Chapter 13: Divine Weapon
"I’m sick of this shit."
The thought crawled up from the pit of his chest, sour and acidic. It wasn’t a scream. It was a statement. One too familiar, too worn in its shape—like a phrase carved into a wall over years.
"I don’t like it... I don’t care about these people... but I don’t like how he treats me in front of them."
It burned. Quietly. But it burned.
The shame of being humbled in front of those gazes—some amused, others disinterested, all bearing witness—was a rot that clawed at his pride. His ego, already brittle, refused to accept it. It shook under the weight of mockery, even unspoken.
He tried to rise.
No wounds held him down. His skin was whole. His breath was steady. But it felt like his bones flinched away from the memory of pain, like his muscles had stored the trauma in their fibers. Every twitch protested.
Still, what could he do? Give up?
He had before.
So why not now?
Except... no.
Something had changed.
Ever since that darkness—the one without shape or edge, where time curled in on itself and his sense of self unraveled like thread—he’d felt... different. Not stronger. Not sharper. Just—open.
Like something locked deep within him had cracked, and now the light was bleeding through.
A breath spilled from his lips. Heavy. Weighted. Final.
Then he stood.
The air stretched between him and Bram, five paces of open dust. Bram, unmoved. Silent. Watching.
But from above, from the edge of the spectator platform—Ashborn moved.
Without ceremony, without warning, a sword cut through the sky.
Wooden. Polished. Brutal in its simplicity.
It spun like a thrown dagger, humming with velocity, its trajectory cruel and clear: a direct path to the back of Avin’s head.
Ashborn watched. His red eyes didn’t blink.
This wasn’t interference. It was a measurement. A line being drawn in the sand.
He knew Avin. Weak in body. Clumsy in strategy. But he’d always had that thing—the raw, instinctual snap of reflex. Not trained. Not studied. Just something in his blood.
And if the boy below truly lacked even that?
Then he wasn’t worth the name.
Ashborn didn’t surround himself with weakness. Weak people bled their softness into those around them. He’d seen it. Watched it infect stronger men. He believed strength was earned, but it was also inherited. It ran like fire through veins. And his family—his family—had been forged in it.
So he threw the sword.
A second chance.
Another chance to—"prove to me that you are my brother."
The weapon reached its mark.
And then, just before impact—
Avin tilted his head.
Effortless.
The blade missed him by a breath.
His hand moved—fluid, unthinking. It caught the guard mid-spin, fingers curling tight around the hilt. A twist. A flourish. The edge swept a light spray of dust from the earth.
Then stillness.
The blade dipped.
And Avin didn’t even seem to notice.
He was somewhere else, lost in thought. Trapped in the humiliation of having looked small beneath someone’s gaze. His whole body tense, knuckles white on the handle.
His mental state was brittle.
Like ’it hadn’t been built up fully’.
Across the ring, Bram’s expression changed.
His head tilted slightly. His shoulders squared. His stance grounded with precision.
Something in the boy’s aura had shifted.
It was like watching a candle snuff and relight with wildfire. No longer just emotion—but intent.
Bram’s eyes sharpened. His grin widened.
"Finally."
He adjusted his grip. One machete in each hand. Their weight felt familiar. Inviting.
And then—
— AVIN’S POV —
His smile pissed me off.
That smug, slow curl of the lips. Like he knew something. Like I was falling into a plan of his.
A trap?
No.
A test.
Who did he think I was?
Who the fuck did he think I was?
My grip tightened around the sword’s hilt, rough wood pressing into my palm. Solid. Warm.
"Wait—
Sword?
When did I—?"
It hit me.
Oh.
"I’d caught it.
But... how?"
I didn’t remember the motion. Didn’t recall any conscious effort. It just... happened. Like blinking.
Then the world silenced.
Not like when a crowd hushes. No—this was deeper. Thicker. Like a blanket being pulled over the entire arena.
I’d felt this before.
The first time—back in that tent.
Focus narrowed. Sound dulled. My breath slowed. All that existed now was Bram.
He was still.
Feet apart. Shoulders locked. His boots blended with the dust. Almost like he was part of the arena, not just standing in it.
Then, his lips moved.
"O magne magne armorum parens, arma mea divinitate tua imbue."
The chant echoed in a tongue older than sense.
And then—
The light died.
Like a sun dipped beneath the horizon, but faster. Too fast.
The world plunged into dim.
And something appeared.
Behind him.
A figure. More suggestion than substance. A silhouette with arms resting on Bram’s shoulders—like a proud father, or a lurking predator. Its head craned slightly. Hollow, starlit eyes fixed on me.
Not through me.
Into.
Looking into it was like standing on the edge of an endless drop. My balance faltered even though I hadn’t moved.
And then—like clockwork—
It grinned.
A perfect white crescent formed on its faceless surface. No lips. No teeth. Just a mouth-shaped line slicing across that black, starry void.
My heart didn’t race.
It shrank.
Shriveled into itself like a creature retreating into a shell. My bones itched with instinct—my skin wanted to flee.
I didn’t just fear it.
My entire being rejected it.
But then—
It spoke.
Not with a mouth. But through the air, through the space between things. Its voice layered with overlapping tones, like multiple realities whispering the same truth.
"Clive."
I froze.
My body forgot how to blink.
Then—I did.
And it was gone.
Light returned. Dust shifted. Heat came back to the air.
Bram’s machetes weren’t the same.
They glowed—no, burned—with divine gold. The edges shimmered with power, and above each blade, a ring of radiant energy floated. Like two personal suns. Like halos.
It was absurd.
I stared.
"That looks ridiculous," I muttered.
And then he moved.
A blur.
A thunderbolt disguised in a man’s body.
But something had changed.
He was fast. Faster than I should’ve been able to track.
But I did.
I could see him.
And for the first time, I didn’t just brace for impact.
I braced to fight.
--- END POV---
Third-Person POV
Bram moved.
Not like a brawler—no. This was something else entirely. Something practiced. Honed. There was a rhythm in the thunder of his boots and a silence in the violence of his motion, like a predator trained not just to kill but to make it beautiful. The first machete in his left hand rose above his shoulder in a vertical arc, its golden halo gleaming like an omen, and then it descended like the wrath of a vengeful god.
Avin didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even blink.
A shift—barely a twist of the torso—and the weapon howled past him, kissing nothing but air. The blade collided with the earth just beside him.
And the ground screamed.
A deafening BOOM erupted as the earth shattered beneath the blade’s weight. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the point of impact, jagged fault lines that spread from Bram’s feet to the edge of the barrier like nature itself had been cursed. A cyclone of dust exploded outward, swallowing the arena in a shroud of burnt gold.
The shockwave struck Avin with the blunt force of a war drum. It shoved him—one step back, two—but the third caught on crumbled footing. His balance faltered. The ground had betrayed him, but he steadied himself with breath more than body.
Then—presence.
A force. Behind him, beside him—around him.
Bram’s second machete cut through the air with a horizontal sweep, an executioner’s stroke meant not just to wound, but erase. It was aimed high—directly for Avin’s neck. He didn’t think. He fell. Allowed his legs to collapse, his back to scrape the torn-up sand. He dropped onto his side, tucked into the motion like it was instinct, the blade slicing the space above him by inches.
BOOM.
Another detonation in the distance—the echo of that same swing, slamming into the world like it resented the very idea of stillness. Avin’s eyes darted sideways. Something in his peripheral caught it: Bram, raising both machetes high behind him, shoulders coiling like a spring, every muscle prepared to deliver devastation. The next strike wouldn’t just flatten the terrain. It would reduce him to pulp.
But fate blinked.
The horizontal shockwave Bram had just released came back—stronger than anticipated, an aftershock of his own fury. It surged across the arena and caught his footing mid-swing. Bram staggered—not much, but just enough. One knee dipped toward the sand.
Avin saw it.
An opening.
He twisted his hips, drove his foot forward, and kicked Bram’s bent leg square in the knee.
The giant buckled.
Bram dropped to a kneel, slamming his machetes into the earth like anchors to keep from falling further. The force of it cracked more of the battlefield, carving new wounds into the arena floor.
And then—familiar desperation. Avin’s hand dove for the ground, fingers clawing through sand. He grabbed a full, dry fist of it and hurled it upward into Bram’s face.
A hiss, a curse.
Bram growled like a beast cornered and clutched at his eyes, wiping furiously. Gold halos dimmed behind the haze of grit. He let out a raw, infuriated cry.
"PETTY TRICKS!"
Avin was already moving, sprinting back, putting space between them like he was desperate for air. For a thought. For clarity.
And then he paused—drawn not by instinct, but by something stranger.
His eyes found Bram again... or rather, what hovered above him.
Symbols.
Ancient letters. Floating, gleaming. Words not from this world. They weren’t in any language he recognized, but somehow—he understood them. Not by translation, but through some strange resonance in his soul. A recognition from before recognition.
The sword in his hand pulsed.
He gripped it tighter, felt its weight—not just physical, but aware.
He inhaled, exhaled. And then he spoke.
A whisper at first, then louder. The syllables rolled off his tongue with eerie familiarity:
"O magne magne armorum parens, arma mea divinitate tua imbue."
The moment he finished—
—The sky blinked.
Everything dimmed. Not the sun, not the clouds—but the very world. As though reality itself held its breath.
Shadows stretched unnaturally. Wind vanished. The sound in the air dropped away, muffled, like the universe had been dipped underwater. There was no heat, no cold—just the feeling of something shifting, something ancient turning its gaze upon him.
A hush swept over the arena. And then-
--To Be continued--