Maldvindar, a land untouched by mankind. No human race walked its soil. Instead, it had become a haven for diverse beings from every corner of the world, each drawn by the same dream, a life of peace and dignity.
At the heart of it all stood Normand, guardian and ruler of this realm for two decades. But he had not always been a leader. Once, he was merely a Fisharyan outcast, exiled for standing against the corrupt nobles who colluded with humans. That betrayal rooted in him a deep hatred for humankind.
In the land of his birth, there were only two kinds of people, nobles and slaves. The common folk lived shackled lives, and Normand had once been among them.
Yet, his strength set him apart. His physical prowess earned him a place not among slaves, but as a house guard to a noble family. Over time, his role evolved. He became a Connector, a messenger and mediator between the Fisharyan nobles and the humans they served.
It was in this position that Normand began to see the rot beneath the surface. He witnessed firsthand the cruelty, the exploitation, the truth, the Fisharyans were nothing more than expendable tools, used and discarded to satisfy the greed and vanity of their so-called lords.
As Connector, Normand was privy to every secret, every deal, every dark desire. The more he knew, the harder it became to stay silent. And so, he chose rebellion.
But rebellion came at a price. His uprising was crushed, his efforts branded as treason. Stripped of everything, Normand was cast away, exiled to a forsaken island that would one day bear the name Maldvindar.
When Normand first arrived on the island, he was lost. He didn't know what to do, or where to begin. The only thought that lingered in his mind was the desperate desire to return. But he had no idea how.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned into months. And without realizing it, a whole year had passed on that desolate island.
Then, one morning, while setting out to fish as he often did, Normand spotted a figure in the distance. Frail, small, and scarred. The silhouette was unfamiliar yet oddly recognizable. As he moved closer, realization struck. It was another Fisharyan, just like him.
Normand broke into a sprint, closing the distance with urgency as the figure collapsed to the ground.
"Hey! Are you all right? Are you still alive?" Normand shouted, kneeling beside the bloodied body.
A faint whisper escaped the stranger's cracked lips. "Y-yes…"
That was all Normand needed to hear. Without hesitation, he lifted the wounded Fisharyan into his arms and carried him back to his shelter.
For days, he did everything he could, cleaning wounds, feeding him, offering water when consciousness returned in brief, fading moments.
A week passed.
Then, finally, the stranger stirred with strength in his voice.
"Hey, you… Thank you for saving me. I'm Tor."
They were the first words Normand had heard from another soul in over a year. And in that moment, for the first time in a long while, he was no longer alone.
And somewhere deep inside, Normand felt a flicker of something new, hope.
"Tor, what happened to you? How did your body end up like this? Those wounds, how did you get them?" Normand asked, concern etching his voice.
Tor's expression darkened. The memories were still raw, painful. But he forced himself to speak, to share what had brought him to the edge of death.
"I rebelled against the nobles," he said, his voice low. "They've allied themselves with humans. I tried to warn the other Fisharyans, but no one believed me. And this…" —he gestured weakly to his battered body— "this was the result."
Normand clenched his fists. Rage began to boil beneath his skin. The pain in Tor's voice mirrored the scars in his own heart.
"Those nobles… Did they do this to you?" Normand asked, his tone heavy with fury. "This is beyond cruel. I swear, I will make them pay."
Tor's eyes lowered. A sadness flickered across his face as he recalled his past.
"I was just an abandoned child," he began, his voice trembling. "But a human found me... He took me in, raised me, taught me everything—how to read, to think, to survive. He treated me like I mattered."
A pause. Then a bitter smile.
"But after he died, I returned to Falhashayr. I offered my service as an advisor to the nobles, hoping I could help change something from within."
He looked away, his voice faltering.
"In time, I saw how cruel they truly were. How little they cared for their people. I tried to open their eyes… to make them see. But they turned on me. They labeled me a traitor, attacked me, and cast me out like filth."
Tor's story echoed in Normand's chest like a drumbeat of sorrow and rage. It was the final confirmation. The nobles… the humans… all of them would pay.
This time, there would be no mercy.
"Tor, I will have my revenge—on the corrupt nobles, on the humans, on anyone who stands in our way. I'll wipe them out," Normand declared, his voice seething with conviction. "Join me. Let's break the chains of this misery. Let's free our people from this suffering."
Tears welled up in Tor's eyes. The fire in Normand's words lit a flicker of hope in his heart.
"I want that too," he whispered, voice cracking. "But look at me… this body—I'll only slow you down. Are you sure about this?"
"Of course," Normand said without hesitation. "Then it's decided. From this day forward, your name is Tormander, and I am Normander. We will free the Fisharyans… and bring down those cursed oppressors!"
The two clasped hands, their bond forged in pain, purpose, and fury.
That day marked the beginning of their rebellion. Together, they began crafting a plan to return to Falhashayr. But such a mission would take time—time to build strength, to prepare, to survive.
Ten months later…
A ship emerged on the horizon.
Another exile.
Another Fisharyan cast away.
Normander and Tormander, now battle-hardened and sharper than ever, had prepared for this moment. Their ambush was precise.
From behind the cover of trees, they watched as two humans dragged a limp Fisharyan body toward the shore and tossed it like garbage.
Then, thud. Thud.
Both men collapsed almost instantly. Normander had already loosed two arrows, each tipped with a powerful sedative brewed from local herbs. Silent. Swift. Lethal.
The time for change had begun.
Afterward, the two individuals were tied up by Normand and had their movements restricted aboard the ship.
"Alright. Now tell me, who was he? Why did you kill him?!"
Normand's voice rang out, sharp and demanding, as he glared at the two who had just regained consciousness. His face twisted in frustration, his fury barely restrained.
"Damn humans! If we didn't need you, we would've killed you already! Speak! Who ordered you to do this?"
"You foolish Fisharyans," one of them sneered. "You're nothing but slaves to mankind. None of you truly have the power to stand against them. Face the tru—"
Slash!!
"Know your place!" Normand snapped, his blade now dripping with blood. "You are not something I need to fear."
With that, he beheaded the defiant man, while the other stared in horror, eyes wide with terror.
"I'll tell you everything! Please, have mercy—let me live! I'll tell you all I know!"
At those desperate words, a slow, cruel smile spread across Normand's face. Without hesitation, he seized the remaining man and dragged him away—for interrogation.
Normand stepped off the ship, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He turned to Tormand with a calm yet chilling command.
"Tor, take care of the corpse on the deck, will you? Oh… leave the head. I want to keep it—as a reminder. I think it'll make a fine wall ornament."
Tormand nodded without a word.
Normand then dragged the remaining human across the ground, his face expressionless. Reaching a large tree at the edge of the clearing, he tied the man to its trunk, the rope digging into his skin. The interrogation began—harsh, methodical. Every time the prisoner hesitated or gave an unsatisfactory answer, Normand struck him, venting his frustration in every blow.
When the human had spilled enough information to be of use, Normand called out to Tormand.
"Get everything ready. We leave soon."
"I've prepared it all," Tormand replied. "But what about him? Do we bring him with us? He's of no further use. Should we get rid of him?"
Normand paused. His gaze darkened, but his tone was resolute.
"No. I gave my word—we bring him back. Now let's move. It's time to set the plan in motion. I don't care how many of them stand in our way… we will win."
With that, they departed, fully equipped and burning with purpose, setting course for Falhashayr—to seek vengeance.
Meanwhile, within the walls of Falhashayr, the people suffered in silence. Oppressed under the iron rule of the nobles and their human overlords, they had long forgotten hope. Yet none of them sensed the storm that was quietly approaching… a reckoning on its way.
At the Noble Residence of Falhashayr — Mora's Hall
"Hahaha! Drink to your heart's content! Let the wine flow freely!"
The booming voice of Mora, the ruling lord of Falhashayr, echoed through the grand hall.
Music and laughter wove together into a rich tapestry of sound, enchanting the noble guests who danced and dined beneath the golden chandeliers. The aroma of spiced meats and sweetened fruits filled the air, while minstrels played melodies that lifted the spirits of all who attended.
A servant approached Mora cautiously and bowed.
"Pardon me, Lord Mora. A human requests your audience. He calls himself Mattsh."
With a gracious smile, Mora excused himself from the circle of guests. As he made his way across the bustling hall, he greeted several nobles with nods and soft words, exuding both authority and charm.
Finally, he reached a corner where a lone figure stood—Mattsh, the human guest.
"Lord Mattsh, what brings you to seek me out?" Mora asked, his tone gentle and welcoming. "Are you enjoying the celebration? I do hope it's not as dreadful as you might have feared."
Mattsh gave a slight nod, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Indeed, I am enjoying it. However, I came to speak of the slaves we recently disposed of—or rather, those I tasked with the matter, Tarmen and Asmen."
He paused, his expression tightening.
"They have yet to return."
Mattsh, a human bold enough to attend a Fisharyan feast alone, now stood face to face with the very ruler of Falhashayr, his voice calm, yet edged with concern.
"Asmen," Tormand spoke, his voice calm but edged with purpose. "What is your true objective? I doubt enslaving the Fisharyans was ever the end goal. That's only the beginning, isn't it? So tell me, what does your master truly want from us?"
He leaned in slightly, eyes sharp. Normand had tried—brutally so—but the prisoner had refused to speak of his master's real motives. Now it was Tormand's turn.
Asmen, bound and bruised, lifted his head.
"My master… Mattsh," he said clearly, his voice lacking fear or hesitation. "A human noble. He commands followers from several powerful races. He fears no one, because he himself is strong. But… he has a weakness."
Tormand's eyes narrowed.
"No one knows what it is," Asmen continued. "He only once mentioned that his weakness lies somewhere in Falhashayr. But he never said what exactly it was."
There was no deceit in his tone. Asmen spoke with a strange confidence, as if he were certain they could do nothing with the knowledge—certain that Mattsh was beyond their reach.
Tormand gave a quiet nod.
"That doesn't sound like a lie," he said thoughtfully. "And you seem awfully sure of your master's strength. Fine. We'll make sure you're sent across the sea… just as we promised."
His words were calm—almost casual—but the intent behind them was solid. At that moment, Normand approached. His expression was firm, already focused on the next step.
"We're ready," he said to Tormand. The two exchanged a few words—brief, strategic—and then turned away, leaving Asmen behind.
There was no need to watch him anymore.
They had a ship to prepare, and a course to set. The sea waited… and so did vengeance.
Not long after, they arrived—not at a port, but at a strange and chaotic shore, teeming with ships of all shapes and origins. Vessels belonging to every known race lay anchored side by side, their flags foreign, their crews watching warily.
This was no ordinary dock.
They had arrived at the Market of Light—a name as ironic as it was infamous. A hidden hub of underground trade, where every law was forgotten, and every desire had a price. Weapons, slaves, forbidden artifacts, poisons… here, anything could be bought—as long as you had gold.
Normand and Tormand stepped off their ship, unarmed with coin, but not unprepared. They had brought something else—something they believed could be just as valuable.
"Hey, you two!"
A sharp voice cut through the bustle.
A man approached, his clothes flashy but worn, his grin wide and unapologetic. "First time here, huh? You look lost. What're you after? Maybe I can help—for a price, of course."
Tormand glanced at Normand, then turned to the stranger with guarded eyes.
"You seem... confident. Fine. We'll talk. I'm Tormand, he's Normand. Let's hope you're not foolish enough to try deceiving us."
The man chuckled.
"Easy now, friend. If you don't know me yet, that just means you're new. Name's Mietler—the Guide. I make it my business to know every newcomer who steps foot here."
There was something persuasive in his tone—easy, practiced. Yet not entirely untrustworthy. Tormand gave a slow nod.
"Lead on then, Mietler."
With that, the three of them walked off the dock, passing through narrow, smoky alleys until they arrived at a quiet tavern—strangely empty in a place so alive with chaos. The sign above the door was worn, its name faded. Inside, there were no patrons… only silence and shadow.
It was the perfect place to talk.
"Yoho, old man!" Mietler called out as he stepped into the dimly lit tavern. "Bring us something strong—and make sure your place stays empty. We've got important matters to discuss."
Behind the worn counter stood a dwarf—short, broad, and bristling with a braided beard the color of ash. The dwarf gave a grunt of recognition and a silent nod, disappearing behind a curtain as if he'd done this sort of thing before.
Mietler turned back to the Fisharyans with a sly smile.
"Alright then. Let's get to the point."
Tormand reached into his cloak and pulled out a bow—elegant, obsidian-dark, and unlike any design common to this side of the world. Along with it came a single arrow, its head tipped with a faintly glowing venom, pulsing softly with green light.
"How much gold can we get for this?" Tormand asked, placing the items gently on the table. "A lethal arrow. One of a kind. You won't find this for sale anywhere else. It's our own creation."
Mietler's eyes gleamed with curiosity. He picked up the arrow, examined its shape, weight, and balance, then held it close to the light to study the poison's subtle shimmer.
"This is... peculiar," he murmured. "I've never seen anything quite like it. How does it work? And more importantly… how deadly is it?"
He leaned back, twirling the arrow between his fingers.
"To be sure it's worth what you claim, I think we'll need a demonstration."
Normand grinned, a flicker of excitement sparking in his eyes.
"A demonstration? Sounds like fun. What kind of place are we talking about?"
Mietler's smile widened.
"Oh, I know just the spot."
Normand looked to Tormand.
"Well, Tor? Shall we show him what this thing can really do?"
Tormand nodded, satisfied.
"Your instincts are sharp as always. We have a deal. Lead the way."
And with that, the three slipped quietly from the tavern into the shadowed alleys of the Market of Light—carrying with them a weapon that would soon draw blood, and perhaps, something more.
The three of them moved quietly down a long, stone staircase that descended into darkness. At the bottom lay a tunnel—cold, silent, and shrouded in pitch-black shadows. There were no torches, no lanterns. Only the sound of distant drips echoing off the walls.
Tormand narrowed his eyes, hand drifting to the hilt of his knife.
"This place… it's perfect for an ambush," he muttered under his breath. "Dark, quiet, spacious. What do you think, Nor? Are we—"
"Relax, friend," Mietler interrupted smoothly, not turning back as he walked. "I'm not the kind of man who plays cheap tricks. If I wanted you dead, this wouldn't be how I did it. The real place—where we're headed—is just beyond this tunnel."
Tormand didn't answer, but his steps remained cautious. He knew he wasn't the only one being wary. Mietler's posture, subtle as it was, suggested he was keeping his own defenses up as well.
"If it were someone else, they probably would be trapped," Normand said, scanning the walls and corners of the corridor. "But I won't be caught in the dark. I can see clearly… even the beggar curled up near that wall."
He gestured to a barely visible figure, hidden in a patch of shadow most eyes would miss.
"Wait," Normand said suddenly, his voice sharp. "I hear something."
He paused, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing with focused intensity. A soft shuffle. A low breath. Movement.
"It's getting closer," he added. "That sound—it's coming from the place we're headed to. You said I could see clearly?" He gave a faint smirk. "Watch this."
Normand stepped forward, unbothered by the complete absence of light. Unlike the others, he didn't rely on torches or instincts. His eyes were keen—uniquely so. In the deepest dark, where even shadows lost shape, Normand saw with perfect clarity. Every crack in the wall, every whisper of movement—it all revealed itself to him.
"There," he said, pointing to a barely visible outline in the wall ahead. "That's the door, right? The one we're supposed to find?"
The noise grew louder—no longer a distant murmur but a living, breathing roar, vibrating through the stone walls.
Normand's curiosity burned hot in his chest. His hand reached for the door without hesitation, driven by a deep instinct he'd long since learned to trust. With a creak of iron hinges and a push, the heavy door opened…
And what lay beyond was unlike anything he'd ever seen.
An explosion of sound and light swallowed them whole. Before them stretched a vast chamber, filled wall to wall with people—cheering, shouting, laughing, jeering. A crowd of all races and walks of life, rich and ragged alike, gathered in raucous unity.
They surrounded a wide pit sunken into the center of the arena, each side packed shoulder to shoulder with onlookers hungry for blood.
This was the Light Arena.
A voice thundered from above, amplified by magic or machinery, echoing through the air with authority and passion.
"Rich or poor, highborn or low, here, in this place, everyone is free to let loose their fury! No law, no title, no walls to hold you back! This is our pride—our sanctuary of chaos!
Welcome… to the Light Arena!
And now, raise your voices for tonight's battle!"
The crowd surged with anticipation.
"In the white corner—a man unmatched, undefeated, the destroyer of fifty-eight challengers without a single loss… the indomitable… Yoriisshhoon!!!"
A muscular human raised his arms in the pit, basking in the roar of the crowd. His armor gleamed under flickering lights, and his expression was cold, focused.
"And in the black corner—his challenger! A warrior from a race so rare, it exists only in myth. Never before recorded in the histories of man or beast…
Tonight, from the bloodline of dragons and mountains… we give you the mighty Voooolluuudraaaa!!!"
The pit shook with stomps and screams.
"FIGHT!!"
"WHOOOO!! Kill him!! Smash his bones!! Tear him apart!!"
"Make it rain of BLOOD!"
"YORIISSHHOON!! YORIISSHHOON!!"
The mob was wild, intoxicated with the promise of violence.
Normand and Tormand stood at the edge of the chaos, their eyes wide—not in fear, but in fascination. The arena was more than just a battleground. It was freedom… and a storm of opportunities.
The host took the floor again, his voice soaring above the chaos like a war drum leading soldiers to battle.
"Incredible! Unbelievable! The energy in this arena tonight is absolutely ELECTRIFYING!! YYYEEAAHHH!!"
The crowd roared in response.
"Our two warriors are locked in and ready… Look at them! You can feel the hunger in their eyes!
Alright everyone—count with me now!
FIVE… FOUR… THREE… TWO… ONE… FIGHT!!!"
And with that, the Light Arena erupted.
Voludra, the challenger, sprang into action. A towering beast of scaled skin and crushing muscle—he was a Komodonit, a race shrouded in mystery. No historical texts spoke of their origin. All that was known was their aversion to outsiders. They lived in isolation, far from the politics and wars of the world. And yet here stood one of their own, in the heart of the chaos, challenging a human warrior before a sea of screaming strangers.
Yoriisshhoon—the reigning champion.
A man of steel nerves and ruthless discipline. Undefeated. A legend born in blood and flame. No one knew where he came from, but all in the Light Arena knew his name. He had crushed fifty-eight challengers without mercy or mistake. Every gambler in the crowd had staked their coin on him again tonight.
Fists flew. Claws slashed.
Voludra lunged with thunderous blows, fists like boulders swinging with terrifying speed—but Yoriisshhoon dodged each strike with serpent-like grace, never staying in the same place for more than a breath. The champion didn't counter. He didn't attack. Not yet. He was studying.
From the crowd, Normand watched closely, his sharp eyes narrowed.
"The lizard's throwing everything he has… but none of his punches are landing," he muttered. "That human's fast. Real fast. But… he hasn't found an opening either."
Tormand gave a small nod. "Sharp analysis. I see now—you really do have special eyes, Normand. No wonder you read a battlefield so easily."
Mietler, standing beside them, grinned as he leaned on the railing.
"Hah! You two catch on quick. I don't even need to explain it, do I?
This place... this arena… it's perfect.
If you want to test that little weapon of yours—
This is where you do it."
"So… the plan is to sell it to one of the fighters, right?"
Tormand responded to Mietler's earlier hint, voice low and speculative.
"Close," Mietler smirked, raising a finger, "but not quite—"
"We join the fight and test it directly in the arena," Normand interrupted, a glint in his eyes that hinted at both danger and excitement.
Mietler sighed, exasperated.
"Can you two please let me finish for once? That's an extreme idea. I don't care how broad your shoulders are, you can't just barge into the ring and fight. There are procedures—regulations, approvals, entries. You'd be thrown out before you took your first step."
He took a breath and began explaining the system behind Light Arena—how fighters were vetted, the hierarchy, the betting sponsors, the rituals before combat. Normand and Tormand listened, nodding occasionally as if they understood. Whether they truly cared for the rules was another matter.
Meanwhile, down in the pit, the battle raged on.
A brutal blow struck home.
Yoriisshhoon's fist smashed into Voludra's ribcage, making the giant Komodonit stagger. The crowd erupted with explosive cheers, shaking the stone walls of the arena.
"This… this is the toughest match I've ever fought," Yoriisshhoon admitted between breaths, his voice loud enough for Voludra and those near the edge to hear. "You should be proud—most don't survive this long against me. But now…"
He narrowed his eyes.
"Now, I've found your weakness. It's time to end this."
The human champion took a step closer, his tone shifting to something more casual, almost generous.
"But listen, I'll make you an offer. Surrender. I'll throw you a few gold coins—you'll walk away with your bones intact, and I'll still win more than enough from the betting. Sounds fair, right? Better than limping home in pieces."
Voludra wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and growled low in his throat.
"Nonsense."
The word dropped like a boulder.
"You can't defeat me. And I don't care about gold. What I want—what I need—is vengeance.
You won't run from me, Yoriisshhoon.
Come at me with everything you've got!!"
His roar rose above the crowd's cheers, silencing a few voices for a fleeting second. The atmosphere thickened—no longer a game of showmanship, but the beginning of something personal.
Yorishon attempt to reason with Voludra had failed—spectacularly. Instead of calming the Komodonit, it only stoked the fury burning in his chest.
Voludra roared, charging forward like a beast unleashed. His fists became a blur, pounding toward Yoriisshhoon in a relentless flurry. Each strike was heavier, faster, more vicious than the last.
"An intense match, ladies and gentlemen!"
The announcer's voice echoed across the arena, fueling the already blazing excitement.
"Voludra is pressing forward with a barrage of blows, leaving no opening! Yoriisshhoon is still nimble, still dodging—but his legendary punch has proven useless against the Komodonit's brutal might! Is this it? Will the undefeated human finally fall? Or will he turn the tide once again?! Let's hear it—shout for your fighters!!"
The crowd responded with a deafening roar—shouts, stomps, fists pounding into the arena walls. No one moved. No one could look away.
Back near the shadows of the balcony above, Normand stood with arms crossed, eyes locked on every motion in the arena below.
"If this keeps going," Normand muttered, "that human is going to lose. He's tiring fast. Meanwhile, that lizard seems fine—hell, he's getting stronger the longer they fight."
"I can't help but notice," Mietler's voice drifted in from behind, "you're itching to jump in yourself."
Normand cracked a smile without turning.
"Ah, you're back. Did you handle the paperwork?"
He flexed his fingers slowly. "Because my hands are aching for action."
"It seems this is the end," the announcer's voice trembled with excitement and tension. "Yorishon can no longer stand! Could this be his very first loss? Will Voludra become the new champion?! What a thrilling turn of events! Voludra is preparing to land the final blow—oh! Yorishon has blacked out! He's completely unconscious!"
The arena fell into chaos.
"He cannot surrender now! If Voludra doesn't claim his victory properly… he'll end Yorishon's life. Whether by declaration or death, Voludra's triumph is inevitable!"
Boos, curses, and outrage erupted like a tidal wave. The crowd turned hostile, their cheers replaced by howls of protest. Nearly every spectator had bet their hopes—and their gold—on Yorishon.
"Stop, you damned lizard!! Give up already!! You cheated!! Get up, Yorishon! Beat that beast down!!"
Voices screamed from every side, a cacophony of fury and desperation.
Voludra, unfazed by their anger, walked to the corner of the arena. He picked up the champion's sword, lifted it high into the air, and roared.
"Bear witness!! To the fall of your precious hero! The undefeated champion brought low by my hands! This victory—this moment—belongs to me alone!!"
With a savage cry, Voludra swung the blade down, aiming to sever Yorishon's head where he lay.
But the sword stopped.
Inches from Yorishon's neck.
From above the audience, someone had leapt down into the arena, landing with impossible grace.
His hand had intercepted it mid-swing.
The crowd gasped.
"At the very least," the stranger said calmly, "allow me to claim his defeat… and take his place in this fight."
"Well, well, well! What a surprise!" the announcer's voice echoed throughout the arena, full of excitement and disbelief. "A hero has arrived—epic and bold—to stop the madness before our very eyes! Who is he? Who dares challenge the soon-to-be new champion, Voludra!? Let's hear it straight from the brave soul himself!"
The previously tense atmosphere fell silent. Thousands of eyes were locked on the new figure standing proudly in the center of the arena, beside the unconscious body of Yorishon.
The silence was broken by Voludra's fierce voice.
"I don't care who you are. If you challenge me, that means you're ready to take his place. And that means... you're ready to die."
"Prepare yourself. I will defeat you—and kill you. Just like I'll did to him."
Voludra's sharp gaze locked onto his new enemy. But his enemy didn't flinch.
"Just as he said," stranger replied calmly, his voice loud and firm, "I am the challenger replacing Yorishon. But there's one thing you don't know…"
He raised one hand into the air, pointing toward the crowd that had returned to a loud roar.
"My name is Normander! And I will not be defeated here. Bet all your gold—because I swear, he won't be able to take me down!"
Cheers erupted once more. The once-angry audience was now filled with curiosity and excitement.
"There it is!!" the announcer shouted, seizing the moment. "Words full of confidence from the muscular man full of power! Can he prove it!? Give a loud cheer for… uh… Nor… Nor… NORMANDER!! Whatever his name is, make some NOIIISEE!!"
The arena roared again—an epic new fight was about to begin.
"At least there's still a chance. I almost lost all my money because of Yorishon."
"Yeah, we had no other choice."
"He's our only hope now."
"Fight, Nor-whatever-your-name-is!"
"Defeat that lizard, fish monster!"
"Normander!! Normander!! Normander!!"
The crowd cheered for Normand, who now carried all their hopes. At first, it was just a few voices—but soon, it turned into a roaring chant.
Normand could only smile and laugh as he heard the cheers. He hadn't expected Mietler's plan to go so smoothly. Still, he knew that standing right in front of him was a threat that could easily end his life.
"Wooooaaahhh!! What a crowd!! Looks like our new champion can't wait to fight either! Everyone, let's count together—Five... Four... Three... Two... One... Fight!!"
Without waiting for his opponent, Normand launched the first attack. He knew it would be dangerous to let Voludra strike first, as the lizard left no openings when attacking.
Caught off guard, Voludra was shocked by the strength of Normand's punches. They were powerful—so powerful that he chose to dodge rather than block them. Realizing he had underestimated Normand, Voludra grew serious. He drew the sword in his hand and counterattacked. But his strikes weren't fast enough to land a hit on Normand.
Normand attacked again, but this time he wasn't reckless. He knew Voludra could strike back with his sword, so he carefully maintained his distance. Unfortunately, that caution created an opening—one that Voludra exploited to launch a relentless assault. Now, Normand had no choice but to defend.
Voludra was a master of hand-to-hand combat, so he sheathed his sword and attacked with his fists. But that choice turned into a double-edged sword, as Normand was also an expert in close combat.
The two exchanged blow after blow. If the fight continued like this, Normand would win. Voludra realized it too. Occasionally, he would unsheath his sword when Normand showed even the slightest sign of distraction.
Eventually, Normand fell.
Voludra had figured out how to bring him down. By feinting with his sword, he forced Normand to dodge. And in that moment of evasion, he landed a crushing punch that knocked Normand to the ground.
"I admit—you're strong and agile," Voludra said confidently. "But that's not enough. You need a brain to defeat your enemies. And now, I'll take control of this battle."
With those words, he threw his sword toward the arena's lighting. In an instant, darkness engulfed the arena. Some of the spectators, capable of casting fire magic, began chanting incantations to summon light.
"All those who can use fire magic, follow me! Cast your spells toward the Arena—center and above!"
shouted one of the spectators. Soon, sparks began to appear among the crowd. The flames slowly gathered in the center of the Arena.
Within a minute, the fire had grown large enough to illuminate the entire Arena. The spectators cheered, finally able to see clearly again.
But the cheering grew louder and wilder when they saw Normand standing proudly atop Voludra's fallen body.
What had just happened? In mere moments, Normand had turned the tide and won the fierce battle. Voludra was defeated.
Several hours later…
Normand and Tormand were in a grand hall, surrounded by the wealthy elite. They were there to honor Normand's victory over Voludra.
Soon after, a familiar figure entered the hall, Mietler, accompanied by the Arena's medical team, who were still tending to the unconscious Voludra.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mietler began, "I believe many of you already know me. Yes, I am Mietler, the promoter of Normander, the warrior who defeated Voludra. Now, listen carefully as we reveal what truly happened during the blackout in the Arena."
Mietler then gestured toward Normand, signaling him to recount what occurred when he defeated Voludra.
"Alright then. He lost because of his own mistake," Normand began. "He thought he could win by limiting his opponent's vision—but that doesn't work against me. You see, I can see in the dark. And so can Voludra—he could still sense me even in complete darkness. So we were both evenly matched in that aspect.
But the biggest difference between us was the weapon. He used a sword, while I used this." Normand held up his bow. "A bow we crafted ourselves, paired with arrows laced with poison. This is the weapon that brought Voludra down and left him unconscious to this time. And—"
Before Normand could finish, Mietler cut in.
"Well, there you have it! Now everyone knows the power of this weapon," Mietler said enthusiastically. "It's very simple to use. Just load the arrow, aim, pull the trigger, and pow! Your enemy is defeated."
And with that demonstration, they successfully sold their weapon, along with the poison and its antidote. They earned 15,000 gold coins—a sizable amount. With the bonus from Normand's victory in the Arena, their total reached around 20,000 gold coins.
"We did it," said Tormand, counting the coins. "And it's all thanks to your plan. As agreed, you'll get 50% of the total. So, how about it, Mietler?"
"Maybe that could be enough for me to retire," said Mietler. "But that's not the kind of life I want. So, I've been thinking—I'd like to offer myself to join you. I want to see Normand reach his goal. You must have a really big purpose, don't you? Something that needs this much gold?
So let me join you, and let me help. My instincts tell me this will be an exciting journey. I'll only take 5%."
Tormand simply smiled upon hearing that.
One Month Later...
It had been a full month since Normand took up residence in the Light Arena. In that short time, he had become a legend—his name echoing through the shadows after claiming his ninety-eighth consecutive victory.
From all corners of the dark world, challengers flocked to face him, drawn by the whispers of his unmatched strength. Since his first battle, not a single defeat had touched him. He was a formidable Fisharyan warrior. He was Normander Huntra.
In just one month, his wealth surged beyond measure. He bought everything the Light Market had to offer.
The once-leaderless market had found a ruler: a powerful, indomitable force that no one dared defy. Normand now held the highest authority there, and under his rule, the Light Market flourished.
But prosperity came with a price. Crowds grew larger by the day, and space grew scarce. As a true leader, Normand saw the change and made a bold decision—he would move everything and everyone to a place vast, untouched, and free.
That place was Maldvindar. Once a land of exile where Normand had been cast away, it was now reborn. Under his decree, Maldvindar transformed into a thriving dark market almost overnight. The people followed without hesitation—for Normand was their leader, and where he went, they would follow.
All across the Light Market, people began preparing their ships. Nearly two hundred vessels stood ready, carrying some four thousand souls—every one of them a devoted follower of Normander Huntra.
They left behind the market that had once been their home, setting sail toward an uninhabited island, a land now bearing a new name: Maldvindar. With Normand as their leader and protector of the dark dominion, they moved forward, united in purpose and ready to follow him to the very end.
"I never imagined you'd bring us this far so quickly," said one of the followers, kneeling before Normand. "Now that our goal draws near, I can hardly wait to witness the destruction you'll unleash upon your enemies."
"Spare me your theatrics, Mietler," Normand replied, his voice edged with steel. "Stand up. We wouldn't have made it this far without you. All that's left is time—just a little longer until our weapons are ready. Then… we strike Falhashayr."
Anger flickered in Normand's eyes like a storm waiting to be unleashed.
"I've prepared everything," said Tormand with a grin, attempting to ease the tension between them. "If all goes according to plan, the weapons will be ready by next week. And please, stop making that hideous face, Nor. Hahaha."
A storm was brewing on the horizon. A great battle loomed ever closer.