A young man with long black hair walked calmly among the trees of the ancient forest surrounding the royal palace. His steps made no sound, not even the faintest rustle of leaves—almost as if the forest itself recognized him. He wore an imperial robe, finely embroidered with silver threads and stellar blue patterns—symbols of his lineage and power.
It was a splendid day. The sky gleamed with a clarity that bordered on the sacred, and sunlight fell in liquid rays through the canopy above, like a benediction from the heavens. Birds sang. Leaves danced. Life breathed in every corner.A perfect day to be alive, the young man mused. And yet, he was walking toward something that had no life at all.
Despite having existed for tens of thousands of years, he was still considered young by his people's standards. He hadn't left the palace on a whim or for pleasure, but for something stranger—deeper.A dream.Or rather… a shared dream.
Many in his kingdom—peasants, nobles, scholars, even royal sentinels—had awakened at dawn with the same vision:Someone was dying of hunger at the heart of the forest.
It sounded absurd. Hunger didn't exist in his realm. Nor did disease, pain, or cold that couldn't be dispelled with a thought. His people lived in harmony, protected by centuries of ancestral wisdom and refined magical art.
But when hundreds of minds dream the same thing, it cannot be ignored.
And so, Narel Vhalen, Prince of Vhalmir, left his throne for a few hours to follow a hunch among the timeless trees.
He walked for over two hours and found nothing. Nothing but beauty, silence, and the serene perfection his ancestors had built.He was about to give up—to assume that perhaps this was all some residual psychic disturbance, a magical echo with no substance—when he heard it.
It wasn't a roar.It wasn't a whisper.It was the quiet, unmistakable grumble of an empty stomach.
The prince turned sharply.
He followed the sound like a silent hunter, navigating between two ancient trees blanketed in glowing lichens…
And there he saw it.
A tapir.Floating lazily atop a pale gray cloud.Its posture was both melodramatic and tragic. Its legs dangled limp. Its trunk dragged in the air like even existing had become a chore.
Narel halted a few steps away.He didn't feel fear—he felt… curiosity.
—Are you the one starving in my kingdom? —he asked, his voice calm, though tinged with astonishment.
The tapir opened one eye. Then the other.Its head turned with exaggerated sluggishness—almost offensively slow.Its eyes were wise. Timeless. And utterly exhausted.
—Yes… I suppose that's me —it sighed—. I'm hungry.
Narel narrowed his eyes.Not in suspicion, but in contemplation of the strange creature before him.
—My name is Narel Vhalen. Prince of this realm.Who are you… and how can I help you?
The tapir yawned.
A swirl of luminous smoke drifted from its mouth, twirling in the air like a forgotten memory.
—My name is Baku —it finally said in a soft, melodic tone—.And you can feed me… with your dreams.
—You're a damn usurer… right to the end.—Of course. Swindling you will always be a pleasure.
And then… Baku's world collapsed.
The illusory dimension—the realm woven from dreams and mental dominion—imploded, like a mirror being devoured by itself. Light shattered into floating shards. Colors dissolved. And the false sky of Baku was swallowed by a silent vortex of gray mist.
At that precise instant, Dren's fist tore through the air, and reality slammed back into place.
BOOOOM!
The shockwave sliced through the atmosphere like a war scythe, and the emergency magical barriers, hastily raised by the arcanists, burst like soaked parchment, scattering chaotic sparks in every direction.
The thick, supernatural fog that had blanketed the battlefield began to lift—slowly, as if the air itself was afraid to reveal the aftermath.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Elizabeth could finally see through the smoke.
And she wished she hadn't.
There it was.The black beast.
Dren's dark knight not only remained standing—it was still evolving. Its armor looked denser, more alive. Each plate breathed, like skin hardened by hatred. Its eyes blazed like embers. Its helm, twisted into a permanent snarl of annihilation.
Beside it… Narel barely held himself upright.
He was hunched over, one hand clutching his stomach, dark blood staining his tunic—or pajamas, no one could quite tell anymore. His breathing was ragged. His world had shattered. And the only thing keeping him from collapse was his wit… and his will.
Vincent shot to his feet.
—We have to stop the fight. Now!
Elizabeth nodded instinctively. Her heart was beating so loud she could barely hear her own thoughts. From her royal platform, she extended her hand and gave the command:
—Halt! Intervene! Immediately!
The imperial guards surged from the side passages of the coliseum. Some leapt onto floating platforms, others began drawing containment runes mid-air—
But before they could reach the fighters…
—DO NOT COME ANY CLOSER! —Narel's voice roared, raw and primal, slicing through the stadium like a blade.And the world… froze.
The guards halted on the spot.And Elizabeth… did the same.
Narel had never spoken like that.Not in this life.Not in any of the ones she remembered.
That voice wasn't just a warning.It was a sentence.
—That beast will kill anyone who gets near… —he panted, lifting his eyes slowly—. But I think… I can stop it.
Elizabeth's heart clenched.
Somewhere along the way—she didn't know when—she had started to… care for this lazy, disinterested prince. The one who yawned during duels. The one who looked more ready for bed than for battle.
And now… there he stood.
Shaking.Bloody.Covered in dirt and pain.But standing.
Willing to face a demon.
He wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe. Inhaled sharply.
And for a second, Elizabeth couldn't tell whether the tremor in her chest was fear… or admiration.Or maybe… both.
The coliseum's magical camera focused in on Narel's face.
He was no longer the sleepy boy who had entered the tournament without a care.
He was now a strategist.A survivor.A warrior.
And though he knew he might not live…he had already chosen to fight.
Narel knew he would only have one shot.
The air around him quivered with a tension so palpable it felt as if the entire coliseum might implode. In the distance, the enchanted arches of the arena trembled like leaves in a storm. The black knight advanced—more monstrous than ever—each of his footsteps cracking the enchanted floor like cursed porcelain beneath a titan's heel.
And yet, Narel remained standing.His breathing was ragged. His body trembled. But his eyes... his eyes were wide open.
—Only one shot... —he whispered to himself.
He raised a hand toward the sky and, with a delicate, almost casual motion, opened a dimensional fissure no larger than a butterfly. From within, a small blue pouch emerged, glowing like the sky before dawn. He held it with reverence, as if the object weighed more than the fate of the world.
Baku floated beside him, visibly anxious.
—Are you sure you want to use that...? —he asked in a whisper centuries old—. You know what it means.
—Do you think I have a choice? —Narel replied with a crooked smile.
—No… but how do you plan to get close enough to use it?
Narel glanced at him, a mischievous spark flickering in his eyes, even amid chaos.
—I don't need to get close...
And then—he did it.
Without hesitation, he poured the contents of the blue pouch into his own mouth.A fine, ethereal crimson powder, like comet dust, slid across his tongue.The air temperature dropped. Reality tightened.
Baku's eyes flew wide open. He understood everything in an instant.
—You brilliant madman...!
And he reacted.
At the exact moment Dren appeared before Narel—demonic, incarnate, carrying an energy so dense it bent the very light—Baku conjured a wall of magical seals in front of Narel's abdomen. Each barrier was an ancient rune, etched with the sigils of the Realm of Dreams... but they were like spiderwebs against a charging inferno.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The shields shattered on contact with the punch. And yet, each one bought a sliver of time. A handful of milliseconds. Time stolen from death.
And then—
Narel exhaled.
From his mouth surged a crimson wind—an amplified breath, tripled by enhancement magic. It was no ordinary gust. It was a contained hurricane, a compressed storm released through a single, focused exhale.
The crimson dust swept through the air, sparkling like solar particles, and just before the blow landed, a single speck touched the surface of the black knight's armor.
One grain was enough.
The instant it made contact with the enchanted shell, time froze.
And the impossible happened.
The minds of Narel and Dren collided.
A burst of white light, like the birth of a star, exploded at the heart of the arena.
The crowd was blinded.The magical sensors failed.The narrators fell silent.The very air thickened into molten glass.
Magic could no longer comprehend what was happening.
Two consciousnesses spiraled into a vortex of images, sensations, and fractured memories.
Narel dove into Dren's mental abyss like an intruder breaking into a shadow-realm. He was swallowed by sealed memories—buried beneath layers of pain, blood, and survival.
He saw... the child.
Alone. Pierced with needles. Lying among corpses.
He saw... the first pact.
He saw... years of torment, voices that never answered, beatings, isolation.The label "Number 26" on a doorless cell.Hunger.Hopelessness.And finally... the demon's face, extending a hand through darkness.
—Gods... —Narel whispered amid the maelstrom—. What kind of hell are you?
But he wasn't there to flee.He was no accidental trespasser.
He was the bait.
And now... Dren's mind was exposed, laid bare like an open wound.
It was his moment.
—Let's end this... —Narel murmured, thought to thought.
Inside Dren's mind, there was no sky.No ground.No horizon.
Only a bleeding wasteland, painted red and black, where memories floated like broken phantoms.
At its center stood the demon—a colossus of smoke and scars, radiating raw, ancient power. And beside him, Dren... no longer a fearsome warrior, but a thin, trembling figure, trapped inside his own personal nightmare.
—Well, well... —purred the demon with a serpent's grin—. The little illusionist decided to come die... not just in body, but in soul too?
—Yeah... it does sound kind of melodramatic when you say it like that —Narel replied, scratching the back of his head, awkward like someone who'd walked into the wrong private meeting.
—And what's your brilliant plan? Gonna illusion me to death?
—Not quite... —Narel said as he pulled a tiny, glowing hourglass from within his tunic. It was no larger than his thumb.
—You know what this is? Sands of Morpheus.Legendary item.Annoying as hell to get.Cost me four nightmares and dinner with my mother.
The demon raised an eyebrow.
—An hourglass? You're going to put me to sleep? That's it?
—No... —Narel grinned, something sharp behind his eyes—. I'm not going to put you to sleep.
I'm going to have you devoured.
—Wha—?
SHHHHHHH.
The darkness shuddered.
From a crack in reality—a tear between dimensions—a grotesque figure floated into view.
A humanoid being, skin of shadow and smoke, with a tapir mask carved from obsidian, descended with unnatural grace.
Baku, the Devourer of Dreams, manifested in the heart of Dren's mental hell.
The demon staggered back.
For the first time… he trembled.
—Y-you're...
—I am the one who devours nightmares, —Baku rumbled—. And you, foul creature, reek of a trauma older than empires.
—No! I'm bound to this body! You can't! He chose me!
—I know —said Narel—. That's why I don't want you to destroy him. Just break the pact.
Baku stared at him silently. If he'd had eyebrows, he would've raised them.It was an absurd request.But well… he was already there.
—As you wish… —he grumbled—. But this is gonna cost me a soul-eye. I'll charge you double.
—What if I survive the fight?
—I'll charge you triple.
Narel snorted.
—A usurer even in the middle of a tragedy!
—And you're the idiot who breathes fire on monsters without a contract. So we're even.
Baku lifted both hands and began to form seals with impossible fingers. The air howled, the mental ground cracked, and with a deep, guttural inhale, he sucked in the demon's spirit like dust swept beneath a rug.
The demon screamed.Kicked.Tried to latch onto Dren's essence.
But it was useless.
His form was drawn into the tapir mask like smoke into a bottle.Not destroyed… not exactly.Just sealed. Removed. The bond was broken.Though his essence still lingered, dormant within the Bloodsteel coursing through the boy's veins. A shadow. A sleeping threat.
Baku sighed.
—There. Done. Contained… more or less.If Dren ever loses control again and uses that power… well, tell him to book a slot in my calendar.
—And you? —asked Narel, genuinely.
—I'm going back to sleep. This has been exhausting. I hope you survive waking up.
—Thanks, friend… survive I will. After all, I'm immortal.
The tapir just nodded, a smile hiding beneath the mask.
And then—he vanished.
In the real world…
Silence shattered with a thunderous crash.
Dren's black armor disintegrated into a thousand dark fragments, vanishing with the speed of a snap.But the punch—had already been thrown.
The kinetic force did not vanish.
A bare fist—no armor, no magic, just flesh and gravity—slammed straight into Narel's abdomen, sending him flying like a shattered puppet, spinning through the air.
The spectators screamed.
Magical barriers flared and sparked.
And Narel…crashed through a floating platform, breaking its enchanted shell and falling into the audience—right on top of a pompous-looking noble, who squealed like a terrified duck.
—WHAT IS THIS, A WAR OR A THEATRICAL PLAY?! —bellowed the noble, frantically trying to push Narel off.
Narel, unconscious, let out a faint groan, a bubble of blood escaping his lips.
Meanwhile, in the arena…
Dren dropped to his knees.
Sweat poured from him. His breath came in gasps.His body… thinner. More human.As if that power had eaten away pounds of muscle and years of life.
He was exhausted.But… free.
The crowd didn't cheer.Didn't clap.Didn't react.
Because no one knew who had won.
Elizabeth stood up, breathless.Vincent stared in silence, eyes fixed on both fallen warriors.
The announcer hesitated… then cleared his throat, voice trembling:
—Th-the match… has ended… in a draw!
The crowd's roar came late, like a heart that forgets to beat—uncertain whether to celebrate… or simply be grateful they were alive.
And atop the magical tower of the arena, the last of the mist faded away.
The two finalists lay fallen.
But alive.
And so ended the most extraordinary battle in the history of the Royal Selection.
A draw.A shared trauma.And a demon… waiting to return.