The city was immense. From the very first step through its outer roads, one could feel this was no ordinary place. The walls of Memoria Decem rose into the sky like a promise carved in stone, and between its streets vibrated a tension even the wind couldn't calm. People stood packed shoulder to shoulder everywhere. Merchants called out, children squeezed between the legs of adults, and old warriors gazed silently up at the arena, as if awaiting not just a fight there but a memory. The mood shot skyward.
On the raised steps before the arena, the dwarf king stepped forward again. His presence alone was enough to silence even those who'd just been cheering. When his voice rang out, it was so loud and carrying that it reached every corner of the crowd.
"Folks, you're surely exhausted."
No one answered. Not because no one had anything to say, but because the king's presence was simply too overwhelming. His words didn't come across like a question—they landed like a hammer striking stone. He let his gaze sweep over the contestants, then raised his free hand slightly.
"Before we can begin, my lovely elven companion will cure your exhaustion."
Beside him, the elf stepped forward. Her walk was calm, almost arrogant, yet at the same time as gentle as a snowflake settling silently onto frozen ground. No unnecessary step, no haste—it almost seemed as though each of her movements had long been known before she even performed it. Her hands rose, and in that same instant a green glow began to play around her fingers. She spoke an incantation in the elven tongue, soft, flowing, foreign—no one but elves themselves could have truly understood those words. To everyone else it sounded like a song not meant for their ears.
Then the entire ground lit up. Green lines shot out in circles through the earth. Like a warding circle, the power spread out and drew its patterns beneath the feet of everyone present. For a single Tik, the smallest heartbeat of the flow, the world stood still.
"Wait… that fast?"
The crowd was speechless. In a single instant, every trace of exhaustion faded. Aches in legs vanished, cramped shoulders eased, even the dust in their lungs suddenly felt lighter. It was as if someone had simply stolen the fatigue from their bodies and pressed it into the ground.
Alvios blinked several times. "Well… that was impressive."
Viktoria raised her shoulders slightly, as if checking whether the tension in them had truly disappeared. Nouel said nothing, but his expression betrayed that even he had to admit the spell was impressive. Raiiko stood silently, calm as always, but he too sensed the strange purity of the Sanitas power.
"Now then," the king continued. At once the mood turned serious. "You fifty candidates will enter that arena up ahead. And only sixteen of you can qualify." He pointed with his hammer toward the arena, and every gaze followed the motion. "And one more thing," he said, his voice heavy. "Killing is forbidden and results in disqualification."
A quiet murmur ran through the rows. But the king wasn't finished. "Anyone who breaks this rule forfeits the right to ever participate in a tournament like this again, for the rest of their life."
That was no empty threat. Everyone heard it, everyone understood it. This wasn't about mindless slaughter. This was meant to prove strength. Control. Superiority. Honor.
The contestants set into motion and filed into the arena in a second row. No one shoved, no one openly pushed, and yet the same feeling sat in every step: eat or be eaten.
The king suddenly burst out laughing, as though utterly indifferent to the weight of his own words. "Have fun in there! The rest of us will be waiting in the stands!" With that booming laugh, he turned and walked to the glorious seat at the center of the stands, fit for a king. The other legends followed him, while the crowd roared and, at the same time, froze in anticipation.
Then the fifty candidates stood in the arena. And it was immense—a circular arena, large enough to swallow even organized battle lines whole. The walls were made of gray stone and rock, high and smooth, offering no hope of escape. The ground was rough, uneven, shaped from hard earth and covered in red sand that rose in small clouds with every step.
Viktoria glanced over at Alvios. It wasn't a soft look, not a friendly one. Cold. Firm. Purposeful. Then she smiled—but that smile spoke no words. It only hinted that they shouldn't fight as a team, that everyone here had to stand for themselves.
Alvios grinned back. "Yeah," he murmured, "that's the right attitude. Let's tear this place up, Viktoria."
She didn't answer. But her eyes flickered briefly, and then she turned back toward the arena.
Once everyone had gathered in the arena and not a single seat remained empty in the stands, the moment finally came. The king stood. At once all eyes turned upward, the sounds of the arena died away, and stillness fell—a deep, heavy silence in which even metal suddenly felt like a held breath.
Slowly the king raised his hand. For several heartbeats the world stood still. Everyone braced themselves. Club, knife, staff, flail, sword—metal hung in the air. Not a bone stirred, not a breath seemed to exist. Even the red sand seemed to be waiting.
Then the king snapped his hand forward. "Begin!"
The starting shot for the thirty-year-old tournament had been fired.
Alvios drew his sword. His fighting stance was already set before most others had even reacted. He charged straight at his first opponent—waiting wasn't for him, thinking could come later. The others did the same. Fights broke out everywhere. Viktoria vanished into the crowd without a word, so fast and silent that within moments she seemed swallowed whole.
Shortly after, a young man in armor attacked Alvios head-on with a sword. Alvios crossed blades with him. He was stronger. With a forward swing, hard and full of raw power, he managed to send his opponent to the ground with a precise cut, not life-threatening, but decisive. The young man slammed into the red sand, lost his breath, and stayed down.
"Who's next?"
Blood cut through the air. Battle cries rang from every side. The many footsteps churned up the red sand until dirt and dust mixed together in the arena and visibility grew steadily worse. Soon only a murky haze of earth, sand, and shadowy movement remained.
"Damn it," Alvios muttered. "I can't see anything." He took a step forward. And stumbled.
Several incapacitated contestants already lay on the ground, blood covering their clothes, sand burning in their lungs. Some coughed, some gasped for air. But they were alive.
A shadow rose up behind Alvios—the shape of a morning star. He rolled aside at once. The blow missed him by a hair and cracked the ground open beside him. Alvios got back on his feet and tried to counter. His opponent was tough, more than that, he was fast—unnaturally fast for someone wielding such a heavy weapon. The morning star swung through the air, once, twice, again and again. Alvios dodged, again and again and again. He waited for an opening, but it never came.
"Screw it." Alvios suddenly stepped back, took up a spear-like stance, and threw his sword. Dead center. In the thick sand almost nothing could be seen, but the string of attacks stopped abruptly. Alvios immediately charged, grabbed his opponent with both arms, and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Only in that moment did he realize how heavy this body truly was—too heavy for a human, impossible to execute such a technique cleanly. And yet adrenaline won out. Alvios slipped into a state that only people with a genuine fear of death fall into. No technique, no clean style, just instinct. With all his strength, he wrestled his opponent down. The stranger didn't get back up.
When the sand cleared for a moment, Alvios saw that it had been an orc he'd defeated. His sword was buried deep in its shoulder. With a hard yank, Alvios pulled it free and took it back in hand.
The noises around him grew louder. And louder. Louder still.
Two shadows emerged from the side. A lizardman, also called a Saurakai, had sunk his teeth into a woman's arm. The woman begged him to let go. His teeth had sunk in so deep they were nearly visible down to the bone. A disturbing sight. Alvios stayed ice-cold. His gaze rested on the Saurakai, who stared back in turn. For a moment neither moved—the kind of stillness in which a single wrong move could already mean defeat.
Then a roar broke through the haze from the side. One after another flew past them. Dust and sand had prevented an early spectacle between evenly matched fighters. But something large was approaching. Very large.
A massive man with crusted skin charged toward Alvios. The ground trembled with each of his steps. He stood over two meters tall, and the stench clinging to him was foul enough to stand out even in the sandy haze. His eyes were red as the ground beneath their feet. The Aether itself would have wanted to warn Alvios not to fight him. But that wasn't necessary. The giant took two steps. Then he collapsed—a knight's sword had struck him down from behind.
Before the sand swallowed the last of his sight, Alvios caught a glimpse of a blond-haired knight. Long hair, clean bearing, an elegant blade, and a crest Alvios had seen somewhere before. Only… where? He had no time to think about it further.
"Hey… if you're not careful, this is only half as fun."
A tender woman's voice whispered directly into his ear. Alvios's eyes went wide. It's not over, he thought immediately. He tried to block. At the last moment he managed at least to protect his head.
"Got it—"
Wrong. A blow straight from hell struck him in the ribs. The force behind it was immense, as if ten horses had put their full pull into that single hit. Alvios coughed, gasped, blood running from his mouth. He was flung several steps across the arena and slammed hard into the ground.
"Oops," said the unfamiliar figure from within the haze. "That was a bit too much." Then she vanished back into the thick veil of dusty earth, as if she'd never been there.
Alvios lay on the ground, one hand on his ribs. They were most likely broken. Air was no longer a friend—every breath felt like it was tearing his lungs open from within. He turned his head slightly to the side. Two glowing blades flashed out of the sandy haze. He could barely make anything out, but he saw enough to understand that someone there was cutting down multiple opponents. The figure moved acrobatically, wild, like a predator. Or like a beast.
Around him it grew more crowded. A man fell, an orc stumbled, blood and sand were barely distinguishable anymore. The clash of the blades was so loud that voices were drowned out in the din.
"I have to… keep going…" But his eyes slowly closed. "No… I haven't achieved anything yet…" His eyelids sank. And darkness reached for him.
Alvios's eyes closed. The noise of the arena grew muffled. At first there was still metal striking metal, a distant roar, footsteps, dust. Then everything grew soft, heavy, far away. The red sand beneath him suddenly no longer felt cold. More distant. As if he were no longer quite lying there at all.
"What is that voice…?" His thoughts were sluggish, frayed. He wanted to grasp them, but they slipped away like water through open fingers. "Ah, whatever… I'll try again next time."
Lost in thought, he gave up before he even fully understood that he was giving up. His body no longer obeyed him. His chest ached with every remaining breath, and somewhere in this haze of pain and exhaustion lay a bitter truth: he'd been put down with a single blow. So fast. So pathetic. And the arena knew no mercy.
Alvios. Alvios. The voice was back. Clearer this time. A man's voice. A voice he knew very well.
For a moment he thought of his father. If he could see him now—flat in the sand, buried under other bodies, unable to stand before he'd even truly achieved anything—he'd surely be disappointed. "I'm sorry," Alvios thought. "In the end, I suppose I just lacked the strength."
More opponents fell around him. One crashed sideways into the sand, another slid halfway across his legs. Two incapacitated contestants finally landed directly on top of him. The added weight pressed on his broken ribs, and the pain was so intense it felt like his lungs would tear with every thought of it. His face had taken on almost the same color as the ground.
Inside, he spoke quietly to himself, as if facing his own reflection. "I've disappointed you, haven't I? Going down in one hit… how pathetic. I hope you can forgive me."
Then everything went black.
But even through that blackness, a voice broke through.
"Get up, Alvios! Get uuuup!"
This time there was no doubt. It was Nouel. Not cold, not dry, not annoyed. Panicked. Nouel stood up in the stands, both hands clutching the railing, body leaning forward as if he wanted nothing more than to throw himself straight into the arena. From the moment the king had announced the match, he'd been watching Alvios—every movement, every hit, every mistake. And now he watched him going down in the sand.
"Get up!" Nouel screamed with all his strength. "This can't be it! You'll never become a legend like this!"
Alvios's consciousness stirred. Very faintly at first, like a spark in wet ash. "Nouel… is that you?" His mind groped its way back to the surface. Everything was still dull, blurred, but there was now more than just pain. There was something pulling at him. A voice. A will. Something that refused to let him stay down.
Nouel screamed one last time, so loud that even the roar of the arena seemed to shrink for a heartbeat. "Fiiight, Alvios!"
And Alvios woke. His entire body rebelled against it—broken ribs, numb arms, blood in his mouth, sand in his lungs. Everything in him screamed to stay down. But he let out a cry of his own. Raw. Loud. Deep from his chest. With a force born not of strength, but of defiance.
He pushed himself up. First onto an elbow, then a knee. Then he shoved off the wounded bodies lying on top of him. His sword still lay beside him, faithful as one last thought that refused to leave him. His necklace began to glow, a soft glimmer that grew stronger. Everything in him cried out for a comeback.
Through sheer will, he braced himself on his sword. Not elegant, not heroic—it was ugly, painful, grueling. But he stood. His wounded body and the hope within it rose together.
Alvios stood again.
Up in the stands, Nouel cheered for him. The Aether cheered for him. And for one brief, wild moment, the world itself seemed ready for a new fighter who might one day be written into the history books. Not because he was unbeatable. But because he got back up.
Standing back to back with another fighter, it didn't take long for the remaining contenders to notice that Alvios was on his feet again. One of the knights seized the moment immediately and swung his sword at him in a powerful strike. Blocked. Alvios's arms trembled from the impact, but his blade held. In the next instant he struck at the knight's legs—a deep, precise cut, not fatal, but devastating for balance. The knight collapsed.
Before Alvios could press the advantage, another fighter slammed into him from the side, shoving him off balance, and he stumbled again through the red sand. Then the next attack came out of nowhere. Blocked again. His instincts sharpened.
Suddenly the haze thinned a little. Not completely, but enough to reveal the true scale of the chaos. And what he saw was a nightmare. A blessing. A battlefield. And above it all, the ancestors watching. The Aether was with Alvios.
Three different opponents now attacked him at once. Blow after blow after blow, weapons crashing against his blade, a hook here, a strike there, a thrust from the side. But Alvios blocked. Elegantly, without a flicker of expression, almost dancing, almost magical. One against three. He blocked nearly every incoming weapon at once. But even that had limits. He gave way to sheer force and dropped to one knee again.
"Time," he muttered hoarsely, "to even my odds." His gaze fell on a sword lying in the sand—its owner clearly had no more use for it. Without hesitation, Alvios grabbed it. In the next breath he was back on his feet, now with a sword in each hand.
He started walking slowly forward. Calm. Seething. His vision had cleared again, his mind quieter. He slipped into a state resembling the one from the cave—and yet it wasn't the same. This time there was no panic, no blind stumbling into raw violence. This time he was master of his own body.
With heavy, controlled steps he advanced on the three opponents. Then came a flashing step, gliding like lightning itself as he broke through their defenses. They gasped in shock, panic overtaking them, forced to spin around immediately or it would be over.
Now Alvios recognized them clearly: an orc, a small elf, and a fae man dressed in red. They fought together to cover for each other's weaknesses. Cowards, Alvios thought.
The fae man rose swiftly. With fluttering ease he hovered higher and looked down with arrogance, as if he'd already outgrown the fight. Alvios's expression didn't change. Like a different person. Slowly he raised one of his swords.
For a barely visible instant, something flickered through the ground beneath his feet. Black-and-beige lines traced through the red sand like a fleeting echo—a trace, a remnant of that power which had once awakened deep in the cave. Then it vanished again. Alvios himself barely noticed. His attention rested on the blade. The runes along the metal began to glow faintly.
He spoke quietly: "Fulmen excita… per runas."
At once the engravings answered. Lightning danced along the blade. Alvios let his fury run free. "Die."
But the orc and the elf wouldn't allow it. Both lunged forward at the same moment, and in the next instant Alvios found himself pushed back into a corner. He broke off his attack, turned toward the two of them, and blocked their strikes effortlessly—he barely had to move at all. He simply stood there. "Pah," he growled. "You weaklings."
With a swift motion he swept both blades through the air. At the moment of impact, the lightning runes on his sword discharged. Two cuts struck his opponents' torsos, the current surging straight from the metal into their bodies. Flesh twitched. The elf collapsed instantly; the orc struggled to stay upright. The lightning from the blade silenced their voices in pain, the smell of burnt flesh briefly cutting through the air, mixing with dust and blood.
The elf lay motionless. The orc only swayed. Alvios's gaze stayed fixed on him. "Still standing? For how much longer, I wonder."
The orc threw his head back and roared with fresh motivation, as if the pain only fueled him further. "You runt! That's exactly the kind of shit that gets my blood boiling!"
Alvios took up his father's fighting stance. Swords at his sides, wide stance, knees slightly bent. The orc attacked with his club, from above. Alvios blocked. Countered, cut to the arm. For a moment the orc seemed almost immune to pain and attacked again at once, blind with rage. Alvios ducked beneath the furious swing—the knees were next. Two crossing cuts, clean, unhurried. Without any wasted force, Alvios cut through his opponent as if cutting through a bad decision.
"AAH! Why can't I hit him?! Hey, Karver, help me out! How much longer do you need up there?!"
The fae man—Karver—was gathering energy above the arena for a heavy attack. Alvios understood at once: if that technique finished charging, it was over. He took a step. Then a second. Then a third. The orc tried once more with a frontal strike from above. He missed. Alvios was gone.
The orc's eyes went wide as he looked around, as if the ground had simply swallowed the man whole. Then a voice came from above. "To your left. He's on your shoulder."
Panic. Mouth open, Karver tried to warn the orc. The realization came too late.
Alvios thrust his sword forward, the runes along the blade flaring. "Fulmen mitte." A bolt of lightning gathered at the tip of the sword. Compressed. Hissing. Dangerously calm. With a sharp motion Alvios hurled the energy from the blade—a bolt of lightning shot through the sandy haze and struck Karver head-on. His prepared attack collapsed instantly. Karver dropped limply to the ground. Unconscious.
The orc was now the only one of the three still standing. His face was twisted with rage and fear. "No, you bastard! Screw the rules, die!"
Alvios's answer came calmly. "You talk too much."
The orc lunged for a grab. Alvios dodged elegantly into the air. Even mid-air, Aether began to circulate, through arms, shoulders, blade—the air grew warmer, crackled, tightened, as if the space itself understood that something heavy was about to follow.
"Fulmen Caedens."
A bolt of lightning tore free from the blade. The orc cried out, his eyes turning white. Alvios landed softly, without a sound, without triumph. He walked past the orc as if it were just an ordinary morning. A breath later, the orc collapsed. Unconscious. Or already dead. The blow had been brutal.
But the fight wasn't over yet.
An arrow sought Alvios from ambush. Blocked, with a sword behind his back. He glanced behind him. A young fox-boy with a bow and arrow had apparently thought he could still claim his share of the glory. He wanted to impress his ancestors. Maybe glory. Maybe recognition. Maybe just survival.
But a single look from Alvios was enough. Just that cold, bottomless stare. Fear seized the boy. He dropped his bow and arrow. His instinct decided for him: fleeing was pointless, victory impossible. So he let himself fall to the ground, played dead, and closed his eyes in prayer, tears welling up. He hoped only to be spared. And he was. Alvios spared him.
But there was no time to think. Now it was someone else's turn.
Off to the side stood a woman with a trident. Dark blue hair fell over her shoulders, her skin shimmering in a deep ocean blue. She clearly belonged to the Sirentarii, a people from the depths. But her bearing alone revealed she was far more than just another contestant in this tournament. Her movements were calm and flowing, almost as if she moved to the rhythm of an unseen current. She could fight, and seriously so. Alvios's instinct was right. She was strong.
The woman noticed Alvios immediately. Her posture changed the instant their eyes met. She straightened slightly, shifted her weight back a touch, and raised her trident into a defensive stance. Her eyes were calm, far too calm for someone standing in the middle of an arena. She had experience. Alvios recognized that at once.
He launched a quick thrusting attack. She dodged. The movement was clean, almost elegant. Metal clashed against metal as her trident redirected his blade aside with a smooth turning motion. For a moment sword and trident locked together—a brief bind. But instead of using raw force, she resolved it with a flowing turn of the shaft, like water sliding around a stone.
But she disengaged quickly. Too quickly. With a swift spin she sent the trident circling and thrust its center prong straight at Alvios. He let himself fall backward, let the blade pass just over him, and simultaneously kicked with full force at her ribs. The hit landed. Her body was flung back, but she caught herself with the shaft of her trident in the sand, preventing a full fall. Under the impact the ground cracked slightly, dust and red sand swirling up again and briefly enveloping the two of them once more.
The runes along both swords began to glow, lightning gathering along the metal, as if the sword itself were drawing in the storm. The woman went down on one knee, one hand at her ribs, her breath heavy, strained by pain.
Alvios stepped closer slowly, his gaze never leaving her. "Get up," he said calmly. "Get up and fight." He was hungry for the fight. Every step was controlled, no breath wasted.
She slowly raised her head, bracing herself on her trident, which was planted deep in the sand. Then she began to speak. "Aqua… da mihi vim. Hostem meum dele." The air around her grew damp, as if an unseen current were rising from the depths of Lunara Aqualis.
Alvios stood still. Around them the fights were thinning out now, many contestants already incapacitated. The arena grew quieter, the number of contenders dwindling. The moment to give everything had come.
Alvios sheathed one of his swords in the scabbard on his back. Then he raised his free hand. "Fulgur lancea… per ferrum." The runes along the sword blazed. Lightning gathered along the blade, faint at first, then denser, until the energy condensed into a narrow lance of pure electricity.
She attacked first. A medium-sized orb of water shot toward him. Alvios reacted a heartbeat later and hurled the lightning lance from his blade. No explosion. The lightning pierced straight through the water and struck the sea-woman directly.
The effect followed a moment later. Her breath stopped, her lungs collapsing under the electric discharge. For a Sirentarii, lightning was especially dangerous—the electricity raced through her body as if the current itself were searching for water while simultaneously burning through her, as though it had found three paths at once.
She remained on her knees, head bowed. Outwardly, barely a wound. Inwardly, a storm.
Alvios had already begun to turn away. He was convinced the fight was over.
"Wai…t…"
Her voice was barely audible. Lightning still burned through her body. "It's… not… over."
Alvios stopped. Slowly he turned his head to the side. His gaze was cold. Disinterested. "Well then… look… at me."
In that moment, two blades began to glow behind Alvios. An explosive step. A figure shot past him like a loosed arrow.
Viktoria.
With incredible speed she rushed toward the wounded fighter. The woman reflexively wrenched her trident up. CLANG. Just in time, she blocked Viktoria's attack. Viktoria bore a few minor injuries as well, small cuts on her arms, blood on her forehead—but her gaze was alert. Alert and sharp.
The two women stood facing each other. Their expressions struck fear into anyone watching. They stared straight into each other's souls. This was, it seemed, not their first encounter.
Alvios glanced over for a brief moment. Then he turned away again. He left the fight to Viktoria.
The remaining fights gradually fell silent, the roar of the arena ebbing away. Contestants lay scattered everywhere. Orcs. Beastfolk. Elves. Humans. Dwarves. All different—and yet now all the same. Defeated.
In the stands, cheers erupted. The crowd was fired up, hungry for more, screaming for another round, more fights, more blood, more legends.
But before the noise could escalate again, the king rose. His voice cut through the arena. "Wonderful!" He laughed broadly. "Simply magnificent! The ancestors are pleased!" He sounded like someone who would have loved nothing more than to stand in the arena himself. "The qualification round is over!"
Silence followed. The survivors looked around at one another. Sixteen contestants remained. Among them stood Alvios. He had fallen. But he had risen again. His resilience had secured him a place in the next round.
The other survivors stood scattered across the arena. Among them was also the lizardman, a Saurakai, whom Alvios had noticed earlier—his face was covered in blood, but he was still standing. The blond knight had also survived, his elegant armor still gleaming despite the dust, his sword looking almost like a gift from the Aether itself, its hilt shaped like a perfect cross.
The remaining candidates: an orc, a dark elf, a shapeshifter—a Mutari—a stone man, a wood elf, a faun, a night goblin, two dwarves, a Sirentarii, Viktoria, and Alvios.
"Marvelous, my brave heroes!" The dwarf king nodded to his elven companion. She stepped forward again. As before, the ground beneath the fighters began to glow, a warding circle spreading out, its power challenging even the limits of the Aether—a force that seemed not quite of this world, and yet through which the Aether flowed. Wounds closed. Blood vanished. Pain was erased.
Alvios felt his ribs in surprise. "My ribs… they've been healed."
The king bounced up and down on the stands with delight. "What a preliminary round! The ancestors will be thrilled!" He laughed loudly. "We've watched many generations fight… but you're taking combat to a whole new level!" His companions were equally amused.
Yet three of the legendary warriors still hadn't appeared. Privately, the legends grew worried, though they didn't let it show. The king looked down again. "Now then, let's get to business—" He stopped abruptly. "Wait… hold on… since when are four of us missing?" He stared into the arena, his expression shifting suddenly. "SHRODMIR?!"
Standing in the arena was his own son. The young dwarf grinned broadly up at him. "What do you think, Father? I'm entering the tournament!"
The king rubbed his face. Then he laughed. "Fine. Then fight." He pointed his hammer at him. "But don't you dare bring me shame! The same rules apply to you as to everyone else!" Then he raised his arms. "May the best one win!"
The next round would take place in two days. All matches would be fought in a single day. Then another two days of rest.
The candidates gradually left the arena. Nouel and Raiiko were already waiting at the exit.
Alvios grinned. "Nouel! Hey! You motivated me at just the right moment! Thanks, man."
But Nouel stayed calm. Unusually calm. "Alvios… we need to talk."
The mood shifted instantly. Together they went to an inn and rested there for the night. Surprisingly, prices had actually dropped because of the tournament.
The four of them sat around the campfire. Nouel opened the conversation. "Alvios… I need to ask you something. And I hope you won't hold it against me."
Every face turned serious. Viktoria looked at Alvios with concern. Nouel looked him straight in the eye.
"Alvios… are you even Alvios?"
Silence.
Alvios blinked. "What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I am."
Raiiko spoke up. "How do I explain this…" He folded his hands. "I noticed it too."
Viktoria didn't understand.
"It's…" Raiiko continued, "as if there's a second Aether flow present in you."
Viktoria furrowed her brow. "A second Aether flow? What's that supposed to mean?"
Raiiko's gaze sharpened. He hadn't just watched idly during the fights. He'd stayed in the shadows and observed Alvios. Very closely.
"When you lost consciousness," Raiiko said calmly, "your original Aether flow vanished."
Alvios froze.
"As if it had never existed."
Nouel sat down beside him, slowly placing a hand on his shoulder. His face was full of concern. "Raiiko's right," he said quietly. "And if a living being carries two Aether flows…"
Viktoria understood now too. Her eyes widened.
Nouel finished the sentence. "…then it means something else has awakened inside you."
The fire crackled. The night fell silent.
Whatever had stirred in Alvios in that moment…
it strained toward battle.