Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Somewhere in the back of the dungeon, metal whispered against metal. A slow, deliberate schhhnk, again and again, the language of blades, twin daggers kissing each other's edge like serpents twining in prayer.

Hask sat in the dark, hunched against the stone, sharpening the edges of his livelihood. The clangs from outside echoed, steel against flesh, steel against bone, steel against screams. That sound had become something like a lullaby here, comforting in its own monstrous way.

And beneath that lullaby, another rhythm beat faintly, thump… thump… thump.

At the far end of the cell corridor, behind rusted bars, the Beast moved. The motion did not resemble a man training, but instead, something sculpting itself out of meat and will.

Pushups, the faint thump of fists hitting the stone, pull-ups on rusted bars, all of it formed a rhythm pulsing through the cell block. It wasn't far, just at the end of the corridor, a place no one approached anymore unless blood was required.

One pushup, then two, three, four, five, ten, thirty, sixty, a hundred and more.

The Beast was awake.

Three months had passed. A long, vicious, silent stretch of time since the boy had first been hurled into that pit like a sack of rotten meat, all bones and teeth and eyes too dark to belong to the living.

Yet day by day, fight by fight, the Beast grew in strength, speed and precision. The strikes that had once been sloppy and born of desperation now sang with control. He moved like a man who had studied pain and had taught it lessons in return.

Sixty dead. All slain by that sword, the Seren Blade, as they called it now, a weapon born of rumor and awe. They claimed the sword whispered its own name in the dark, and that it drank blood even before the first strike fell.

Hask didn't know whether any of that was true, and he didn't care.

But one truth remained. The Beast was no longer a boy.

And still, there was no food, no cushions, no feast of meat like the others received. No armor, no clean wraps. Just that stone cell, that stinking, echoing, godless hole.

Was it sorcery, a god's cruel joke, or worse, a god's favorite plaything? Hask had no answers, nor did he seek them; he wasn't the asking kind. But he watched, and in this place, watching was worth more than praying.

He had seen warriors break after ten fights, some even after five. The good ones lasted twenty. The monsters made it to thirty.

But the Beast had reached sixty. Still, they pushed him out like a dog, fight after fight, bleeding and grinning, his limbs learning, memorizing, adapting into something that no longer seemed entirely human.

And reputation, that snake of smoke, had begun curling through the corridors.

Two men may be matched in blade and muscle, yet the one whose name clings to tales carries a second weapon buried in the other's heart.

Fear.

And fear was the true killer.

Hask felt it—not in his hands, which remained steady, nor in his feet, which stayed light as ever—but somewhere behind his ribs, where logic could no longer reach.

He spat to the side. Tch. Get a grip, old fox.

Still, his thumb twitched against the handle of his dagger.

And behind it all, the strange silence from Brusk's side lingered. The big brute hadn't said much, but his red, simmering eyes now followed the Beast, as if weighing something heavy.

Garrik, the other monster, had begun to growl in Brusk's presence. The tension was rising. Verbal spats had started, like a chain being pulled from both ends.

Hask knew better than to take sides. He bowed his head when Brusk passed, offered his blade when Garrik barked, and bowed whenever it kept him breathing.

The moment was the blade, knowing when to move and when to strike.

Life never hands you a second chance. You either see the second... or die in the first.

The gate slammed.

Light spilled in. The time had come.

The dust of the arena, golden, crimson, and cruel, caught the air. The shouts from the stands were already hungry.

"AND NOW, BROTHERS OF BLOOD, SISTERS OF SAND!" the announcer's voice roared like a lion made of thunder, "The crowd favorite! The Killer from the Shadows, the Dual Dagger Demon, the man with seventy kills to his name! HASK, THE DUAL KILLER!"

Hask stepped onto the field. The arena floor cracked beneath his soles as his boots kicked up a breeze of blood-stained sand. The twin daggers gleamed, one straight as betrayal, the other curved like regret.

"And facing him—oh-ho-ho, by the gods' unholy breath, our fastest rising warrior. Our newest darkfire. The beast unleashed. The one who chews bones and swallows screams! The one who brought death to sixty, SIXTY! of our finest!"

"THE CANNIBAL BEAST!"

The crowd screamed.

But the announcer chuckled, "Though, seems we need a new name, aye? No feasts of flesh lately, huh? What's the point of calling a wolf by its old habits when it starts dressing like a man?"

The gate groaned open.

The Beast stepped out.

He did not roar, did not blink, and did not rush. He simply walked, the blade in his hand, the Seren Sword, as if the world already belonged to him.

Once, Hask had watched this boy crawl on all fours, sniffing for scraps, chewing bones like a dog. Back then, Hask had more muscle than him.

Now, the Beast's body was carved like a statue of war. Veins coiled like ropes, shoulders wide like gates. These were not show muscles, but warrior's muscle; the kind earned only in deathmatches and survival.

Hask could feel it—not just see it—but feel the weight of what stood across from him.

Even when the mind is sharp enough to slash truth from rumor, the heart remains a dumb beast.

And sometimes, it still believes in monsters.

The Beast was fifty feet away.

Hask twirled his daggers.

He let the wind move across his shoulders and listened to the sounds around him, his own steps, the pulse in his ears, and the thousands above.

Then came a whisper in the back of his mind.

Don't think. Don't blink. Find the moment. Own it.

His fingers tightened. The edge of his lip curled slightly.

Let the others have their rage. Let the brutes swing and bleed.