The capital of the Saren Empire—Vaelgard—was a jewel of marble and bronze, sprawled across seven gentle hills beside the sapphire ribbon of the River Elisar. Golden domes shimmered beneath the sun, aqueducts arched gracefully over the city streets, and white-stone colonnades stretched like the arms of a god welcoming the world.
To its citizens, Vaelgard was the heart of civilization—an eternal city where banners danced in the breeze, where scholars argued in open forums, and where temples reached skyward in praise of long-dead emperors. Its avenues were lined with chiseled statues and perfumed gardens, its markets overflowing with spices, silk, and foreign tongues.
But at its core, like a beating heart encased in gold, stood the Cradle of Iron—a colossal arena where beauty gave way to blood.
The nobles sat in their towering seats above the colosseum floor, their view unobstructed, their robes heavy with embroidery and status. Laughter flowed like wine, and wine flowed like water.
Below them, the common folk filled the countless stone stands, their cheers a wave of raw hunger crashing against the cold stone.
In the center of the arena stood a child. No older than nine. His green hair clung to his damp forehead, his limbs frail and trembling, a broken wooden spear clutched in his shaking hands. His wide eyes stared in horror at the beast before him.
A Scarlet Hornbull, taller than a man, thicker than three. Its hide shimmered like hot iron, breathing mist through flared nostrils. Its hooves crushed stone with each step. The crowd fell momentarily silent as it pawed the earth.
Then it charged.
"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!" roared the peasants, ecstatic. Their joy was feverish, wild—this was their escape, their release, their bread and spectacle.
The boy turned. Too slow.
The Hornbull's horns drove into his body, lifting him from the sand before slamming him back down. Bones snapped. Blood poured like spilled wine across the pristine white dust. He twitched, whimpered—
And then the beast began to eat.
Even the guards looked away.
Above, a noble clicked his tongue in irritation. "Tch. Pathetic."
"When will we see something interesting?" asked another, toying with a ring of jade and gold.
"These spectacles are all so boring lately…" yawned a third, reclining deeper into his velvet seat.
The Hornbull bellowed again, triumphant. The crowd cheered.
But among the nobility, only disappointment lingered.
From behind the blood-stained sands, a heavy cage door groaned open with a screech of rusted iron.
A pale-skinned boy with messy black hair and burning red eyes was kicked out into the arena. He stumbled forward, sand scraping his knees, his small hands gripping a battered sword far too large for him.
The door slammed shut behind him.
"Open this door!" the boy screamed, eyes blazing. He whirled around, grabbing the bars with one hand and raising the sword with the other. "I'll kill you! OPEN THIS DOOR!!"
He howled like a beast, teeth bared.
On the other side, standing with casual cruelty, a Saren soldier rested his golden spear on one shoulder. The same Saren who had slaughtered his mother. The man's eyes were like cold steel, and his smirk curved with disdain.
"Ka'tashé ve sar," the Saren said mockingly.
Artair's grip on his sword tightened, veins pulsing in his pale arms. He turned slowly, panting with rage. The metallic scent of blood invaded his senses. In front of him, the Scarlet Hornbull was still feasting, tearing the green-haired boy apart like wet meat. The sounds were wet, squelching.
Then, the voices of the peasants all around him, hundreds, maybe thousands, echoing across the amphitheater in unison.
"Khaal'zem! Khaal'zem! Khaal'zem!"
Artair looked up at the nobles seated high above, looking down at him like he was nothing. A rat. A toy. A passing distraction.
"They want to have fun?" he thought, lips curling. He began to smile.
But it wasn't a child's smile. It was mad. Furious. Wrong.
His eyes went red—deep, glowing, unnatural.
Without warning, Artair hurled the sword straight at the Scarlet Hornbull's head.
It struck—burying itself deep into the beast's left eye.
The Hornbull screamed, stumbled back.
"Haaaaaa!" the crowd erupted.
The nobles all sat upright in their seats.
Even the golden-spear Saren laughed in surprise.
The Hornbull roared in pain and hate, and it charged.
But Artair didn't flinch.
"COME AT ME, YOU BASTARD!!" he bellowed, every fiber of his body crackling with rage. His eyes burned redder.
As the Scarlet Hornbull rushed forward, horns lowered like spears, Artair ran straight at it.
Then—he leapt.
The leap was impossible. A child couldn't jump that high. Not with those legs. Not with that body.
But he did.
He soared through the air like a thrown spear, and landed on the Hornbull's face, grabbing the sword buried in its ruined eye.
"RRAAAAH!!"
The crowd went wild.
The nobles leaned forward in their seats.
Artair's fingers gripped the hilt, his feet slipping against bloody bone. He shoved the blade deeper.
The Hornbull screamed and shook its head violently, trying to throw him off. But the boy held on, eyes like twin fires.
"DIE!!"
With his free hand, Artair thrust his fingers into the beast's remaining eye, digging, ripping.
The Hornbull howled—mad, blind, stumbling. The sand shook beneath it.
Artair yanked back his bloody hand and wrapped both arms around the embedded sword. He pulled—
Once. It didn't move.
Twice. It budged, slightly.
"Die, DIE!!"
With a growl of effort, he pulled again—and the blade slid free with a wet, squelching sound just as the Hornbull reared back in panic.
Before it could throw him, Artair plunged the sword down, right into the top of its skull.
The blade punched through bone and brain. The Hornbull let out one final, gurgling bellow.
And collapsed.
Dead.
Artair stood atop the corpse, drenched in blood, roaring to the skies like a god of rage.
The crowd exploded in wild exultation. Even the nobles applauded.
The golden-spear Saren was grinning now, his cruel eyes dancing.
Far above, a noble with a sharp nose and slick brown hair leaned forward in his cushioned seat.
He turned to a man beside him wearing a sash of scrolls and keys—one of the Cradle's senior managers.
"Duke Silvarax," the man bowed, voice smooth. "How may I serve you?"
The duke didn't even look at him. He pointed at the blood-soaked boy, still roaring atop the beast's corpse.
"That kid." His voice was sharp. Cold. Interested. "That one. How much?"
"Is Duke Silvarax interested?" the manager asked, trying to keep his voice level as he stepped closer.
"Yes," Silvarax replied without hesitation.
"Well…" the manager began, hesitating as if stepping into dangerous waters. "I'm afraid this won't be possible—"
"Won't be possible?" Duke Silvarax's gaze slid toward him like a blade.
The manager stiffened, sweat instantly forming at the back of his neck. But even in the face of that sharp, commanding stare, he forced himself to speak. After all, this arena—the Cradle of Iron—was directly under the Emperor's domain. Even a duke couldn't act recklessly here.
"Y-Yes... They are slaves our great Emperor has just brought from the conquest of Gaulvaria, so their price has yet to be decided—"
"A hundred Golden Spearheads."
Silvarax cut him off, his voice flat, bored, final. As if the conversation was already over.
The manager blinked.
His eyes widened.
That was a fortune. Enough to fund half a campaign, or buy a small noble estate. And more than enough to grease any gears of bureaucracy.
The man straightened up quickly and offered a bow so deep it was nearly reverent.
"It's a pleasure doing business with you, Duke Silvarax!"
Silvarax didn't respond. His eyes remained fixed on the arena below, where the blood-soaked boy stood panting, crimson dripping from his pale face, sword clenched in his small hands.
To be continued...