Chapter 30: The Soulless Anvil
The bone-horn's final note faded and the prep room was silent again.
One hour was all I had left to prepare for my final match. The clock was counting down and the time was approaching near.
This was going to be a test.
My squad was watching me with hope, pride and trust.
I was their Champion. i was going to bring them victory.
I was going to prove myself on that arena.
I broke the silence, "Let's watch the live match feed and analyze our future opponents."
We all turned to watch.
The projection showed a hellscape of fire and glass.
The air on the screen was searing. It was a mixture of toxic sulfur and ozone, which was filled with heat distortion.
Under the foot was cracked ground, through which red lights were glowing indicating that the beneath the floor was lava .
The rivers of the molten lava flowed through the black glass as their surface churned with brilliant orange.
This biome was called the Volcanic Caldera. it was a biome designed for raw and relentless destruction.
In the center of the biome, a shocking and horrific scene could be seen. Literally, a slaughter was taking place.
Squad Crimson was a team of hulking Orcs and Ogres whose brutal strength had carried them through the tournament.
This team was being dismantled. Their leader, who was a mountain of muscle and scar tissue, was called Grom the Red.
He was on his knees.
His massive warhammer, which was a slab of iron the size of a man's torso, lay shattered in a dozen pieces around him.
He wore a thick, iron-studded plate armor which was peeled open like a tin can, revealing a ruin of pulverized flesh and broken bone.
Standing over him was Squad Malakor.
They were not a team.
They were an extension of a single, terrible will.
Three of them were Wraiths.
Wraiths are spectral forms of tattered cloaks and silent, screaming faces, their phantom claws dripping with soul-chilling frost. The fourth was a Grave Titan.
It was a ten-foot-tall construct of welded bone and black iron.
It's movements were ponderous but utterly unstoppable. And leading them was the source of all this destruction.
He was a Death Knight.
He stood a head taller than Grom, encased in plate armor of a black so deep it seemed to drink the light of the lava flows.
It was intricately engraved with runes that pulsed with a cold, blue luminescence, the same color that burned from the eye-slits of his full helm.
In his left hand, he was holding onto a massive, kite-shaped tower shield that seemed to be forged from solidified shadow.
In his right was his weapon, which was a sword of impossibly black metal. Its edge was humming with a discordant, soul-draining energy.
"Oh my Gods above!! ," Rolf muttered with absolute disbelief.
"What in the seven hells is that?"
The last member of Squad Crimson, a berserker Ogre with a crude axe, charged with a guttural scream of rage and grief.
"FOR GRIMMTOOTH!"
The Death Knight didn't even turn his head.
He took a single, casual step back, and the Grave Titan moved to intercept.
"Look out!" Nyssa cried out instinctively, though her voice was useless in the projection.
The Ogre's axe was a weapon capable of cleaving a man in two.
It struck the bone construct's chest with a deafening
*CLANG*
*CRACK!*
The axe head shattered into fragments of iron which were seen flying across the obsidian.
The Grave Titan did not even flinch. Its massive, bony fist shot out, catching the Ogre by the face.
*SQUELCH!*
There was a sickening, wet crunch as the Ogre's skull collapsed like an eggshell. The Grave Titan discarded the corpse like he was throwing away a stone.
The body hit the obsidian with a wet, heavy thud.
A collective gasp went through our room. Rolf took an involuntary step back. "He... he just broke him."
Grom the Red, his one good eye filled with a warrior's defiance, spat a mouthful of blood at the projection. "Face me yourself, you coward!"
The Death Knight finally looked at him.
He walked froward slowly with even steps, the sound of his armored boots on the obsidian ringing through the projection.
There was a sharp, metallic
*TOK... TOK... TOK*
that was somehow more terrifying than any roar.
He stopped before the broken Orc champion.
There was no pity in his posture. No anger. No emotion at all.
Only the cold, absolute certainty of a butcher examining a slab of meat.
He raised his black sword.
"No..." Nyssa whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.
The sword came down.
It wasn't a clean cut. It was a brutal, cleaving strike that pinned Grom's remaining shoulder to the obsidian floor, the black blade sinking six inches into the unyielding glass with a sickening *THUNK*.
Grom's body convulsed, a silent scream trapped in his throat as necrotic energy flooded his system, blackening his veins and turning his skin to ash.
The sound was a wet, sizzling hiss, like bacon frying on a griddle.
The Death Knight placed a heavy, armored boot on Grom's back, pinning him in place. He rested his gauntlet on the pommel of the sword, applying a slow, steady pressure.
The sound was horrific. A grinding, tearing noise could be heard as the sword split bone and carved through organs.
*CRUNCH... RIP... TEAR.*
Grom the Red, a warrior who had faced down trolls and wyverns, was being methodically and surgically disassembled.
Rolf turned away, a low growl of disgust and rage in his throat.
"That's not a warrior. That's a monster."
Finally, with a final, brutal wrench, the Death Knight tore his sword free. Grom's body slumped, a broken, empty husk. The sound of the blade leaving the corpse was a wet, sucking *SHLORP*.
The Death Knight stood over the corpse, his blue-flame eyes scanning the carnage.
The Wraiths swirled around him, their silent screams seeming to sing a song of praise.
The Grave Titan stood motionless, a monument to death.
Arch-Lich Malacor's voice boomed across the volcanic hellscape, laced with ancient, sepulchral power that made the very lava tremble.
"VICTOR: SQUAD MALAKOR!"
The Death Knight, Kael the Soulless, sheathed his black sword in a single, fluid motion.
The sound of the blade sliding home was a sharp, final CLICK.
He turned his gazeless helm toward the VIP boxes, a gesture of fealty that was as chilling as the violence he had just wrought.
He was not a competitor.
He was an instrument.
A perfect, bloodless killer forged by the master of the Academy himself.
***
The magical projection snapped off with a sharp hiss, plunging the room back into the dim, flickering light of the braziers.
I stood frozen, my hands curled into fists at my sides.
The imagined smell of sulfur and the soul-crushing cold of Kael's presence seemed to linger in the heavy silence, radiating even through the screen.
"By the Ancestors..." Rolf breathed, his injuries momentarily forgotten.
He pushed himself to his feet, staring blankly at the stone wall where the massacre had just been displayed.
"That wasn't a fight," I said, my voice low and grave, my enhanced Logic stat automatically pulling the Death Knight's name from Academy lore.
"That was an execution. Methodical. Without a single wasted movement."
Nyssa's face had gone pale, her logical mind racing to process the terrifying variables she had just witnessed.
"Kael the Soulless. A Death Knight... that's an advanced-tier undead class. The soul-draining aura alone would be a massive debuff. His physical resilience would be immense, and his stamina... he wouldn't feel fatigue. He could fight forever."
Rolf slammed his fist into his palm, a flicker of his old anger returning to combat his fear.
"Then we'll smash his armor to pieces and break the bones underneath!"
"It's not that simple," Kaelith said, her voice a low, serious hum.
All eyes turned to her.
"Shadow-Knights are taught to recognize the weapons of the Abyss. A Death Knight's armor isn't just metal. It's a conduit. It's powered by the souls he's reaped. Hitting it is like hitting a fortress powered by a thousand screaming spirits. And his sword..."
She trailed off, a rare flicker of genuine concern in her silver eyes.
"That's a Soul-Reaver. It doesn't just cut flesh. It devours life force. One solid hit, and Grik's D-Grade core would be compromised. Maybe permanently."
The room was silent again, the weight of her words settling over us like a shroud.
We had won our semi-final through a combination of brute force, tactical genius, and psychological warfare.
We had used synergy, teamwork, and exploited our opponents' arrogance.
Kael the Soulless used none of those things. He was a walking, talking engine of death.
An anvil of pure, unadulterated malice.
I looked at my team. At Rolf's unbreakable spirit, Nyssa's brilliant mind, and Kaelith's lethal grace, I knew I had to win this.