Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Caelvir and Aelric walked side by side, their steps echoing softly against the stone floor. The corridor they passed through was dim, shielded from the sun's reach, though the flicker of torches set in iron sconces lit their way with a steady flame.

"What an honor," Aelric said with a smirk, "to walk beside the Blade King himself."

Caelvir sighed and swept a hand in the air as if to push the words aside. "Aauh… so you mock me too, out of all people."

Aelric let out a hearty laugh. "Just a jest. A joke from a friend."

But then his tone changed. "Still, you performed spectacularly. Your title is your name. They're not meaningless. Very impressive. Though," he added with a tilt of his head, "I doubt such things mean much in this tier."

Caelvir didn't respond immediately. Silence lingered for seconds. Then, with a flat voice, he said, "I didn't choose them. And whether they carry on from one arena to the next is of no interest to me."

"It should be," Aelric replied. "Names are reputation. They're reflections of who we are to the people around us. Some names... they carry the weight of a man's will turned into words. But what we do, and what we endure, that's a better mark of our will than any dream spoken aloud."

There it was—that shift in Aelric. The teasing wisdom, the knowing tone of an old man who enjoyed the game of guiding thought like a river down a valley. Caelvir didn't mind. He welcomed it, even. Aelric had saved his life, healed his wounds, and shared his food with him. And ever since, he'd spoken with the ease of a friend and the weight of someone worth listening to.

"That's why I already have a name," Caelvir answered. "The ones given to me by men who cheer for my victories one day and chant for my death the next... that's not a title I wish to carry."

Aelric smiled, satisfied, and let his gaze drift to the sword sheathed at Caelvir's side.

"But I suspect someone would be proud of the name of that blade."

No words followed that. None were needed.

After a pause, Aelric gestured ahead, lightness returning to his voice. "A better place, don't you think? Should feel refreshing."

Caelvir nodded. "Yeah. Cleaner air. Cleaner floors. More light. More freedoms. Feels less..."

"... depressing, right?" Aelric finished for him. "White floors instead of ones as dark as coal."

Then he smiled and added, "And I think the same might be true about you."

"You could say so..." Caelvir said, letting a faint smile bloom. Seeing Aelric again had done something strange to him—lifting him perhaps? There were few things that could stir his emotions these days, but some people brought light with them, whether they meant to or not.

"This place smells of sweat and blood," Caelvir added, "more than it smells of infection and rot."

He shifted the subject, voice changing tone.

"By the way... how did your last fight go?"

Aelric stroked his beard. "Hmm... strong opponent. A beastman."

Caelvir's brows twitched. He hadn't yet faced one. In the Dust, he fought more half-giants, in all their shapes and sizes. But beastmen? They were Arcelian natives, residents of the Heights. Natural-born warriors, people rumored. Fighters of instinct and keen senses, especially smell. He'd heard tales of them, but rarely saw one in the Dust Arena.

Here though, in the Iron, he'd seen more.

He didn't press Aelric for details. Instead, they reached the corridor's end, sunlight bursting in dazzling rays. The clash and clang of metal met their ears.

"This is the practice field," Aelric said.

The training grounds stretched vast under the sun, filled with equipment and echoing with sweat and exertion. Dozens of gladiators trained under the open sky, their blades swinging in deadly arcs.

Caelvir followed Aelric to the edge, where stone blocks served as crude seating.

"People train hard here," Aelric said, settling down. "It'd be a shame to regret one's shortcomings when the pit calls."

They sat in silence, watching the strikes tearing the air and splashing sand. The gladiators moved with a fire, a warmth that reminded Caelvir of Valkira's presence. Their aura wasn't visible to naked eye, but he could feel it emanating like heat from sun-baked metal.

The fighters here were sharper and stronger. He could see that much from the movement of their blades.

He turned to Aelric beside him. His lips parted, but words didn't come.

Aelric noticed. "Hmm?" he asked. "Something troubling your mind?"

Caelvir slowly drew his sword—the Sword of Seren. He gripped the hilt with his right hand, and with his left, he grasped the edge of the blade... and pulled.

The cut was quick, the blood immediate.

Aelric's smile vanished.

Caelvir extended his bleeding hand.

The wound was deep. Blood poured freely at first.

One moment. Two. Three... four... Five.

The bleeding slowed. The crimson stream weakened and stopped gradually.

The skin mended, though not perfectly since a few faint scars remained, and even those faint scars were fading with every passing breath.

"This started after my final fight," Caelvir said. "I was almost dead. And then... I wasn't. I thought it was gift from the Gods or a pity from the Devil. I thought it was a one-time miracle, but this as you see, my flesh keeps regenerating."

He looked at his hand. "My body... it feels different. Something's changed. I can feel it."

Aelric leaned back, watching him carefully.

"I saw your last fight," he said.

Caelvir raised a brow.

"I saw what happened," Aelric continued. "This is Regeneration."

"Regeneration?"

"I've only heard of a few who possess it. Some half-giants possess this kind of talent. And... some very few number of humans possess this ability. Nobles of ancient houses as far as I know."

"So it's not common," Caelvir said flatly.

"No. It's not."

Caelvir looked down at his palm again. "Could it be... after all those times you healed me in the cells, I picked it up somehow?"

Aelric chuckled. "That's not how it works, young man. But I wouldn't mind taking credit."

Caelvir laughed with him. "Ungrateful. I try to credit you for a miracle, and here you are, laughing at me."

Aelric offered a grin. "Forgive me. But you should understand: noble blood carries wings. Talents, magic, even miracles are born from it. The purer the blood, the greater the potential."

He sighed. "Those without such blood... they must work harder, suffer more, and often risk everything for what a noble is given at birth."

Caelvir interrupted, "But it's still possible."

Aelric's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes. But you must ask yourself... at what price?"

Caelvir froze. A darkness grew in his pupils, eyes widened to the limit.

"Pure blood..." he clenched his wounded fist. "All anyone talks about is blood."

Aelric noticed the tremble, the sweat on Caelvir's brow. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Caelvir replied quickly.

"I was saying," Aelric resumed gently, "that even with effort, most will never reach what pure blood allows. And even among nobles, there's a ladder. We are born to live, not living to be born."

He looked at Caelvir, and for a moment, his gaze softened. "Yet here you are. A young man with regenerating flesh."

"I... I am no noble," Caelvir said. "I have no name. I belong to no House."

He spoke no lie.

"Strange," Aelric murmured.

Maybe he believed Caelvir's words. Or perhaps he saw it in his body, in the way he held himself, seeing the honesty in his eyes. Truth didn't always need proof.

"So... you have no idea? No other theory?" Caelvir asked, almost pleading.

Aelric paused. "I can give you two answers. A wise man's and a fool's."

"Both," Caelvir said, smirking faintly. "I've always wanted to meet the fool version of you."

Aelric laughed.

"Well then," he began. "For a fool's answer... Perhaps you were right. After all these fights, near-death experiences, and getting healed, perhaps it accelerated your body's natural healing system. Maybe it is related to magic, the realm beyond. And magic and will are brothers and sisters. Perhaps your will to live, desire to stand, made a sudden wish come true in this form. Or there could be a mixture of both"

Caelvir blinked. "That... that's the fool's answer? It's clever."

It helped, strangely. To have possibilities and thoughts to explore. Anything was better than the idea of blood alone.

"And the wise man's answer?" he asked.

Aelric looked out across the training field.

"I don't know," he said.