Soul Forging System

"Shall I send some of our great warriors to deal with this fool?" Rikon asked, his voice low but tense.

All around the coliseum, Orc warriors bristled with anticipation. Their fists pounded against their chests, their roars shook the air, tusks glinting in the torchlight. They were ready, hungry to bathe in human blood. For glory. For recognition. Perhaps even for a chance to be noticed by the Orc Queen herself at the Capital.

The chants rose into a deafening thunder, the crowd of warriors demanding blood.

But then the Great Chief raised his hand. Instantly, the coliseum drowned in silence, as though the very air itself obeyed him. Even the torches seemed to burn quieter, the shadows trembling under his presence.

"I know all of you dogs are burning to prove yourselves," the Great Chief's voice rolled like thunder, carrying to the highest seats. "But I cannot grant you that wish. This man…" he jabbed a finger at Belanor, eyes narrowing like steel. "…is mine."

A ripple of shock surged through the crowd. Gasps. Murmurs. Then silence again, as the Chief rose.

He reached behind his throne and lifted his colossal double-bladed axe, an ancient weapon taller than most Orcs, its black steel edges carved with runes that glowed faintly red, as though drinking the bloodlust of its wielder.

Without another word, the Great Chief leapt.

The moment his massive form struck the arena floor, the ground cracked open, stone and sand exploding outward in a thunderous shockwave. Dust plumed skyward, and the coliseum itself seemed to shudder. Lesser Orcs stumbled back, shielding their faces from the blast.

The Great Chief straightened, the weight of his axe resting easily on his shoulder. His muscles bulged, veins glowing faintly with the rage boiling within him. His tusks gleamed as he snarled, eyes locked on Belanor with the hunger of a predator.

"Human…" he growled, his voice carrying the weight of war. "…I will personally crush you."

The crowd erupted in a frenzy, chanting his name, their faith rekindled in their leader.

"I genuinely hope you succeed," Belanor said, his grin sharp and mocking. "Let's both do our best, shall we? You try to crush me… and I'll try to slice you neatly in half."

The Great Chief's nostrils flared, his voice a low rumble. "Whatever sorcery you wield, human, your threads won't bind me."

Belanor raised his hands lazily, thin crimson lines glinting faintly between his fingers, catching the torchlight like strands of death itself. "These?" he said with a mock innocence. "They're only threads. Nothing fancy at all."

The Chief's grip on his double-axe tightened. A guttural grunt rolled from his chest, more beast than man, a sound that shook the air with raw defiance.

Belanor tilted his head, the smile never leaving his face. "I can feel it… the burden you carry." His gaze swept over the coliseum, then settled back on the Chief's burning eyes. "Your people's lives rest on your shoulders. Their faith… their survival." He leaned forward, voice dripping like poison. "Try not to disappoint them."

The crowd's silence was suffocating. The tension hung so thick it was almost physical, like the air before a storm.

Belanor's fingers twitched, subtle and deadly. Then, with a flick of his middle finger, the earth itself seemed to groan.

Shhhkkk!

A crimson thread shot upward from the ground like lightning. The Great Chief reacted instantly, his massive frame moving with shocking agility as he hurled himself to the side. A heartbeat later, the arena floor split open where he had been standing, stone cleaved clean in two, a jagged scar stretching high into the air.

Gasps echoed through the coliseum. Dust rained down from the cracked walls.

The Great Chief landed in a crouch, his eyes narrowing. "Tch… so you can summon those cursed threads from beneath the ground as well?" His lips curled into a grin. "If it had been anyone else, the battle would have ended right there."

Belanor smirked, threads dancing between his fingers like puppets on invisible strings. "You're sharp. But sharpness won't save you. Come at me, Orc scum."

The Chief rose to his full towering height, his presence alone shaking the spirits of even the bravest Orcs in the stands. "Okay then, human… behold the power of the Great Orcs!"

He spun his double-headed axe with a roar, the weapon howling as it carved through the air. Wind screamed. The air pressure itself warped, forcing the orcs seated behind Belanor to scatter in a frenzy. Panic filled their eyes as they scrambled, sensing the storm about to be unleashed.

And then it came.

WHOOM!

The Chief swung down with monstrous force, unleashing a slicing shockwave that ripped across the coliseum like the scythe of a god. The ground erupted in its wake, stone cracking and splintering, the very arena trembling under the strike.

Belanor dodged, but barely. The shockwave clipped his shoulder.

SHHK!

His left arm tore free from his body, spinning away in a spray of crimson mist. The force didn't stop there, the colossal arc of power carved straight through the far end of the coliseum, reducing stone seats to rubble, splitting walls as if they were paper.

Silence. Then a chorus of horrified gasps.

Belanor staggered, blood dripping freely, his smirk still somehow plastered across his face even as his severed arm fell to the shattered ground.

"I'm learning about humans," the Great Chief said, his voice booming. "Not only are they arrogant… but they also bleed."

The coliseum erupted.

"Great Chief! Great Chief!" one Orc roared. Others picked it up instantly, the chant rolling like thunder through the arena. The sound of boots stomping and shields beating with blades turned into a war drum, rattling the very stone walls.

"Great Chief! Great Chief!" they sang in unison, their voices fueled by pride and bloodlust.

Belanor stood amidst it all, blood running freely from his torn shoulder. He swayed slightly, but the grin on his face never wavered.

"That was a nice move," he admitted, his tone almost playful. "I'll give you that."

The Chief's brow furrowed. Something was wrong. No, everything was wrong.

Belanor had been smiling from the moment he walked into the arena. Smiling when he was surrounded. Smiling when warriors fell to him. Smiling even now, with blood pouring down his body. There was no pain in his eyes. No fear. No hesitation. Only that twisted, murderous joy.

"What the hell is wrong with this human…?" the Chief thought, a cold edge scraping at his confidence.

Shaking off the unease, he tightened his grip on his axe. "Let's see how you fight with one arm," he growled.

Belanor tilted his head, smirk widening. "One arm? No, no… that isn't really my style. I much prefer fighting with both."

"What are you..."

The Chief's words froze in his throat. His eyes flicked to the severed arm lying on the stone floor.

The fingers were twitching.

The arm jerked. Twisted. Danced grotesquely, spasming like the lopped-off tail of a lizard still alive with nerve. Then, with a sickening shhhkkk, dozens of crimson threads erupted from the severed flesh, writhing like the legs of some nightmarish spider.

The crowd gasped.

The threads shot across the air and buried themselves into the gory stump of Belanor's shoulder.

SNAP! CRACK! SHHHK!

With a horrifying wet sound, the arm dragged itself across the blood-slick stone, stitching itself back into place. Flesh knit. Bone realigned. Veins slithered like serpents finding their home.

Belanor flexed his restored fingers, rolling his wrist casually as if nothing had happened. "See?" he said, raising both arms again. "Both intact."

The arena fell into stunned silence, only the sound of Belanor's chuckle echoing through the coliseum.

"Now… that's payback," Belanor said darkly, flexing the arm that had just reattached with a sickening crack. His fingers twitched, and then with a sudden snap he flicked two inward.

The Great Chief's eyes flared wide. Instinct roared in his veins, danger, death. He moved without thinking, muscles coiling like a predator as he launched backward, flipping into the air just as a storm of nearly invisible threads carved through the space he had been standing.

The ground beneath split open in clean arcs, stone slabs toppling like butchered meat. Dust burst into the air.

But Belanor wasn't on the ground anymore.

He hovered above, suspended unnaturally, as if unseen strings held him aloft, just like the blood-soaked spectacle he had unleashed at the River. His crimson threads glistened in the light, weaving around him like the legs of a colossal, invisible spider. His grin widened as he glanced down.

The Orcs who had been chanting in proud, deafening unison just seconds ago never stood a chance.

The threads swept through them in silence. Heads tilted, bodies jerked, then froze mid-cheer. Their war cries choked into nothing. One by one, they collapsed where they stood, shields clattering, drums of war silenced in an instant.

Some of them didn't even realize they had died. Their eyes remained open, mouths still parted in mid-chant, as their lifeless bodies toppled into the growing sea of corpses.

The coliseum, once roaring with unity, fell into a suffocating quiet. Only the whisper of Belanor's threads sang through the air.

Hovering above them all, he spread his arms like a dark messiah. His smile was nothing short of monstrous.