And hit him like divine retribution.
The orc was flung across the arena, bones cracking against the wall.
Loque spun—towering over Nyxia, protective, his eyes wild with fear and fury.
Stay. Stay. No die. No die.
Nyxia reached up with a bloodied hand, trembling.
"Took you long enough," she rasped.
And then—something snapped.
In her chest.
In the void.
A crack inside her soul like glass under strain.
Arioch's whisper slithered through her mind like a vine curling around bone.
"She's ready."
The crowd began to scream.
Not from fear of the orc.
From her.
Nyxia convulsed.
Her back arched, muscles locking.
Veins darkened beneath her skin, ink spreading outward. Her eyes went void-black—no pupils, no light, just hunger. The shadows wrapped around her body like a second skin.
And then—from her chest—it erupted.
A shape.
A weapon.
Not summoned. Not drawn.
Born.
The void screamed—
And the scythe tore free.
It formed midair: jagged, divine, and wrong. Its crescent blade shimmered with barbs that wept starlight. The haft twisted in her hand like it had always belonged there.
The crowd fell silent.
Even the orc, staggering to his feet, stared—just for a moment.
Long enough.
Nyxia blurred.
She moved too fast to track.
Her body a blur of void and violence.
The scythe crashed into the orc's side, slicing deep, rupturing void veins. He howled, staggered, swung—
Missed.
She ducked. Spun. Slashed.
He bled. He screamed.
He begged.
And then she drove the blade deep into his chest—twisted—and ripped upward.
The scythe split him like a veil, leaving behind a ruined carcass that collapsed in a pool of steam and ichor.
She stood over the corpse.
Panting. Drenched in blood.
Radiating void energy like a dying sun.
Then—footsteps.
Boo reached the arena edge, eyes wide. Draj right behind her. Perseus froze as he took in the sight—Nyxia's silhouette against the ruin, the black flame coiled around her, the scythe thrumming like a living thing.
"Oh… gods," Boo whispered.
Arioch appeared at the top of the stands.
He bowed low.
And vanished.
Perseus vaulted the wall.
"Nyxia!"
She didn't turn.
She didn't speak.
Loque circled her warily, hackles raised.
Perseus approached.
"You… you killed him." His voice was tight. "You didn't just beat him. You obliterated him."
Her voice came low, distant.
"He was void-touched."
"So are you!" he shouted.
She turned then, slowly, eyes still voidlit.
He stared at her. Into her. Through her.
"You almost died," he whispered. "You used the void. You let it out."
"I didn't let it out," she murmured. "It let me live."
He stepped closer.
"Is this who you are now?"
A pause.
She dropped the scythe.
It hit the ground and vanished in a pulse of dark light—like breath exhaled.
"I don't know," she said.
And walked past him.
Each step trailed motes of starlit shadow.
She left the pit slowly—alone.
Behind her, silence.
And fear.