Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

Aelric was a wise man. One of those rare souls Caelvir felt he could ask anything, and the answer would come. Despite all of that, even Aelric didn't have all the answers.

Caelvir's gaze drifted down to his palm, now fully healed. Then it rose again, settling on the fighters before him, training under the sunlit courtyard. Two gladiators sparred fiercely, iron flashing between them like lightning bolts.

"Three blades of Iron," one muttered mid-swing.

"Two walls of Iron," the other replied, strange words to exchange in a fight.

A hand landed gently on Caelvir's shoulder. He turned. Aelric stood beside him, brow knit, voice shaded with caution.

"Cael, my friend," Aelric said, "this… thing, this gift of regeneration, it may feel like a blessing, but it can just as easily be a curse."

Caelvir straightened, more focused now.

Aelric's tone deepened. "Don't let it deceive you. Just because your flesh can heal on its own doesn't mean you're invincible. Never drop your guard."

"Do not hurt your body. And do not let your body get hurt. Your body is a temple, Cael. And even a temple that rebuilds itself needs care. It needs its Lord to be at peace. A house crumbles when its Lord truly dies."

Caelvir could see it then, beyond the words lay the worry in Aelric's eyes. A warrior who leans too heavily on a blade is nothing when stripped of it. And this regeneration was a blade of its own, unreliable in its mystery and untested in its limits. Gambling on it was foolish.

Imagine a man who forgets to dodge, to parry or to sidestep, just because he thinks he cannot die. His skill may not fail him, but his judgment will. Such a man becomes a prisoner of arrogance. Even if the enemy cannot kill you, they can still bind you to torture you, and without death to rescue you, that torment could last forever.

That was the true horror. The pain didn't go away. The regeneration only healed the wounds. It didn't numb them. It didn't spare him the fatigue or the exhausted burning muscles. Even after his final fight in the Dust, though his wounds had closed, his breath had not returned. He had never felt so much tired.

Caelvir knew the truth. Everything in this world had a cost. Nothing came freely—not even the so-called blessings of the gods. He didn't believe in gifts, only in deals. And the cruelest deals were written in blood.

No blessings from the Gods. Only deals with the Devil.

One devil was time. We trade our years for gain. Another, more sinister still, is endurance. What we sacrifice to survive.

He stopped his thoughts from sinking deeper.

Caelvir leaned back, his eyes catching the hilt of his sword beside him, leaning against the wall like an old comrade.

Aelric's gaze followed. "That blade," he said softly, nodding at it, "has drunk more than its fair share of blood." His voice held no distaste. "The edges are rough now. A blade no longer sharp is of no use."

Caelvir reached for it out of reflex, his fingers brushing the metal. The nicks were small but plenty, each one a memory. He hadn't noticed before, or perhaps hadn't cared to. Steel ages just like everything else.

"I used to hone it," Caelvir said, half to himself, "with my daggers." But time had a price. And this blade had paid it.

Aelric's eyes stayed on him. "You had chances to take better swords, didn't you? Many of the ones you faced must've carried sharper steel."

Caelvir said nothing in response. He hadn't thought about it. The sword of Seren fit his grip too well, the weight familiar. And he'd always favored speed. Daggers, he collected those. They were light, efficient, and fast. One could finish a fight with a good toss and a quick stab. They had saved his life in the last match.

How about heavier gear? Armor, helmets, plated guards? Those did not fit his style.

"Muscle remembers," Caelvir said at last. "And I trained mine to remember this weight."

Aelric gave a thoughtful nod. "There was a claymore in the sand, you know. After the match, many looked at it like they'd sell a piece of their soul to wield it."

Caelvir blinked, confused. "Claymore? There were plenty."

Aelric turned to him, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. A short laugh escaped him.

Caelvir narrowed his eyes. "Huh? What's that for?"

"Nothing," Aelric said with a dismissive wave, still chuckling. "Nothing at all."

"Uh-huh." Caelvir raised a brow.

"Come," Aelric said, brushing the air with a light wave, "let's go see the other sections."

They stood, leaving the training grounds behind. Back through the corridor, steps echoing off stone.

As they neared the main hall, a figure caught Caelvir's attention, a man barely clothed, his immense body on full display. He was tall and towering, hair long and brown, hanging wild. One eye green and gleaming, the other blind and pale. His chest rose like a hill, his presence suffocating.

He smelled… strange. This wasn't the smell of blood or sweat or of urine or filth, which Caelvir knew very well. It was a weird smell, a sharp, rotting stench, sulfurous in nature probably.

Two men flanked him, one on each side. They looked like worthy fighters too, without a doubt.

The man didn't stop. He pushed between Caelvir and Aelric, not even breaking stride. His shoulder rotated slightly as he passed, enough to shove them aside.

"In the way," he muttered, a grating arrogance in his tone.

Caelvir turned, watching him walk away. On the man's back, half-hidden beneath a thick cloth strapped over what was likely a claymore, he glimpsed markings branded on him, likely a sigil of a House.

A lion?

Indeed, that probably was a sigil of a noble house, the kind given to gladiators who'd survived their hundredth fight in the Dust Arena. Kill a hundred, and the nobles might take notice.

The man had passed that mark. Who knew how many he had slain?

They watched him approach a corridor guarded by armed sentries. The guards stiffened at his presence, eyes narrowing, then softening, showing respect as they recognized the lion sigil of the man branded on his skin.

"I'm bringing these two with me," the man said without stopping.

The guards exchanged glances, then nodded. "Alright. You can go."

The barred gate lifted. The three men disappeared into the passage beyond.

Caelvir stood still, eyes following.

Aelric turned to him, lips curled in amusement. "That's the entrance to the higher training grounds. Being branded by a noble house comes with… perks."

He smiled, knowing the thoughts stirring in Caelvir's mind.

Caelvir quirked a brow. "Ah, and who branded you, wise monk? I forgot to ask."

Aelric laughed. "Well, that…" he leaned in, voice lowering to a whisper, "is a secret."

Caelvir smirked. "Alright, old man. Keep your secrets."

"Let's see the lavatory, shall we?" Aelric said.

Caelvir blinked. "Lavatory? There's a toilet room here?"

"Yes," Aelric said matter-of-factly. "Sanitation is of utmost importance. And unlike in the Dust, here we enjoy taking a proper and... relaxing sit."

Caelvir grimaced. In the Dust, relieving yourself meant a dark corner of your cell. Venara's home had offered him luxury with golden bowls, scented papers, and even liquids to cleanse. But when survival ruled all, the floor was as good as any throne.

"Infection kills faster than blades," Aelric noted, then added with a grin, "Be sure to wipe your butt properly."

He burst into laughter.

Caelvir hadn't seen this side of him before.

Aelric led the way, down another corridor facing the training grounds. Left turn. Right. Another left. Then they arrived.

The room was wide, open, airy in design. Long stone benches with smooth, evenly spaced openings. Beneath them, a shallow water channel gurgled faintly. The scent of herbs lingered, strong and ever-present. The air was clean. Men were already inside, some seated, some standing, their swords rested against the wall beside them. They chatted easily, bragging about fights while relieving themselves of other pressures.

"Please, take your seat first, Your Majesty the Blade King," Aelric teased.

"Oh shut up, old dying monk."

"I'm not that old!" Aelric replied, laughing.

They sat side by side.

Aelric sighed. "Finally. We've reached the heavens."

"Blasphemous thing to say for a monk," Caelvir replied.

"The only blasphemy here," Aelric retorted, "is the lack of a hot bath afterward."

Caelvir chuckled. "You've mistaken the colosseum for a mansion."

"Have I? I'm sure higher-tier colosseums have hot baths. Just toss in some water, embed a fire crystal, and voilà."

Caelvir smiled. This was a different Aelric than the wise sage he usually followed. He seemed lighter now. This version of Aelric was that of a free man.

"I wouldn't mind a hot bath myself," Caelvir admitted.

They shared a quiet moment of peace.

It felt unreal. Just yesterday, it seemed, he had been starving to death in the Dust, barely able to do a single push-up, surviving only through scraps of kindness, and offering the same, even when it might kill him.

Now, he sat in peace with a reliable friend, shitting in a clean room.

The world had changed.

The arena was still a cage, but the cages came in tiers.

In the Dust, survival was the only concern. In Iron, more concerns appeared. Higher standards of living approached him with strange new comforts.

More comforts meant more emotions, and that meant more room for them to laugh and tease each other.

But Caelvir reminded himself, don't be fooled.

Dust is a cage.

Iron is a cage.

Although they were not the same.

A thought passed through Caelvir's mind uninvited.

The moment he had lowered his sword—when he rejected the Queen's offer.

"Was it foolish of me to do that?"

"To reject the royalty?"

Caelvir nodded.

"Well…" Aelric said after a pause, "yes."

There was no lecture or riddle to solve. There came no softened edge from Aelric to hide the blunt truth.

Aelric's voice changed, turning quieter in volume and more thoughtful in tone. "But it was odd for the Queen to make the offer in the first place."

He glanced at Caelvir again. "I wonder... was there any reason you didn't raise your sword to her?"

Caelvir's lips curved slightly.

"Let's say… it's my secret this time."

Aelric looked surprised, but it didn't take long for his confusion to turn into laughter. "Alright young man. I guess we're even now."