Bright Shadows (Born As Fear, Forged By Pain)

"Stop running!" Cube growled, his frustration mounting. He stepped back, eyes narrowing as his breath grew heavier. The veins on his arms pulsed unnaturally as if his rage was fueling something deeper. The air around him thickened with an ominous pressure.

Cube clenched his fists, and the markings of his blessing began to glow faintly, spreading up his arms like molten fire. The crowd gasped as his body tensed, his muscles swelling slightly.

"Well, that doesn't look good," I could only whisper.

With a roar, Cube charged, his speed almost doubling as his blessing kicked in. I froze momentarily, realizing too late that there was no room to dodge. Cube's fist sailed toward my face like a freight train, fueled by pure, unbridled rage and the intent to kill.

"Die."

Then it happened.

As Cube's fist came within inches of me, an invisible force rippled outward, freezing Cube mid-lunge. His momentum carried him forward, but his body suddenly spasmed, and his eyes rolled back. Before he could even register what had happened, his entire frame collapsed like a lifeless puppet, crashing toward me with a lot of momentum, and that's the last thing I remembered.

***

The arena fell silent.

Mords's body lay motionless, his chest eerily still. The crowd murmured in confusion as a few brave souls pointed at him, shouting, "He doesn't look like he's breathing!"

Mords's forward momentum had sent his massive fist crashing into Kyler's face before the knockout. The impact sent Kyler sprawling backward as he hit the ground with a heavy thud, his nose now leaking, dripping with a thick, viscous, golden liquid.

The healers rushed in immediately, tending to both Mord and Kyler. The murmurs in the crowd grew louder as some noticed the shimmering hue of Kyler's blood. Confusion rippled through a few of the close spectators, but among the crowd, a few faces twisted in hostility.

"What… is he?" someone whispered harshly.

"He's not human," another voice spat, their words laced with suspicion.

The healers worked frantically on Mord, reviving him with a series of CPR compressions. His chest heaved suddenly as he gasped for air, but his expression was vacant, his strength completely spent.

Kyler, still unconscious, lay limp as the golden blood dripped onto the arena floor, its sheen catching the sunlight. The sight sparked hushed debates and sharp glares from the close crowd.

"That can't be…"

"I have never seen him bleed before."

"Is he one of them?" a voice hissed venomously.

A few others nodded, their gazes filled with unease and mistrust.

Caesar stepped forward, his golden blonde hair catching the light as he raised both hands, commanding the crowd's attention. His piercing blue eyes swept over the arena, silencing most of the murmurs with a single, sharp glance.

"Enough! Announce the results!" Caesar barked, his tone cold and authoritative.

The commentator, caught off guard, fumbled to regain control of the moment. "Y-yes, you heard it here first! The duel is over. The outcome is clear: Kyler wins. Mord was the first to be knocked out. The Hollow King emerges victorious!"

The crowd's murmurs continued, clearly unsatisfied.

"I didn't even see what he did."

"How did Mord get knocked out?"

"Did you see?"

"No, he must have moved too fast for our eyes."

"Even if he has amnesia, he's terrifying."

"How did he even get injured then?"

Caesar moved with precision, descending toward the front rows where those closest to the arena had seen Kyler's shimmering golden blood. He stopped in front of a man whose face still twisted in confusion and unease.

"You." Caesar's voice was quiet but laced with a dangerous edge. The man flinched, his eyes darting between Caesar and the retreating healers. "You saw something unusual, didn't you?"

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Caesar interrupted with a sharp smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's in your best interest to forget what you saw."

He slipped a small pouch into the man's hand, the weight of coins unmistakable. "Consider this a reminder to keep your observations… private."

Turning to another group of onlookers, Caesar's expression darkened further. For those who didn't seem swayed by bribes, his tone took on a sharp, threatening edge.

"I would advise against sharing rumors that could lead to… complications," he said, his smile gone. "It would be a shame if such words brought trouble to you or your families."

The spectators paled, nodding quickly, their fear evident. Satisfied, Caesar straightened and turned back toward the commentator's booth.

The announcer, oblivious to Caesar's dealings below, continued with exaggerated flair. "What a fight, ladies and gentlemen! Kyler has proven unmatched once again. Let's hear it for our champion!"

As the crowd's applause grew half-heartedly louder, Caesar shot a final glance at the arena. The healers were already carrying Kyler and Mord toward the sick bay. Caesar's shoulders tensed slightly as he muttered under his breath, "This is going to be a problem."

He turned on his heel, following after the stretchers.

***

Kyler stood in the shadowed corner of a chamber, unable to move, unable to speak. He was just an observer, watching a figure bound to a stone pillar in the center of the room. The man—his face streaked with dirt and blood—was trembling, his features blurred, his breath shallow and ragged. Kyler's chest tightened with an unknown anguish as he watched.

The room was cold and dim, the only light coming from the flickering torches along the walls. The man's eyes were hollow and cold, lifeless. The chains binding him were taut with tension. He was helpless.

Figures moved around him, silent and faceless, their movements smooth and practiced. One of them stepped forward, carrying a long, thin blade that gleamed in the torchlight. The blade was sharp—sharper than anything Kyler could imagine. It was pressed into the man's skin without hesitation, slicing through the flesh like butter. A sharp gasp escaped the man's lips, but there was no room for mercy. The blade was dragged across his chest, leaving a deep gash that bled freely, staining his torn clothing.

The man cried out, his voice breaking under the strain of the pain, but it wasn't enough to end it. The figures weren't done. They worked in unison, taking turns, never hurrying, never pausing. The man's cries fell on deaf ears.

Kyler's heart pounded in his chest, a strange mix of pity and helplessness gnawing at him. He wanted to scream, to shout, to tell them to stop, but there was nothing he could do. His body was frozen, an unwilling witness to this grotesque display of cruelty.

And then, it happened. The scene shifted, but not in a way that brought any kind of relief. The man, his chest still raw and bloody from the blade's touch, was reset. His body seemed to return to its original, unmarked state. But now the air was thicker, darker, and the man was again shackled to the stone pillar.

The figures reappeared, but this time, they didn't carry blades. One of them held a heavy, rusted device, a mechanism designed to crush. The man's eyes widened in fear as it was placed around his legs. With a cruel twist, the device began to tighten, slowly and deliberately, crushing his bones with excruciating slowness. The sound of cracking bone echoed through the chamber, followed by the man's silent scream.

The pain visibly grew worse. The device tightened more, the crushing force unrelenting. The man's legs began to buckle under the pressure, his body trembling as he cursed the world with his mumbling.

Why me?

Why me?

WHY ME?

WHY ME?

Kyler's chest constricted in sympathy. It was the same suffering, but different. A new form of agony, a new torture to break the man.

But the scene didn't stop. It wouldn't stop. The man's body was reset once more, his legs returned to their original state, untouched by the cruel device. But this time, the torment was different again.

But it wasn't just his body that was being destroyed. The whispers began.

At first, they were soft, almost imperceptible, just a faint rustle at the edge of his mind. "You're worthless," the voice coiled into his thoughts, venomous and smooth. "No one cares about you. You're nothing but a tool."

The man's face twitched, his lips trembling. His eyes closed tightly as if trying to block out the words, but they wouldn't stop. They came again, sharper this time. "You failed to protect your most precious loved one. You should always be alone. They're better off without you. You're nothing but a burden. She died because of you."

Kyler watched in silence as the figure began to shake, not from the chains or the physical pain, but from the weight of the words seeping into his soul. His hands gripped the stone pillar tighter, as if trying to hold himself together, but the whispers cut through him, deeper with each passing second.

The voices echoed louder, more accusing now, their coldness wrapping around his heart. "You deserve this. You deserve all of this pain. No one will ever save you. No one cares."

"SHUT UP," the man roared as the illusion around him shattered, silver light shining from his very essence as space fractured and the void around it trembled. But just as the power he showed came, it eventually faded and disappeared.

Kyler's heart twisted as he watched. The torturers had found a new way to break him: not with blades or fire, but with the suffocating power of isolation and doubt.

The man's face contorted, his body wracked with silent sobs as the words continued to pierce him. "You're weak. Pathetic. You'll never be good enough. You'll always fail. Everyone you love will turn away from you, and you will have no one."

The room shifted, the oppressive darkness swirling. The whispers now turned into images—flashes of faces, familiar faces, distorted into cruel mockeries. Loved ones, people who once cared, their faces twisted with contempt and disgust. They laughed at him, their voices echoing in his ears. "You're a disappointment. You're nothing. We never needed you."

The man's hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms, but the images didn't stop. Faces continued to blur and contort, cruelly mocking his every hope. The voices grew into an avalanche, crashing over him, until he was drowning in his own failures, his own fears.

Kyler's chest tightened with the suffocating sense of hopelessness. The pain wasn't just in the flesh—it was in the soul. The torment wasn't just physical; it was psychological, eating away at the man's identity, his very sense of self. He was becoming unmade, piece by piece, by the relentless whispers and images. His mind, fragile and broken, began to fracture under the weight of it all. There was no escape from this, no end to the cycle.

And then, the scene reset.

Kyler's heart raced as the man's body was torn apart, but the cycle would repeat. Again. And again. And again. Each time the suffering became more brutal, more relentless, but the man—whoever he was—could never break free. He didn't show the power he did previously. The illusion would reset, and he would endure it all over again. Kyler's eyes snapped open, his breath shallow and erratic as he lurched forward, hands gripping the edge of the bed. The sterile scent of the room was overwhelming, but it did nothing to calm the lingering nausea in his stomach. His throat tightened, and he gagged, the memories of what he had witnessed still swirling in his mind like an unrelenting storm.

He leaned over the side of the bed, gasping for air, his fingers digging into the sheets as if grounding himself. Something was different. The cold, clammy sweat that clung to his skin felt heavier, but his muscles… his muscles didn't ache like they usually did. He felt an unfamiliar heat in his limbs, not from fever, but from something deeper. His body was responding to the chaos inside his head, but not in the way it usually did.

With a quiet grunt, he pushed himself back onto the bed, the weight of his body shifting as though he had more control over it than before. The sheets crinkled under his palm, and he briefly looked down, surprised by the faint creak of the wood beneath his grip. His fingers had never had that kind of pressure before.

Kyler's heart still raced, his mind flooded with the torment he had just witnessed. The man—the tortured figure—was still there in the back of his mind, the sounds of his suffering echoing softly. He could almost feel the crushing weight of the whispers again, the torment, the crushing loneliness—but it was quieter now. A dull ache in his chest.

He swallowed hard, pushing away the lingering dizziness. His head was clearer than it had been before, the fog lifting just a little more easily, as if the strength within him was beginning to pull away the mental haze.

What the hell…? he thought, his chest tightening, but not from fear. No, it was something else. A subtle shift, unspoken but undeniable.

His hand twitched, and he could feel it again—a warmth in his fingertips, an unfamiliar surge of strength that wasn't entirely his own. His body seemed more solid, more grounded, yet the cause eluded him.

Kyler exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders. He didn't understand it. He couldn't. But as the minutes passed, and the sick bay's oppressive silence stretched on, one thing was clear: something in him had changed.

And the worst part was, he wasn't sure whether it was for better or worse.