The city of Laoria had not known silence for centuries. Even in victory, the air felt heavy—choked by ash, blood, and whispers. The arena was a graveyard, its sand drenched black with the blood of Fiedras, the Lord of Blood. The walls were cracked, banners burned, and the stench of corpses clung to every breath like a curse.
Word of Fiedras's death spread faster than wildfire. Yet no one celebrated. There was no cheering, no songs of triumph. Instead, an eerie unease fell upon the survivors. How could a monster who slaughtered armies fall in one night? And worse—fall not to kings, not to gods, not even to the Four Horsemen who had stood as Laoria's last hope—but to a nameless adventurer with a filthy grin and a cheap spear.
Mikael.
He sat on the broken steps of the arena, head throbbing from the haze of smoke and whatever he had taken earlier. His knuckles were bruised, his tunic torn, his entire body screaming from the fight. He stared at his bloodied hands as if they belonged to someone else.
The Horsemen stood nearby, battered but alive. They spoke in hushed tones, glancing at Mikael like one might glance at a wild animal—grateful it hadn't bitten them yet, but wary it still might.
"Don't look at me like that," Mikael muttered, spitting blood onto the stone. "I don't even know what I'm doing here."
But fate didn't care. The corpses around them didn't care. And the sound of distant horns—royal horns—meant the city's rulers didn't care either.
The gates of the arena groaned open, and a column of armored soldiers marched inside. Their banners were tattered but still gleamed with the silver crest of Laoria. At their head rode a man crowned in steel and silver, his armor polished even in the dim, smoke-choked light. His horse's hooves echoed with judgment as he halted before the ruined sands.
The crowned lord dismounted slowly, his sharp gaze sweeping over the carnage. His eyes lingered on the severed head of Fiedras, then on the Horsemen, and finally on Mikael—slumped, exhausted, and clearly no hero.
"This," the lord declared, his voice carrying across the broken arena, "is the one who felled Fiedras?"
The silence was suffocating. One of the Horsemen, the eldest among them, shifted uneasily before answering.
"He… struck the final blow."
Murmurs rippled through the soldiers. Some scoffed, others whispered. The lord studied Mikael for a long, unbearable moment, weighing him like one would weigh a blade—testing if it was worthy to wield or too brittle to trust.
Then, to everyone's shock, he bent the knee.
The metallic clang of steel followed as his entire column of soldiers dropped to one knee in unison, their heads bowed.
"The kingdom owes you a debt beyond measure," the crowned man said solemnly. "Rise, Mikael of Nowhere. Laoria names you its savior."
Mikael blinked. His body ached, his mind was fogged, and his stomach was still twisting from the high that hadn't worn off. A kingdom bowing to him? Soldiers bending their knees to him? It was so absurd he almost burst out laughing.
"...You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered, staring at them with wide eyes.
But there was no jest in the air. No smirk hidden behind the lord's lips. Only silence, ash, and the crushing weight of a crown Mikael had never asked for.
Behind him, the Horsemen exchanged uneasy looks. They had trained their whole lives for this battle, given their blood and nearly their lives for this cause. Yet it was Mikael—a reckless adventurer, a drunk, a man they had once dismissed—that the kingdom would remember.
And somewhere deep in the shadows of Laoria's ruins, eyes burned with vengeance. Loyalists to Fiedras, cultists of blood, and enemies unseen. To them, Mikael's victory was not salvation. It was an insult.
The death of the Lord of Blood was not the end.
It was only the spark.