The Count didn't just look angry; he looked humiliated. In the VIP box, he snapped a crystal wine glass in his bare hand, the red liquid staining his silk gloves like fresh kill. He leaned over and whispered to a shadow standing behind him—a lean, pale boy named Mordecai.
Mordecai wasn't a student. He was a "hound," a commoner raised in the Count's dark cellars to be a disposable blade.
"Final Match!" the announcer shouted, his voice trembling. "Kael of the Mist-Woods versus... Mordecai the Silent!"
Mordecai stepped into the arena. He didn't wear armor. He wore tight, black bandages wrapped around his limbs. His beast wasn't a gorilla or a hawk. It was a Blood-Leech Swarm—hundreds of tiny, crimson parasites that hummed in the air around him like a cloud of angry hornets.
"The Gorilla was a blunt instrument," Mordecai whispered, his voice raspy from disuse. "My children don't crush. They drink."
Kael felt a cold shiver. Not from fear, but from recognition. This was the kind of magic Skane's people had called Seiðr—foul, soul-eating sorcery.
Varg, Kael thought, his pulse slowing to a steady, rhythmic thrum. The liquid pit won't work. They'll just fly over it. We need the Storm-Wall.
The bell rang.
Mordecai didn't wait. He pointed a finger, and the swarm surged forward like a red wave. They didn't aim for Kael's chest; they aimed for his eyes, his mouth, any opening where they could burrow into his veins.
Kael closed his eyes. For a heartbeat, the arena disappeared. He was back on the deck of his longship, the Sea-Wolf, during a hurricane. The salt spray was blinding, the wind was a scream.
"Varg... FULL MERGE."
The grey Shifter didn't form a weapon. It exploded into a fine mist, spinning around Kael in a violent, high-speed vortex. The grey matter became a literal centrifuge, a "Shield of Wind" made of living, shifting cells.
The Blood-Leeches hit the vortex and were instantly shredded. The sound was like throwing gravel into a meat grinder.
"Impossible!" Mordecai hissed, his pale face flushing with effort. He pushed more mana into the swarm, the red cloud turning into a drill-shaped spear.
Kael opened his eyes. They weren't the blue eyes of a boy anymore. They were the cold, iron-grey eyes of a Chief who had seen a thousand men die.
I am tired of hiding, the Viking soul roared.
Kael stepped forward. With every stride, the grey vortex around him grew tighter, sharper. He wasn't just defending; he was a walking storm.
He reached into the center of the vortex. Varg responded to the "Memory-Template" of the Great Axe. The grey matter solidified in Kael's hand, growing into a massive, double-headed bearded axe. It was too heavy for a child to lift—but Kael wasn't using his muscles. He was using his will.
"My turn," Kael growled.
He swung.
The axe didn't just hit the air; it cleaved the mana-flow of the arena. A shockwave of grey energy tore through the red swarm, scattering the leeches like leaves in a gale. Mordecai tried to summon a blood-shield, but the Viking steel—even if it was made of Shifter-cells—didn't care about shields.
The blunt side of the axe slammed into Mordecai's chest. The boy flew backward, crashing into the stone wall of the arena with a bone-shaking thud. He slid down, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Kael stood in the center of the clearing. The Shifter-Axe dissolved, flowing back into a simple, quiet blob on his shoulder.
The silence in the stadium was absolute. No one cheered. They were too terrified to make a sound. A ten-year-old boy had just dismantled a high-tier assassin with the ease of a man swatting a fly.
Kael turned his gaze to the VIP box. The Count was standing, his face pale as a ghost.
Kael didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He simply raised his hand and made a slow, horizontal motion across his throat.
I remember you, Harald, Kael thought, looking through the Count as if he were a window to the past. The songs aren't for you anymore.