Arlen writhed on the ground, breath ragged, vision shaking. Every impact from the searing sphere tore a new scream out of him. It wasn’t just pain — it was torture layered on trauma.

  Chronos’s cold laughter.

  His family’s blind prayers.

  Darian’s dying scream.

  The of an angel’s blade carving through flesh.

  Each hit forced another memory down his throat like poison.

  He clawed at the floor, trying to stand, but the ball slammed into his gut, folding him again. He choked on spit and blood. His body refused to move. His mind was slipping.

  Solon watched silently — not with pity, but with the quiet certainty of someone who had seen billions break… and one or two rise.

  Arlen curled into himself, nails digging his own skin.

  His heart twisted. His chest clenched. Tears streaked down his face.

  He slammed his own forehead into the stone.

  A sharp crack.

  Blood dripped into his eyes.

  And for a split second — his mind cleared.

  Before the ball could hammer trauma back into him, he forced his thoughts elsewhere. A single image. A single lifeline.

  Her obsidian dress.

  Her dangerously amused smile.

  Her blood on his tongue.

  Her trust tied with her life to his.

  His breath steadied.

  “I won’t break… not yet,” he muttered, wiping his own blood from his face. “Two hours left… think, think, THINK.”

  He scanned the moving walls, the teleportation circles, the unpredictable ricochet patterns — but his bones were cracked, burns covered half his skin, and every breath rattled.

  Then it clicked.

  “When I wanted Cornea’s power… I had to go to her.”

  “But the gods?”

  He clenched his fists.

  “I don’t have to go to THEM. They come to ME.”

  Chronos descending from heaven.

  His execution arena.

  His arrogance.

  His cruelty.

  This ball…

  …just like the gods…

  …WANTS to hit him.

  “Then come,” Arlen whispered, eyes sharpening. “If you want me that badly — COME.”

  Instead of chasing, he sat on the stone floor — legs crossed, back straight — eyes closed.

  Meditating.

  Solon smiled, an ancient, satisfied smile. “There you go, boy…”

  For a hundred long minutes, he endured hit after hit without flinching. His nerves adapted. His mind detached. Pain became background noise — like a dull fire on the horizon.

  He felt the ball’s presence.

  Its rhythm.

  Its hunger.

  Its route.

  His heartbeat aligned with its movement.

  Ten minutes left.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Arlen opened his eyes.

  His left eye — human — steady and calm.

  His right eye — demonic — crimson and sharp like a predator awakening.

  He wasn’t fighting human pain or demonic instinct anymore.

  He had accepted .

  He was no longer half of anything.

  He was becoming something else entirely.

  His human eye tracked every real-time movement of the burning sphere — reading each ricochet, each rebound, every twitch of its chaotic path.

  His demonic eye, crimson and feral, didn’t see — it saw

  Two visions.

  Two instincts.

  Two halves finally working as one.

  Arlen steadied his breath.

  Her power flowed through his right eye like molten truth.

  “If demons represent freedom… then your power is mine to wield,” he murmured.

  He looked at the ball — burning, thrashing, desperate to escape the chaotic maze it was trapped in.

  “But in this trial,” he whispered, “you are the gods. And those who rob freedom… have no right to yearn for it.”

  Something in the air snapped.

  Even though it was nothing but a mass of scorching energy, the sphere reacted — as if provoked, enraged by the truth flung at it.

  It turned toward him.

  And charged like a comet.

  Arlen exhaled once — calm, centered, unblinking.

  A faint smile curved his lips.

  In a whip-fast movement, the sphere slammed into his shin — scorching flesh, blistering skin — but it didn’t break away.

  He trapped it.

  His hands clamped around the burning orb, fingers melting, nails burning off, the smell of charred flesh filling the chamber.

  And he did not care.

  After Nyx’s hell-pit, after drinking blood and dying a thousand deaths, pain was a mere echo.

  A memory.

  A nuisance.

  He rose — legs trembling, arms smoking — and dragged the burning sphere toward Solon.

  Step by step.

  Burn by burn.

  Agony climbing his body like vines of flame.

  But he never loosened his grip.

  Solon watched with something that looked almost like pride.

  “Congratulations, child,” he said softly, ancient eyes brightening. “You have become the third

  The words hit Arlen harder than the flames.

  Relief washed through him — and with relief came all the pain he had been forcing down, all at once.

  His body gave out.

  He collapsed face-first onto the stone floor, the ball quieting in his burnt hands.

  Solon chuckled — a low, warm sound that carried centuries within it.

  “Getting used to the pain of death…” he murmured. “Even the god of death cannot do that.”

  His gaze softened — just a little.

  “Lysander’s daughter has chosen well. Truly… a remarkable ally she has found.”

  When consciousness finally returned, it felt like rising from the bottom of a black sea.

  Arlen blinked up at a ceiling he didn’t recognize — smooth stone, dimly lit, humming faintly with ancient magic. He forced himself upright, vision still hazy.

  Someone exhaled in relief.

  Nyx.

  “You are finally awake,” she said, arms crossed but eyes betraying a worry she’d never admit. “Two whole days you were asleep. I healed your wounds.”

  Arlen shot upright. “Where am I? Did I—did I win??”

  Nyx placed a firm hand on his head and pushed him back down.

  “Calm yourself, human boy. Yes, you won. We are inside Solon’s home. He called me in after you collapsed.”

  Her voice lowered, almost grudgingly:

  “You did… surprisingly well.”

  Before Arlen could reply, the door creaked open.

  Solon stepped inside, leaning casually on his staff.

  “Oh good, the child rises.” His smile was warm, grandfatherly. “You gave us quite the spectacle. In all my existence — and that includes a few infinities — I have never seen such a lively little mortal.”

  He clapped his hands lightly. “Well then! You passed my trial. Time to claim what you came for — the Sacred Relic.”

  Arlen’s breath hitched.

  Soul Eater.

  He followed Solon down a short corridor until they reached a small door. Dust had collected thick on the frame.

  Solon pushed it open.

  The “Sacred Relics Chamber” was… a cluttered storage room. Dust everywhere. Boxes stacked haphazardly. Ancient weapons tossed aside like forgotten toys.

  Arlen blinked. “…This is it?”

  Solon shrugged. “Forgive the mess. Hardly anyone visits, so I stopped maintaining it two millennia ago.”

  He rummaged through a pile until he found something wrapped in a ragged cloth.

  A rusty sheath.

  Nothing about it felt divine.

  “You came for this, did you not?” Solon held it out. “The Soul Eater.”

  Arlen hesitantly accepted it. The sheath felt old — brittle — like it might crumble. Confusion tightened his face.

  “This… is the sacred relic that can destroy a god’s core?”

  Solon chuckled knowingly.

  “Try opening it.”

  Arlen slid the blade free—

  And the world fell silent.

  The dagger was .

  Pitch black from hilt to tip, swallowing light rather than reflecting it. Elegant, lethal, eerily alive — like shadow given form.

  And then—

  A voice whispered inside his head.

  “So you are my new master? A human child… fascinating.”

  “I am one of the hundred fragments of Aethel’s soul.”

  “Swear your desire — vengeance, bloodshed, liberation — I shall grant it.”

  Arlen’s fingers trembled.

  The dagger throbbed like a living heart.

  Solon spoke gently, though his gaze was stern:

  “One last warning, child — Aethel himself gave me this wisdom:

  Use the relic however you wish… but never allow it to use .

  Remember that.”

  Arlen nodded, more solemn than he had ever been.

  Solon smiled at him — proud, ancient, knowing.

  “Now go, God Slayer. The path of war opens before you. I shall be watching… with great interest.”