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Chapter 36: Fear
"You’re barely a mage, are you?" Varn sneered widely. "Just a rat with a death wish."
Ian didn’t speak at first.
Then, slowly, he raised both hands—and from seemingly thin air, the twin daggers appeared in a shimmer of dark mist. The blades glowed faintly, eager and hungry.
Ian’s voice was cold, quiet, and without any hesitation.
"Aren’t you babbling too much... for a man about to die?"
____
The moment hung.
A breathless stillness rippled across the arena, taut as a drawn bow.
Then—
The announcer’s voice cracked like thunder.
"Varn of House Lugard... Ian of House Elarin... Begin!"
And the crowd erupted.
Varn moved first.
He thundered forward, each plated step pounding into the blood-stained sand. His greatsword swung wide—fast, brutally fast.
The blade howled through the air.
Ian ducked low, the wind of the slash grazing his scalp. He rolled, grit exploding in a storm around him, and came up on his feet—daggers raised, breath sharp.
Varn didn’t slow.
A second swing—vertical, savage. Ian twisted away, but the sheer force whipped across his face.
A sting. Blood. Hot.
Too fast for a man that size.
But Ian was faster.
He stepped in, daggers flashing—steel and intent. A cut to the thigh—caught on greaves. A stab at the ribs—deflected by armor. A feint to the armpit—
Pommel strike.
Crack.
Ian reeled, jaw screaming in pain. Stars burst behind his eyes. But he didn’t fall.
Regeneration...
His Soul Essence surged, bone knitting with a pulse of necrotic magic.
Varn noticed.
His frown deepened.
He pressed forward—blows like war drums. Wide, crushing arcs. Ian weaved between them, parried what he could. Each clash sent tremors up his arms.
Still, he couldn’t break through. Varn was a wall of metal and fire.
Then—
Steel against flesh.
Varn sliced his palm along the flat of his sword.
His blood caught flame.
The crowd roared.
"Lugard bloodflame! It’s over now!"
Fire spiraled up the blade in runes of molten light, licking the air like serpents.
Ian’s eyes narrowed.
’Mana channeling. Fire affinity.’
"Time to stop dancing," Varn sneered. "Let me show you what real power looks like."
He surged again.
Flaming steel came down like a meteor.
Ian leapt aside—but too late.
The edge seared into his shoulder, flesh crackling. The scent of burned blood rose.
Pain lanced down his spine. He bit back a scream.
[Aura of Decay]
He unleashed it in a pulse—an invisible wave of death. The sand wilted beneath him.
Varn faltered as he lost a bit of strength, a twitch in his knees. But only for a breath.
He attacked again.
Ian ducked, slashed low—this time, his dagger bit deep.
Blood. Real.
The stands erupted.
"He bleeds! Varn bleeds!"
Varn grunted, more rage than pain.
He lunged—
Grabbed Ian by the collar—
—and slammed him into the arena wall. Stone split from the impact. Ian’s vision went white.
Then—a boot.
To the ribs.
Again.
Ian collapsed in a sprawl of blood.
Soul Essence worked.
He coughed, thick red spraying the sand. His regeneration slowed, halting in broken flickers.
The damage was great.
Varn stalked forward, blade gleaming with flame.
"You’re not healing like before, are you?" he said, voice gleaming with triumph. "Your trick has run out"
Ian looked up. Blood streamed from his lip.
"...Still too much talk."
Soul Flame.
His dagger flared to life—gray fire igniting in silence. It didn’t roar. It whispered.
Varn paused.
Ian shot at him.
Steel clashed with bone and fire.
The flaming greatsword crushed through Ian’s dagger—but not before the voidfire clung to Varn’s gauntlet.
It hissed. Sizzled.
And began to eat.
Varn howled, tearing the gauntlet off and tossing it aside. Flesh beneath was blistered and smoking.
Ian panted, wavering on his feet.
Then—
Varn kicked him.
Hard.
Ian hit the wall again.
This time Varn’s sword followed.
Impaled.
The blade pierced straight through Ian’s abdomen and into the stone behind, pinning him like a crucifix.
Silence.
Blood gushed from his torso.
He twitched, spasmed—but remained skewered.
The crowd roared.
Varn raised both fists to the coliseum.
"Another corpse for the sand!"
Cheers thundered across the arena.
Then—
They stopped.
Suddenly.
As though every throat had clenched shut at once.
Varn turned.
Confused.
And saw Ian.
Still impaled.
Still bleeding.
Smiling.
His hand rose, gripped the blade that pinned him.
And he spoke.
The words were not loud—but they spread, clear and cold, like ice threading through a room.
"Your mouth goes dry. Your heart races. But your body... refuses to move."
His eyes glowed dimly now. The light was wrong.
"You feel your breath catch. Your limbs tremble. You wonder what this is?"
He pulled the sword free.
It shrieked as it slid from his body, the sound wet and horrific.
Ian dropped the blade to the sand.
"It’s fear."
The crowd leaned forward.
Then—
A growl.
Low. Deep. Behind Varn.
He didn’t turn.
Couldn’t.
But Ian looked past him.
And the arena dimmed.
Something emerged.
Crawling from shadow, bone and muscle coiling in perfect horror. A beast on four legs, towering and skeletal, cloaked in black sinew. Spines jutted from its back like a forest of knives. Its maw opened wide, leaking violet saliva that sizzled wherever it landed.
Its eyes glowed void-purple. Endless.
Ashvaleth.
Born of death. Bound by Ian.
Even the high seats stirred.
"By the gods..." someone breathed. "what the fuck is that..."
Even council members leaned forward. One of them reached for his blade. Another clenched his ring—preparing a spell.
The monster stood behind Varn. Close enough that its breath moved his hair.
And still—
He couldn’t move.
Ian stepped forward.
His wounds closed. Slowly. Brutally. His entrails still trailed behind, but he walked like a man with nothing left to fear.
"Do you feel it now?" he asked.
Varn’s lips quivered. No words.
Ian stopped few meters in front of him. Daggers in hand.
They shimmered again—soulforged and hungry.
"That fear..." Ian said softly.
Ashvaleth growled, deep and terrible.
[ Voidwalker Skill: Fear Paralysis is Active ]
