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Book Two Chapter 44: Moment of Choice
🕑 Added 2025-07-12 04:07:01 +0000 UTCThe final match of what has been the most exciting entrance tournament in the history of the Red Citadel is about to begin. Everyone, every single person, is roaring with excitement.
The pit shifts.
This time, it becomes a gladiatorial stage. The cages are set into the outer walls. Four stone pillars rise in a square formation at the center. From the darkness, Vaeliyan formed first, as usual. This time, he wears a coat. His hand lance in front of his face.
He finally reads the words engraved into it.
A Father’s Promise.
That single phrase carried too many meanings. His thoughts turn to Wren, probably about to have their first child without him there. He thinks of the faceless man, the one who told him not to let anyone take him. And he remembers who he took this very lance from. The man he killed. The man who begged him to save his daughter and his little brother.
He had saved Tasina and Mel.
But something had shifted. Maybe regret. Maybe guilt. For being the one who ended the recovery team the way he did. What if he had given them a chance?
He thought about Jurpat and Isol, who had somehow become his closest allies. They started as enemies. Now, Jurpat was the closest thing to a brother he’d ever known. And Isol… well, Isol was their asshole grandpa. Too strong for them to talk back to.
One day, he’d kick that geezer’s ass for all the times he earned it.
He smiled. Not because of the plan for revenge on the old bastard, but because Isol had seen something worth cultivating. And he’d given everything to get him here.
He stood beside his bonds.
A cat named Bastard, too stubborn to die.
And a ferret named Styll, far too cute to be as smart as she was.
He could feel the love and warmth flowing from them to him. He, who once believed he was nothing more than a killer, someone with no place in the world… until he made the dumbest decision of his life.
He looked back to that moment. The one where he jammed a dead man’s chip into his neck with a mirror and a broken scalpel. He should have died long ago.
Mara had died for him. She said he was what the world needed, not her.
He still couldn’t see it.
But her code, not the Scav code, had made a man out of a monster.
And now, he had to show the world that he, the monster, still had fangs.
Elian Sarn, the King's Will, the heir of House Sarn, was excited.
Maybe, just maybe, he would finally find someone who wouldn’t kneel. Not before his soul. Not before the will of his house.
He had been born to greatness. The son of Elarin and Ana, both High Imperators themsleves. His bloodline was not just noble, it was historic. As the heir of House Sarn, expectations had followed him from birth like a shadow that never flinched.
He unlocked his Soul Skill at the age of five.
His tutors were the best that credits could buy. His Soul Skill had pushed the absolute edge of what was legally allowed for Legion entry. And all of this, while sitting at just Level 20. Most cadets didn’t start their Legion careers until closer to the cutoff at Level 25, already having picked their second class upgrade.
But he? He started below the threshold. And still, he dominated.
Only the truly strong started that way.
When he told his parents he wouldn’t be attending the Green Citadel, they weren’t furious. Not quite. But they warned him: outside the Emerald Walls, there was no one strong enough to challenge him.
They were wrong.
The Red Citadel had turned out to be the most interesting place he’d ever seen.
Vaeliyan and Jurpat hadn’t treated him like anything special. They hadn’t bowed. They hadn’t feared. They’d joked that he was only good for bringing the rope.
He had laughed.
The first real laugh in a long time.
When they were paired up for the team matches, he’d been excited, relieved even, not to carry dead weight. But to his surprise, they carried the team. Jurpat and Vaeliyan had won the match before he ever needed to lift a finger.
And now, here he stood.
Facing the boy he met in the courtyard. The one who didn’t greet him as Lord Sarn, heir of one of the Nine Great Houses.
Okay, they did call him that sometimes, but only as a joke. Usually while laughing at him. And somehow… that had felt good.
He had expected Jurpat to be his opponent in this match. That had seemed the obvious route. But this outcome? This was always a real possibility.
Vaeliyan.
He was curious to see what the boy had left to show him.
He would still crush him. There was no doubt about that. But if Vaeliyan put up a good enough fight? Maybe Elian would even get to draw his spear.
That would be something else entirely.
Ruby’s voice rang out with a sharp crack of static, then bloomed into a full, dazzling roar.
“Darlings… this is it. The final match of what I would wager is the greatest entrance tournament in the history of the Red Citadel, no any citadels history!”
The crowd exploded, but she lifted a hand, and silence fell again. She savored it.
“On one side… the boy from nowhere. The cadet who sang while killing. The Siren’s Song himself. Some of you may have thought he was just another wildcard. But allow me to break the silence: Vaeliyan Verdance now holds the highest kill count in Citadel history.”
Gasps rippled. Even Elian turned, visibly intrigued.
“Two hundred and ninety-three confirmed kills in forty-three seconds. Forty-three! So many, in fact, that he was pulled from the round before most of the others even loaded in. You may or may not have seen the Block One reset in the first stage… well, allow me to confirm: that was because of him.”
She let the silence hang for a heartbeat.
“The fastest-loading avatar in Legion history. Yes, we checked. No, it’s not close.”
The roar returned, mixed awe and shock and something else: fear.
“And yet, he’s not just a storm of death. He’s playful. You all saw his last match with the Iron Wolf. A game of tag, ribbons, if we’re being precise. And somehow, it was riveting enough that we all watched breathlessly.”
She let that settle.
“Now... his opponent.”
Her voice shifted. Lower. Sharper. Theatric.
“Elian Sarn. Heir to House Sarn. The King’s Will.”
A wave of tension rippled through the skybox.
“The boy whose presence alone makes people forget to breathe. The one who never needed to raise his hand, because his Soul did it for him. Every opponent submitted. To his will alone”
She took a breath.
“His first match was nearly the opposite of Vaeliyan’s. Elian had zero kills… but two hundred and ten surrenders.”
Even the high nobles leaned forward.
“Chime, the Silent Belle, gave everything. And in the end… she yielded. That’s the weight he carries. That’s the crown he wears.”
She stepped forward, hands outstretched.
“So now… it comes to this. The Siren’s Song versus the King’s Will. One will rise. One will fall. Which one will it be?”
She smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t look away.”
The lights flared.
“Let the final match of the 93rd Entrance Tournament begin.”
Vaeliyan moved first.
He raised his hand lance and fired.
The flechettes flew into the air, needle-precise, fast as breath.
None reached their mark.
They hit the invisible resistance wall just at the outer rim of Elian’s presence. There was no distortion, just an abrupt shift. Then they stalled. Slowed. Crumpled. Fell.
Across the pit, Elian didn’t blink.
Vaeliyan didn’t wait. He gave the mental signal.
Styll launched off his pocket with a warble, feral and fast, darting low toward Elian’s flank.
At the same time, Bastard blurred forward, faster than he looked, claws flashing as he leapt.
Both animals crossed into Elian’s range.
Both dropped instantly.
They simply... knelt.
Styll let out a strangled noise and dropped flat, her legs buckling as if the air itself had shackled her.
Bastard collapsed into a growling crouch, body trembling, unable to move forward.
Vaeliyan’s breath caught.
Elian’s will had pinned them both.
So he tried something else.
Pocket Sand
A wave of fine nanite dust burst from his hand, shimmering with velocity, speed, direction.
The particles passed into Elian’s space.
And dropped like mist into a flood.
The sand curled downward, overwhelmed by a pressure field that didn’t care about count, or technique.
Numbers didn’t matter.
Everything knelt.
Vaeliyan didn’t curse. Didn’t flinch. Just stepped back. Again.
Every time he moved close enough to engage, he felt it. That moment. The choice.
A fork.
Step forward, and be crushed.
Step back, and live.
His skill activated instinctively: Moment of Choice.
And every time... he chose survival.
He exhaled, calm now. Analytical.
"Alright, Lord Sarn," he whispered. "Let’s see what happens when I make you run."
He moved back to the edge of the pit.
Behind him, Styll and Bastard slowly began crawling to the edges, escaping the field. They weren’t hurt, but they weren’t part of this next move either.
Vaeliyan reached behind his back and pulled free the long, matte-black lance he rarely touched in recent days.
The Stinger.
Elian saw it instantly.
His posture changed.
He moved.
For the first time in the tournament, Elian Sarn ran.
He didn’t flee, didn’t panic. But he moved, fast and tactical, sliding low and fast behind the nearest of the four central pillars.
Vaeliyan sighted the Stinger, breathing in.
Elian waited behind the pillar, knowing what a weapon like that could do.
And for the first time in the match... both boys were moving with real intent.
The fight had truly begun.
Vaeliyan exhaled and fired.
The Stinger roared, not with sound, but with impact. A single, high-velocity heavy-caliber flechette punched straight through the stone pillar Elian was hiding behind. Not cracked. Not chipped. Destroyed. The stone split cleanly, sheared apart in a perfect line.
Elian was already gone.
The moment the flechette tore through the center of the column, Elian darted left, sprinting low toward the next nearest pillar.
Vaeliyan tracked him, keeping distance, adjusting his aim. Every time Elian tried to close the gap, Vaeliyan backed off, using the wide space of the pit and the reach of the Stinger to keep pressure on.
He fired again.
The shot grazed the next pillar, shaving stone like paper. Elian dove behind it, but it wasn’t control anymore.
Up in the skybox, Ruby’s voice rang sharp, thrilling.
“This is it! This is the first time anyone has pressured The King’s Will! Could this be it for Elian Sarn? Has the Siren’s Song found the one thing the crown can’t endure, heavy artillery?”
The nobles leaned in. The crowd leaned with them.
“I mean, sure, most things break under weapons like that,” Ruby continued, “but for the unbroken king to fall like this? This would be the upset of the century!”
Instructor Velrock grunted.
“That boy’s lance isn’t standard issue. Ryan, is that what he bought from your store?”
Ryan Ryan tilted their head, blinking rapidly.
“No, darling, we don’t carry anything like that. If I had to guess, it almost looks custom. But it’s far too light to carry that much force behind it. I simply must know where he got it.”
"Instructor Isoldian" Ryan called.
“What did he even buy from my shop? All I see are some mismatched pieces. Nothing like that lance.”
Isol chuckled quietly, arms folded.
“If you can’t figure it out, my dear Ryan, you’ll just have to wait and see. It’s coming. Just watch the Sarn boy... Things are about to shift again, and you’re missing it.”
In the pit, Elian called out from behind the new pillar, now closer to Vaeliyan.
“Why didn’t you ask to play that ribbon game with me, Vael?”
Vaeliyan didn’t stop moving, but his grin showed even from across the pit.
“Well, Lord Sarn, that match was already over when I stepped into the pit. Jurpat knew it.”
Elian’s voice echoed back, calm, clear.
“So why are you fighting then? We both know how this ends. Everyone kneels. I know it’s not fair, but it’s just what happens. Maybe if you were a higher level, you might’ve stood a chance, my friend. But right now, as soon as I get close... this match is over.”
Vaeliyan’s grip on the Stinger shifted slightly.
“I’m not so sure it’ll end the way you think, Lord Sarn.”
Elian chuckled softly.
“Honestly? I truly hope you’re right. But before we end this, I want to say one thing:
You’re more than what your family named you.”
Vaeliyan paused for half a breath.
“Thanks. But I like my real family enough to know names don’t matter. Not to me. Not to the world. Only what you make of yourself.”
Elian’s laugh was full and genuine.
“Then show me what you’ve made of yourself.”
Vaeliyan’s eyes narrowed. His hand reached for the switch on The Stinger.
“Alright, robe boy. You asked for it.”
He flipped it.
Vaeliyan flipped the switch on the Stinger.
A low hum snapped to life. Then a pop. Then three.
He didn’t hesitate. He started blasting.
The Stinger spat heavy-caliber flechettes with punishing rhythm, burst fire, every shot a hammerblow of speed and mass. The impacts punched into the stone, shredded the arena walls, and forced Elian into full retreat. Pillars cracked under the barrage.
But Elian didn’t fall.
He drew his spear.
With a blur of motion, blacksteel met air, and deflected death.
He spun the shaft, catching flechettes mid-flight with precision so sharp the crowd could barely track it.
The spear was strange, unique. Twin tips, spiraling like drills, with a central tubular grip that shifted its orientation with the slightest pressure change. Each time Elian altered grip tension, the spear rotated in place, not spinning like a baton, but pivoting its tips with purpose. Almost like a drill locked into controlled torsion.
And it moved with him. Perfectly. Naturally. Like it belonged in his hand the way breath belonged in lungs.
Vaeliyan had gone from hunter to cornered.
He kept moving, adjusting angles, trying to force space, but Elian pressed now, flowing between the shots, deflecting what he had no right to catch.
The pit shook with movement.
Elian was laughing.
“This! This is what I’ve been waiting for!”
His voice rang over the sound of ricochets and broken stone.
Up in the skybox, Ruby leaned forward, voice breathless.
“Well, it looks like the King was on the ropes for... what, five seconds? But now, now it seems the crown has stepped down from the throne... and gone to war.”
Her recorder drones moved closer, capturing every breathless beat of the battlefield below.
“Will this be the final curtain call for our dear Siren?”
Elian closed the distance.
Fast.
Too fast.
The simulated Stinger crumpled in Vaeliyan’s hands as the pressure hit full force. The weapon’s reinforced structure shattered like brittle wood under the weight of Elian’s presence. He dropped it instantly and backpedaled, sweat forming along his brow.
He could feel the field now of elian's soul skill fully engaged.
The mass wasn't crushing, but it was enough. Enough to slow his steps. Enough to make his body feel like it had to fight gravity itself just to breathe. His limbs felt soaked in molasses, his speed a fraction of what it should be.
But he was still standing.
Training with Isol had forged him to handle worse. To breathe when lungs collapsed. To crawl when limbs failed. This wasn’t unbearable.
But it was close.
Elian grinned.
“Interesting. You can withstand my pressure. But you will KNEEL.”
The words hit like an impact wave.
The weight of the world dropped all at once.
Vaeliyan staggered. His feet skidded, knees buckled, but he didn’t fall.
A strange sound echoed through the pit.
Clang.
Something metallic. Hollow. Repeating.
Clang. Clang.
Like a pipe being tapped against a drum.
Elian tilted his head, confused, but didn’t wait to solve the mystery. He surged forward, spear held low, the tip spiraling as it lunged for Vaeliyan’s heart.
Vaeliyan’s teeth clenched.
Then, he smiled.
A bloody grin.
Elian’s spear thrust forward, fast enough to split air.
CLANG.
The blacksteel tip met something else.
A gauntlet.
Not standard issue. Not clean armor. But jagged, mechanical, almost crude. The blacksteel gauntlet wasn’t full coverage, it only lined the outer surface of Vaeliyan’s forearms and fingers, each knuckle joint capped with cup-like segments. The back of each hand bore a heavy, concave plating, vented in strange geometric patterns.
Elian’s eyes narrowed.
“What in the world are those things on your arms?”
He stepped back, giving space.
Vaeliyan’s only answer was a sharp metal clang, followed by a subsonic fist rocketing upward toward Elian’s face.
Elian barely deflected, the spiraling spear catching the strike just off-center. The force of it knocked him back a step, and his stance shifted instantly into guard.
They started fighting.
Fast.
Too fast.
Their arms blurred. Fist met spear. Strike met counter. Sparks flared. Dust scattered. The recorder drones had to adjust mid-air just to track the tempo.
Elian’s expression shifted. Focused. Concerned.
He had trained in speed duels. In drills. In drills against bots, against blurs, against elite combatants.
But this, this was something different.
Vaeliyan’s movements weren’t just fast. They were calibrated. Every punch was perfectly timed against the moment Elian shifted weight. Every feint was a trap, every step angled to bait response.
Then it changed again.
A kick came for Elian’s head, faster than it had any right to be.
Elian ducked and turned, and for the first time, he saw it:
Vaeliyan’s legs.
Armored. But not like the gauntlets. Stranger.
Each segment was pocked with shallow circular indents, stamped across the surface with no obvious pattern. The plating was blacksteel, and built like overlapping shells, functional, brutal, and strange.
Elian’s eyes widened.
“What the hells are those?”
The skybox had gone quiet.
Not from awe.
From confusion.
Ryan Ryan leaned forward, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed on the pit below. One perfectly sculpted finger tapped against their glass tablet.
“What... is that? I see the transaction history. I see what he bought. That’s not a weapon. That’s not even a armor we sell.”
They looked at Isol.
“Why is he moving like that?”
Isol didn’t answer at first. His eyes were on the fight, focused, not with surprise, but with recognition.
Ryan leaned in. “Come on, darling. You said it would tell me. So tell me already.”
Isol grunted. “He didn’t buy a weapon. He bought a puzzle.”
Ryan blinked. “Excuse me?”
Isol gestured lazily toward the pit. “He bought broken parts. Outdated components. And a compression framework designed for mining suits, not combat.”
Ryan’s eyes went wide.
“He built that?”
Isol nodded once.
“Gauntlets, legplates, greaves, and a backplate. All built to amplify his own Soul Skill,” Isol said. “It’s not weak—just specialized. It manipulates air pressure. That dispersal field he used in the first round? Slow-spreading, great for groups. But when he wraps it tight, that pressure builds much denser. It can break bones. He’s tuned his gear to take that pressure and aim it at himself. Every burst launches him. Every step is a controlled detonation. What you’re seeing isn’t speed, it’s propulsion.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “He’s hurting himself to move faster?”
“Not hurting,” Isol said. “Directing. That’s why the armor’s shaped that way. Every joint, every indent, it’s to let his own Skill hit him at precise angles.”
Velrock gave a low whistle. “He’s not resisting Elian’s pressure at all.”
“Exactly,” Isol said. “He’s fighting through it. Slower than he should be. But even now, he’s turning his own weakness into propulsion.”
Josaphine stepped up to the glass. “Then we haven’t seen his real speed yet.”
“No,” Isol said. “Not even close.”
They clashed again.
No more distance. No more delay.
Vaeliyan came in full force, both fists, both feet, all angles. His limbs blurred. Every strike was a blast of movement, driven by detonated pressure and precision air bursts. Elian spun with his spear, blacksteel biting back against a storm of limbs. The crowd couldn’t breathe. No one in the skybox spoke.
The King and the Siren were dancing on the edge of death.
Elian parried a kick, twisted into a counter, his spear humming. Vaeliyan ducked under the strike, came up with a backfist, dropped to one knee, and launched upward again with a rising elbow. Blacksteel kissed Blacksteel. The sound cracked like thunder.
Then it happened.
Vaeliyan’s eyes flashed.
Moment of Choice activated.
Every possibility bloomed. Every path. Every angle. All wrapped around in the moment between thought and action. One strike.
He chose.
He let it land.
Elian’s spear caught him clean, backswing, short end, under the ribs. Blacksteel punched through and pierced Vaeliyan’s heart.
Elian’s eyes widened. Not in triumph. In awe.
He had done it. He had landed the killing blow. He had earned it.
He was smiling.
He never saw the follow-through.
The pit didn’t care about wounds. Didn’t care about pain. It cared about who died first.
And in the instant Elian felt his victory, his head vanished in a fine red mist.
He died smiling.
Vaeliyan fist where his head use to be.
The King had fallen.
The Siren still sang.
Comments
christian maharaj
Thank you so much.
K
Beautiful. Wonderful chapter
