Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The crowd's roar, once a chaotic storm of voices shouting orders, bets, and prayers, was suddenly cut short by the piercing cry of the announcer's bell.

A high, metallic chime echoed across the stone ribs of the colosseum, silencing even the most fervent spectators.

"Enough!" boomed the announcer's voice, his tone straddling the line between humor and warning. "While this sort of combat, by its very nature, will always flirt with interference, we would not want the generous nobles and wealthy men of power to find their pockets emptied by those sitting too close to the flames." He paused, letting the message sink in. "So unless you plan to return home with broken teeth and missing tongues, I suggest, for your own good, you let the boy win or lose on his own."

The threat, though laced with charm, carried an unmistakable menace. The colosseum obeyed. Voices died in throats. The gamble turned quiet.

Silence fell sharp and immediate, like cloth torn clean. It made the arena louder in other ways: the brushing of sand beneath feet, the jingle of steel, the ragged breath of the desperate. For the blind warriors, it marked a return to clarity—their domain.

The five remaining soldiers and their commander quickly tightened their formation into a narrow line, shoulder to shoulder, shields interlocked, weapons low and ready.

Order returned, but Caelvir had no time to let them settle.

The makeshift wrappings on his right arm had done little to truly stop the bleeding, serving only to delay the inevitable.

Each heartbeat was another drop lost.

His vision had begun to blur, exhaustion rattling through every muscle.

His breath rasped beneath the mask tied over his mouth, though even that cloth now reeked of old sweat and iron.

He fell to his knees near one of the bodies, biting down the pain, and scanned the corpse, then the next. Their armor was loose and not his size, their boots thicker and echoed the sharp, sand-scraping rhythm of trained soldiers.

He moved like a ghoul among the dead, crawling from one body to another, scavenging quickly: a breastplate that slipped too low on his ribs, a helmet that jangled and tilted whenever he turned his head, a longsword like theirs, and, most importantly, boots.

Sturdy and worn, they perfectly mimicked the footfalls of the blind men. He tested them in the sand.

They spoke the same language of steps.

He sheathed the stolen sword, adjusted the dagger at his waist, and though there were no mirrors in the arena, he knew he didn't need one. He looked like them, and more importantly, sounded like them enough.

The limp in his step could pass as a wound from the fight. The armor was already bloodied, and the helmet hid his face. Swallowing hard, he staggered to his feet.

He had one chance.

Shuffling forward, he limped toward the regrouped soldiers, shoulders hunched, body tilted. In a hoarse voice cracking under strain, he shouted:

"Still alive! Give me location!"

The words rang out into the silence. They could have belonged to any of them. And in the confusion born of silence, fatigue, and the trauma of comrades killing each other by mistake, it worked.

"Here, brother! Hurry up!" one of them called.

The formation shifted slightly, expecting a sixth man returning to position.

Caelvir limped closer, matching the rhythm of their boots, muffling his breath behind the mask. Blood from his arm dried in thick lines, and his injured fingers twitched uselessly, while his good hand stayed close to the hilt of his blade.

Above, the nobles had risen to their feet.

"He's walking among them," Talen whispered, unable to hide the admiration in his voice. "He's mimicking their footwork."

Masquien narrowed his eyes. "They can't verify him by face since they're blind. They rely entirely on presence and rhythm."

"They might accept him... just long enough," Venara said, eyes sharp with amusement.

"Desperation births brilliance," muttered the old noble, stroking his chin. "But he won't fool them for long."

Below, the commander tilted his head faintly, a slight pivot of the neck.

Caelvir was nearly within striking range. His legs shook beneath the stolen armor's weight, but his eyes locked on the spaces between helmets, the narrow slivers of unguarded flesh. If he could land just one clean strike...

"Six of us now," one of the soldiers muttered.

"Finally," said another. "Took your time, brother."

Caelvir nodded beneath his helmet and slid into line, shoulder to shoulder with the others. One heartbeat passed. Then another.

The commander's brow furrowed.

"There were only five of you left," he said quietly.

Caelvir didn't wait for the sentence to end.

His dagger flew from his hip, stabbing the throat of the man to his right before he could lift his sword.

Caelvir spun, the blood on his mask hiding the gasp that escaped him. He ducked under a wide swing from another, thrusting his sword into the soldier's side where armor met waist.

The man screamed, collapsed, twitched.

The commander yelled, "Treachery!"

The line scattered, formation broken. Caelvir wasn't finished.

He pivoted low, swept the legs of a third soldier with his boot's heel, sending him crashing down. Before the man could roll away, Caelvir's foot crushed his wrist, pinning it, and his blade cut a swift line across the soldier's throat. Blood spurted, catching the edge of Caelvir's helmet.

He looked up. Only three remained: two elites and the commander.

And the arena fell silent once more.

Caelvir's breath hissed behind the cloth covering his mouth. His vision flickered, the world tilting as light and dark flashed behind his eyes like stars. Still, he stood.

Venara leaned over the railing. "How long before he drops from blood loss?"

Faron didn't answer. He only licked his lips, eyes fixed on the wounded, panting warrior.

"Soon," said the old noble. "Too soon. That's his greatest enemy now."

Though Caelvir stood tall and unyielding for the moment, blood continued to drip from his right arm.

The makeshift wrappings of belts and cloth had held, but they were no miracle. Every movement strained the wound, and each breath behind the cloth grew shallower.

The two remaining soldiers stood ahead, heads shifting like animals sniffing prey, bodies tense, blades drawn. Without crowd noise, every footstep and every scrape of steel on armor became sharper.

And Caelvir used it.

He angled his body behind a fallen corpse, dragging his boots in wide arcs to mimic the steps of a wounded man.

Then he pivoted quickly, scuffing the sand behind the nearest warrior.

The soldier's ears twitched.

"Behind you," hissed his comrade to the right, his tone edged with adrenaline.

"No, he's near you," the other snapped, uncertain.

Caelvir circled swiftly, dragging his blade to scratch the stone and add to the confusion.

Their heads turned opposite directions. The tension between them frayed.

And then one of them struck.

With a wide, panicked swing, the closer soldier's blade caught his ally's shoulder, steel cracking against armor.

The wounded man stumbled back with a grunt, his blood joining the sand.

In that brief stagger, Caelvir lunged.

There was no time for hesitation. His right hand too weak for precision, he used his left, dragging the stolen dagger across the wounded warrior's throat. The blade slipped beneath the helmet's edge and sliced the flesh like fruit skin.

The soldier gurgled and dropped.

Two left: the commander, and the disoriented blind warrior.

A thundering sound followed. The commander, having heard his ally die, charged with brutal intent. His claymore, a monstrous weapon of bronze and dark iron, fell in a devastating arc.

Caelvir barely raised his sword in defense.

The impact was like a falling tree. His weapon shrieked with strained metal, and the blow sent him sprawling. He crashed into the sand, ribs screaming, air torn from his lungs.

He crawled blindly, breath short, ribs aching, blood dripping.

Then he shouted.

"Commander, what are you doing?!"

His voice carried the rhythm and tension of a soldier under pressure.

In the silence, where a man's voice traveled crisp and full, the illusion took hold.

The commander froze, blade lifted mid-swing. His head turned toward the sound.

Behind him, the final warrior shifted his foot to track the noise. The faint crunch of sand gave him away.

The commander spun toward the sound, blade ready.

A moment of hesitation. A beat. Then, brutal finality.

He swung.

Steel met neck and spine. The soldier didn't scream. He simply dropped, head rolling in the warm dust.

The commander exhaled and lowered his blade. "It's over," he said grimly.

He believed it.

But amid the drifting heatwaves and rising haze, behind scattered corpses, Caelvir was still alive crawling, dragging himself up limb by limb.

Step by step, he pressed the soles of a dead man's boots into the sand, careful and slow. He could not afford to bleed faster than his body already allowed.

Every heartbeat pounded like a drumbeat of danger.

Across the arena, the commander stood still, blade idle at his side.

Then came nothing.

No cheers. No applause.

His brow furrowed beneath the helmet. Something was wrong.

Realization hit like lightning.

His head turned.

"You son of a bitch," he snarled, words spat like venom. "You rat bastard."

He turned toward the lingering scent and echo of blood and breath.

He laughed madly.

"We trained ears sharper than knives, and handed them to liars."

A single bark of laughter became a howling fit, echoing through the domed arena.

"Well," he shouted, spreading his arms as if embracing the gods, "Now it's one-on-one, isn't it? Just you and me, huh?"

He faced the silence, addressing the presence he knew lurked there, unseen.

"Should've done this from the start," he muttered with a grin. "Formations, fancy lines, flanks and reserves are for people who can see."

He raised his claymore, pointing it toward the air. "All those strategies, polished maneuvers, they all vanish the moment your eyes go dark. You know what remains?"

He slammed the blade into the sand. The sound cracked.

"Experience and instinct. That's all a blind man has."

He grinned with a predator's hunger.

He leaned forward, voice low and cold. "Every breath, footfall, and heartbeat we track in this darkness is the roll of a dice."

"And now there's no restraint. No order. Only chaos. Only darkness."

He squared his stance.

"I'm excited," he hissed, breath curling like smoke from a forge. "It's been too long since I heard death breathing so close, just for me."

Across from him, Caelvir stood like the ghost of a man—body slack, blood crusted on his wrapped arm, dried on his face, pooled around his boots.

His clothes mismatched, borrowed armor dangling loose on his smaller frame. His breathing was shallow beneath the cloth tied over his mouth.

He looked broken.

For a moment, he stood still, a silhouette against the churned sand, chest rising and falling like a dying bellows. Then, with a hiss through clenched teeth, he straightened.

Across the sand, the commander grinned at the sound.

"Good," he growled, voice almost reverent. "That's good. You're still standing. Still clawing."

He raised his claymore, voice rising like a hymn to war.

"That means we both still get what we came for."

And so, in silence thick as stormclouds, the two faced each other—one bloodied and broken, the other blind and brutal—drawn together by fate, fury, and the final breath of a blind gamble.