Anthesis of Sadness Chapter 126: And They Called It Sin

The gods had used us.

We were there to fulfill their prophecy, yes. To carry on our shoulders the tale they had carved into the heavens. But they had never promised us comfort. Never tenderness. Never protection.

They saw in us neither heroes, nor children, nor even beings.

Just tools.

Fragnts of power, temporarily useful.

We were not the jewels of a world seeking renewal. We were pieces. Moveable. Sacrificable. Breakable.

And once worn out, once cracked by battle, by choices, by pain... we would be replaced. Thrown off the board.

That was what we were, in the eyes of the great.

Pawns on a vast chessboard, where every move is decided by hands that do not bleed.

And yet...

In this colossal pit, in this arena devoured by noise, magic, and fervor, my eyes finally found what had always guided them.

Their faces.

My forr companions.

So had aged. Others had changed species, form, essence. A few were masked. But I saw them. I recognized them. Even through the new skins. Even through the unfamiliar postures.

So masked everything.

Perfect control, hardened, sculpted by survival.

Others, on the contrary, let it show. Let seep through what I myself had not yet admitted. A hesitation. A fracture. A deep reluctance. Like an inner voice that refused, even silently, to say: I will strike.

This wasn’t a tournant.

This wasn’t an honor.

It was a sacred betrayal.

A renunciation offered in the na of progress.

A collective murder — ritual, justified, applauded.

And I... trembled at having to choose.

Around , the crowd roared.

— Show us what you’re worth! yelled a coarse voice.

— We want blood! shouted another, followed by dozens of echoes.

So stood up, others pounded their fists against the arena’s gates, drunk on adrenaline, blind to the rising distress.

— Let them devour each other, those chosen by the gods!

Hatred vibrated in the air, carried by the screams of a people who no longer wanted heroes — only glorious victims.

I felt sothing break inside .

It wasn’t a shock. It wasn’t a clean break. It was an erosion. A slow crack that had been scratching for a long ti, that I hadn’t wanted to see. But it was there. It was spreading. And with every word, every glance cast from the thrones, every cheer from the crowd, it widened a little more.

An anger.

Not a sharp anger.

Not a fire that bursts all at once.

An old fire.

Muted.

Accumulated.

A fire I had contained for far too long, because I had wanted to believe. In them. In this world. In this tournant. In the idea that all this had aning. That our suffering would give birth to sothing greater.

But it wasn’t true.

They didn’t want us to beco.

They wanted us to fall.

And everything inside scread.

Not my lips. Not my voice. But every nerve. Every bone. Every mory I had tried to make gentle. I felt them, one by one, turning. Hardening. Bracing themselves against the very idea of continuing to believe.

I hated this world.

I hated this sacred circus.

I hated those thrones.

I hated those absent gods who had nad us, then forgotten us.

And Xylorath.

Xylorath...

I hadn’t yet seen his appearance.

In the curve of the rules.

In the scent of spilled blood.

In the very architecture of this betrayal.

He had taken Anthony.

But more than that, he had taken what I was.

What I could have been.

What I was still trying, despite everything, to protect.

And I felt it, in my hands, in my breath: the gentleness... was fading.

It slipped.

It bent.

It gave way.

Not all at once. Not completely. But it was no longer alone.

Sothing else was rising.

Sothing darker.

An image crossed my mind, fleeting: that of a mirror cracking, slowly, from the inside.

And behind it, it wasn’t my reflection. It was a creature with empty eyes, a frozen smile, looking at as if it knew what I was about to beco.

It no longer needed gentleness. Only bite.

Sothing that, to survive, would have to strike.

Then, in the middle of that muffled tension, of that rising hatred I could no longer contain, sothing grabbed .

A hand.

My arm.

I looked down, a bit abruptly, as if the world around had been erased in a single stroke.

It was Lysara.

She said nothing yet, but everything in her already spoke. Her hand trembled. Not from cold. Not from fear. But from that fragile balance one no longer controls. She, who usually stood straight, impassive, almost sculpted in cold blood, had contracted fingers.

I felt her warmth against my arm, unusual, almost feverish.

The tallic scent of blood, carried by the wind, mixed with the softer, more intimate scent of Lysara’s skin.

A note of ash. Of fear.

The roar of the arena grew more muffled, filtered through this single contact.

And above all... her eyes.

Her eyes, usually so flat, so controlled, so unreachable, were about to break.

I thought I saw a tear. Or a hesitation. Or perhaps what, in her, passed for a prayer.

— You have to do sothing, she said, her voice nearly broken.

Her throat no longer vibrated with the sa clarity. Her breathing was short. Jagged. A voice that wanted to scream but no longer had the space to do so.

— There’s sothing wrong... Only you can save him. Again.

Again?

The word struck. Deep.

I froze.

Not because of the phrase. But because of what it awakened in without yet knowing why. Why was she speaking to like that? Why did those words, in her mouth, sound so right, so sharp, so painful... when they shouldn’t an anything?

She wasn’t a naive child.

She had never been.

And her voice didn’t tremble for nothing.

— I can’t explain it to you... not now.

She turned her head slightly. But her hand gripped tighter.

— But please... do sothing.

I didn’t answer.

I slowly raised my eyes to him.

To Lukaris.

To that being sitting there, a few ters away, whose na, history, or gestures I did not know. But whose void had been calling since the very first mont.

And I saw.

Not a look.

Not an emotion.

I saw absence.

He wasn’t looking at the world. He passed through it.

His eyes caught nothing. Not light. Not shapes. Not life.

It was as if everything around him flowed... without ever reaching him.

As if even reality had lost its grip on him.

And everything inside scread that if he fell again...

He would not co back.

But I didn’t have ti to understand.

No ti to answer Lysara.

No ti to form the question burning in my throat, nor even to complete the gaze I cast on him, on that void consuming him.

Soone drew their weapon.

I didn’t see who.

I didn’t need to.

The sound was louder than all the screams, clearer than all the words. A simple tallic click, dry, precise, brutal. The cry of a blade leaving its sheath, loaded with intention. A sound that, in this arena, resonated like a call to murder.

And that was the beginning.

Without preamble. Without official order. Without starting cry.

Chaos.

The uproar returned all at once, stronger than ever. Like a raging sea held back too long. The crowd exploded. Banners were torn. Nas were shouted. Spells burst forth. Bodies hurled into the red dust.

The battle had begun.

And the world, once again, had cut us off.

But the one who had drawn didn’t even have ti to strike.

I didn’t see where she ca from. The figure appeared like a flash without light. A black breath. A rupture in the air.

A form. Fast. Wild. Unstoppable.

The troll didn’t have ti to understand. His gaze barely rose, frozen in an expression almost absurd, between challenge and surprise. And the next mont... he collapsed.

His head had been severed.

Clean.

It rose into the air like a grotesque offering, slowly spinning, still animated by the montum of its own scream. Then it fell into the red dust, bouncing once with a dull sound.

Silence fell.

A muffled silence, almost sacred, as if the world had forgotten how to breathe.

Even magic went quiet. Even the wind hesitated.

Only the blood could be heard... steaming.

A rain of purplish blood rose in a column, then fell again in thick drizzle.

Droplets reached the front rows. I saw a child step back, screaming, his cheek splattered. A woman burst into hysterical laughter.

The ground was already sticky. The blood stead.

And in that thick vapor, the spectators rose as one, electrified.

— Lukaris! Lukaris!

— Lukaris! Lukaris!

— Lukaris! Lukaris!

A cry. A na. A vertigo.

The ground was soaked with it.

And facing that mute carnage... the figure didn’t move.

My mind couldn’t keep up.

Part of scread it was murder. Another... admired it.

Why?

Why did that gesture chill as much as it drew in?

Why did that monster... seem more real than anything around it?

It stood there. Unyielding.

Its hand — or rather its claws — still hung in the void, dripping. It didn’t tremble. It didn’t rush. Slowly, with almost ceremonial precision, the creature brought its bloodied fingers to its mouth.

And it licked them.

One by one.

Without emotion.

Not to clean. Not by reflex.

But to savor.

Its gaze rose, finally. It swept over the arena, unhurried, without urgency, without hatred. A black gaze. Deep. An endless night.

And I understood. It was him. Lukaris.

An onyx-faced elf crossed herself slowly, trembling lips.

A goblin burst into tears, on his knees, head in his hands.

A centaur gripped his spear... but didn’t move.

None of them knew whether to flee, strike, or kneel.

In this arena, twelve races were gathered.

Twelve peoples. Twelve cultures. Twelve ancient histories laid here like the pillars of a world that still pretends to balance.

Goblins.Humans.Elves.Dwarves.Trolls.Giants.Demons.Angels.Vampires.Centaurs.Dryads.Beastn.

All gathered in this place saturated with screams, magic, and dust, co to witness the promise of blood and greatness.

But a single figure, in the middle of that divided chaos, drew their gaze.

The stands stopped vibrating under applause. A common breath passed through the crowd.Not respect. Not admiration.

Fear. Pure. Rational.

I saw a dwarf step back, fingers clenched on his axe. An angel crossed himself. A dryad whispered a prayer in a language I didn’t understand.

Even the winged beasts circling above the arena backed away.

Only one.

And it wasn’t the common enemy.

It wasn’t the designated rival.

It wasn’t even a mber of a different race.

It was him.

Not a being. A beast. Lukaris.

He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t raised his arms. He hadn’t threatened. But what he had done, what he had embodied, was enough. He had beco an anomaly. An imbalance. A vertigo in the established order. And the gazes of the twelve peoples converged. First by reflex. Then by decision.

And suddenly, I understood. I understood what Lysara ant.

He was no longer her father.

He was no longer Lukaris.

He wasn’t even a vampire anymore.

He was sothing else.

Sothing that had renounced being nad.

Sothing that ancient texts would describe not as a man... but as a breach. A crack in the logic of the world. An anomaly so powerful it could only be rejected.

It was a curse.

A curse that had taken shape. And everyone, instinctively, knew what to do when faced with a curse. Extinguish it.

And in the silence that followed, sothing even more terrible occurred.

A whisper.

— Lust...

One voice, first. Then another, farther.

— Lust.

The word coiled around itself, slid between throats, slipped under helts and masks, crossed races and beliefs.

— Lust...

It was no longer a na. No longer a race. No longer a being.

It was an incarnation.

A vertigo.

A scourge that the ancient texts would never have dared to na with a given na.

It was sin, made form.

Temptation, made verdict.

And in the heights of the coliseum, even the proudest, oldest lords stood still. So looked away. Others... stood.