It's been days, weeks, maybe even months. Yet, the counter hasn't gone down from the number 48. Rin and Kuroha never stopped moving. They kept walking, not sure when the next warden will try to go after them. He was still shaken from all the stuff he's discovered, but her kept going.
˝No time to stop for a break,˝ said Kuroha, voice low ˝You never know what is to come after all of this. So be cautious.˝
The skies bled quiet ash, drifting down like memories torn from gods.
Beneath the pale canopy of a sky now dimmed by centuries of unspoken war, the Arena of Requiems stood eternal—a colosseum carved not by hands, but by time itself. Its pillars towered like frozen titans, stone veins humming with the echoes of a thousand fallen. This was not a place built to entertain. It was built to remember.
There was no sun today. Only the glow of the Spire's crown, burning violet, looming above the world like the eye of judgment.
The crowd was murmuring above the walls, voices hidden in veils and shadows. Nobles, Warlords, creatures that should have died long ago. But all were silenced as the old horn blew—a sound like a dying star.
Then came the storm.
From the heavens descended the Lictors, black-armored Wardens with faces wrapped in bone and prayer threads. They did not speak. Their arrival was always an omen. And as they stepped into the sand, the crowd fell into reverent hush.
At the far end of the colosseum, a throne unfolded.
It did not rise—it revealed itself, like a truth long buried. Layers of silk and gold fell away, unveiling a presence that felt older than ruin. He did not walk to his seat; the seat bent to him.
He was the Immortal King.
Clad in robes of sun-ink and stitched moonlight, crowned with an eternal flame that burned with no heat, his presence carried weight like prophecy. His voice, when it came, echoed inside bone, not air.
"Let the Rite of Severance begin."
The words split the world.
In that moment, silence died. The Wardens moved. One of the 99—a girl no older than seventeen, shivering—was seized. She did not scream. Her eyes had already wept all the fear she had left.
She was number 48.
And her death was a signal. Her throat carved by the ceremonial blade, her body burned in ashlight. The sands drank her blood greedily, and the world… shifted.
The tower in the distance groaned, its ancient fire spiraling higher, reacting to the soul offered to the Rite.
The count had reached its mark.
And in that instant—
The wind died.
Not slowed.
Died.
The ashes froze midair, mid-fall. The Wardens halted. The King did not breathe. The sky became glass.
And from the edge of stillness, something walked.
A shadow draped in black, long as a nightmare, moved across the arena floor like a wound in reality itself. A cape dragging behind like a veil of mourning stars. A katana sheathed at his hip. Half his face concealed beneath a bone-white mask. His other eye—brilliant and glowing white—seared into those who dared look upon him. And yet none could see him.
The Wardens—beasts forged in forgotten rituals, guardians of flame and judgment—fell to their knees.
They did not know his name.
They did not need to.
Something inside them remembered.
"Praise the Flame That Does Not Sleep," one Warden whispered, forehead pressed to the sand.
"Praise the Shadow That Severs Fate," said another, trembling.
Kuroha narrowed her gaze. But even she… did not speak.
The man in black walked through them as though they were mist. Not a single footstep touched the sand. He passed the Immortal King's gaze, and even the Monarch's flame dimmed, ever so slightly.
Only one soul among the 99 recognized the sensation clawing at the back of his thoughts.
Rin.
The boy stood motionless, heart caged in frost. He didn't know why—didn't understand how—but something in his blood pulled. Like this figure's arrival had already happened. Like this moment… was a scar in time.
The man in black approached.
No one stopped him.
He stood before Rin.
And only Rin.
Leaning close, he whispered, voice a thundercloud softened by sorrow:
"When the tower burns, run. Don't be a hero."
Then he vanished.
Not walked away.
Not dissolved.
Just gone—as if the world had closed its eyes, and when it opened them again, the shadow had never been.
The ashes resumed falling. The wind returned.
And time remembered how to move.
The Rite continued, but something had changed.
They did not speak of the shadow. They could not. It left no memory in their mouths, only in their bones.
The Immortal King rose.
"Four Trials will be held. One in each cardinal ring. North, South, East, West. Twenty-five enter each. Two leave."
"Stage One: Rite of Culling."
"Stage Two: Divine Ascent. You who survive shall face the Thrones of Heaven, where each planet's God waits with blade and fury."
"Stage Three: The Prominence Oath. Those who endure the wrath of deities shall ascend as Immortal Knights. Keepers of Time. Holders of Flame. Chosen by the Aether."
"Fail," the King said, "and become ash."
The arena quaked. The Spire blazed violet. And deep below, the seals cracked. Something old stirred beneath the sand.
Four gates opened.
One to each corner of the world.
Inside, darkness.
Each participant was called by number. One by one they stepped forward. No farewells. No promises. Just silence.
When Rin's number was called, he did not look back.
He touched the place on his chest where the man's voice had echoed, and for a fleeting moment… he wasn't afraid.
Somewhere, in a time that no longer existed, he would look back at this moment.
And run.