CHAPTER 57: CHAPTER 57

Chapter 57

The arena shook with the golem’s roar. Stone split beneath its feet as it charged, fists like boulders raised to crush him.

Dravis met it head-on.

His body coiled, then exploded forward. His fist slammed into the golem’s chest, rock shattering in a burst of dust. The shock ran up his arm, numbing his knuckles, but he didn’t falter. His other hand followed, smashing through its jaw in a crack that echoed like thunder.

The creature staggered back. For a heartbeat, Dravis thought he’d broken it.

Then the dust twisted. The fragments pulled together, reforming.

And not just one.

Another golem pulled itself from the broken stone. Then another. The arena floor cracked open, and a dozen hulking forms rose, their molten eyes locking onto him.

The voice came again, rolling like thunder across the void.

"Not strength alone. Endurance. Resolve. Will. Show us."

Dravis spat blood onto the stone. His chest heaved, but a grin carved itself across his bruised face.

"So that’s it, huh? Not one mountain. A whole damn range."

He slammed his fists together. Bone cracked, blood seeped from his split skin. He didn’t care. His fists were his weapon, his shield, his answer to everything.

The golems roared and charged.

The first came down with a hammer-like swing. Dravis ducked under, slammed his shoulder into its gut, and drove an uppercut into its chin. The blow shattered its head, but already another fist swung from the side. He twisted, forearm bracing against stone, pain ripping through his muscles as the force shoved him back.

He slid, boots gouging the arena floor, then exploded forward with a roar of his own. His fists blurred—one, two, three, four—striking faster than stone could heal. Chunks of rock flew. The golem fell.

But there were eleven more.

Two at once came from behind. Dravis didn’t turn. He felt them. Instinct born of years throwing fists in bloodied pits, fighting blind, fighting surrounded. He dropped, rolled forward, and the fists collided where he’d been, shockwaves splitting stone.

He rose with a snarl, driving both fists into the ground. Stone cracked in a spiderweb pattern, fissures racing outward. The nearest golems stumbled as footing gave way.

He didn’t waste the moment. He leapt—fist first—into one’s chest, the impact blowing through its torso like a cannon. Rock exploded outward. He landed in a crouch, already spinning to strike the next.

His fists blurred. His breath burned. Blood dripped from his knuckles, every strike splitting skin wider.

But still they came. For every one he broke, two more clawed up from the ground. The arena was filling. A hundred molten eyes burned against him, unblinking.

Dravis staggered back, chest heaving. His fists trembled.

Endless. It won’t stop.

The voice rumbled again.

"Who are you?"

His grandfather’s face burned in his mind. His father’s silence. The weight of that name pressed like chains around his shoulders.

He bared his teeth, breath ragged.

"I told you already..."

Another golem lunged. Dravis didn’t retreat. He met its fist with his own. The impact cracked bone and stone alike. Pain screamed up his arm—but the golem shattered.

"...I’m not my blood!"

Another swung. He ducked, rammed his elbow into its gut, then snapped a hook into its jaw. Stone fractured. He pivoted, driving a straight punch that shattered its core.

"I’m not a legacy!"

More rose. Ten, twenty, thirty, surrounding him. His body screamed to stop, but his fists never paused. He wove between them, fists crashing, elbows cracking, knees breaking stone. Every blow landed with purpose, every strike fueled not just by rage, but by will.

"I am not his heir!"

His voice tore raw from his throat. His fists split open completely now, skin hanging, knuckles raw meat. He ignored it. Blood flew with each strike, splattering across shattered stone.

Still the army pressed. An ocean of fists against his lone body.

And still—he fought.

Not like his grandfather. Not like his father. He wasn’t striking to dominate, or to kill for power’s sake.

He fought to endure. To stand. To prove his fists were his own.

The voice thundered.

"Then prove it. Stand when no one else can."

The arena split apart. The ground opened, and a tidal wave of stone creatures surged forward. Hundreds. Thousands. An impossible wall of enemies.

Dravis stood alone. Broken hands raised. Breath like fire.

For a moment, silence.

Then he laughed. Ragged, defiant.

"You want me to fall? You’ll need more than stone to bury me!"

The wave crashed down.

Dravis roared and leapt straight into it.

His fists blurred faster than sight, a storm of strikes. Every punch carried bone-breaking will, splitting stone cores with surgical precision. Dust exploded outward in waves, filling the arena with choking haze.

Pain tore through him. His arms felt like they’d been ripped apart. His body screamed for collapse.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Because if he did—then all he’d ever be was the Emperor’s grandson. Another name in a blood-stained line.

And Dravis was more than that.

He was fists that refused chains. He was will that refused to bow.

He was every strike that said I exist, and I will not be erased.

His roar echoed across the void, breaking through the endless storm.

Stone cracked. Golems shattered. Dust swallowed the arena until nothing moved.

When it cleared, Dravis stood alone. Bleeding, trembling, but upright. His fists raised.

The voice came one last time, quieter now.

"...You have proven it."

The arena dissolved into mist.

Dravis staggered forward, fists clenched, eyes burning.

"Damn right I did."

———————————

The ground beneath Xavier cracked like thin glass, splintering outward in jagged lines.

He steadied his breath, sword low at his side. The shadows pressed in closer—faceless, formless, their presence heavy enough to choke him.

They whispered in unison, voices like oil dripping into his ears.

"You will falter."

"You will betray again."

"You cannot keep pace with him."

Each word slid like a blade under the skin. Xavier’s grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.

He struck. A clean arc of steel tore through the first shadow, splitting it in two. But the pieces melted, reforming at his back. He pivoted instantly, blade flashing again, cutting it down—only for more to rise, crawling up from the cracks in the ground.

Endless.

The dungeon wasn’t testing his body. It was dredging up the memory he hated most—the betrayal he swore he’d never repeat.

The shadows swarmed. His blade carved wide arcs, elegant yet brutal, each strike cutting doubt for only a heartbeat before it returned.

You will fail him.

The whisper made his breath hitch. Ezra’s face flickered in his mind—not calm, not confident, but disappointed. That was worse than death.

"I won’t." His voice was hoarse, but steady. He thrust forward, blade piercing three shadows at once. They writhed and dissolved. He ripped his sword free, stance resetting.

But the whispers grew louder.

"You can’t follow him. You are slower. Weaker. Broken."

"You are not his sword—you are his burden."

The ground shook violently. From the cracks, something larger rose. A single shadow, taller than Xavier, wielding a blade identical to his own. Its movements were precise, practiced. A mirror of his stance.

Xavier froze. His reflection.

The shadow tilted its head, and when it spoke, it wasn’t a whisper—it was his own voice.

"You will break again. You know it."

The figure charged.

Their blades met in a ringing clash. Steel screamed, sparks flew. Xavier staggered back from the force—his doppelgänger was just as fast, just as skilled. Every strike he threw was reflected back at him, perfect counters, perfect precision.

He swung high. The shadow parried.

He feinted low. The shadow mirrored.

He thrust forward. The shadow’s blade pierced forward at the same time—forcing him into a deadlock.

Sweat stung his eyes. His chest heaved. It’s me. Every weakness. Every flaw.

The shadow sneered with his voice.

"You don’t believe in yourself. You hide behind him. Ezra doesn’t need a sword that bends. He will discard you."

Xavier’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He forced the blades apart, breaking the lock. Their eyes met—his own reflection staring back at him with cold certainty.

And for the first time, Xavier laughed. Low. Bitter.

"Maybe you’re right."

The shadow faltered. Just slightly.

Xavier raised his blade. His voice carried, steadier now, cutting through the suffocating whispers.

"I’m not blind. Ezra doesn’t need me. He could walk his path alone and carve it into the bones of the world."

The shadow lunged again. Xavier met it, sparks exploding. Their blades locked once more.

"But I need him." His eyes burned. His muscles screamed. He forced the shadow back step by step, teeth bared in a snarl.

"I am his sword because I chose to be. Not because I’m flawless, not because I’m unbreakable—"

He roared, slamming his head into the shadow’s face. Mist splattered like blood. The reflection staggered.

"—but because I will keep standing even when I break!"

His blade surged with light. Not borrowed, not Ezra’s—his own. His conviction poured into the steel, burning through the whispers clawing at his mind.

The shadow screamed. Xavier’s strike cleaved straight through it, splitting the mirrored figure from crown to core. The pieces dissolved into smoke.

The whispers died. Silence filled the void.

Xavier staggered, breath ragged, sword still raised. His arms shook, but his grip never loosened.

The voice returned one last time, no longer mocking. Steady. Measured.

"Then you are his sword. Sharpened by failure, tempered by will. Walk forward."

The ground sealed beneath his feet. The shadows melted into nothing.

Xavier stood alone in the empty space, chest heaving, sweat dripping. He closed his eyes briefly, pressing his forehead against the hilt of his sword.

When he opened them again, his gaze was clear.

Not doubtless—but resolved.

He sheathed his blade. "Then test me again if you want. I’ll keep cutting until there’s nothing left to doubt."

The void parted, revealing the path ahead.

And Xavier stepped forward.