Dot's eyelids fluttered open to the soft, flickering glow of oil lamps. The air carried the sharp tang of medicinal herbs mixed with the faint metallic scent of blood long dried. A dull ache throbbed through his entire body, as though every muscle had been stretched and snapped back into place.
Beside him sat Yiva, draped in a flowing blue dress that caught the lamplight like rippling water. Her hands rested in her lap, but her posture told the story—she had not moved from that spot for hours, perhaps longer. Strands of her hair had escaped their braid, framing a face etched with exhaustion and quiet relief.
"Where… am I?" Dot rasped, his voice cracked and dry, like sandpaper scraping over stone. He tried to sit up, but the world tilted, memories crashing in fragments.
Yiva's fingers found his immediately, warm and steady. Her grip tightened as a wide, trembling smile broke across her face, lighting her eyes despite the shadows beneath them. "I'm so glad you're alive," she whispered, voice thick with unshed tears. The words carried the faint tremor of someone who had spent too long fearing the worst.
Before Dot could respond, the door burst open with a rush of cool night air. Sylric strode in, his broad shoulders filling the entrance, armor still dusted with arena grit.
"Kid," he boomed, a grin cracking his weathered face. "Glad you're back among the living."
Dot blinked, struggling to piece it together. "What… happened?"
Sylric's expression sobered. He exchanged a glance with Yiva, then exhaled heavily. "A lot."
**Flashback**
The arena floor had become a slaughterhouse of stone and screams. Dot's body lay crumpled, severed at the waist, dark blood pooling beneath him in a slow, viscous spread. Yiva knelt in the dirt, cradling his upper half against her chest, her sobs raw and broken, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on her cheeks.
Above them, Dren and Sylric clashed with Boldr in a storm of steel and fury. The giant beast-man roared, axe swinging in brutal arcs, but the two warriors held their ground—dodging, parrying, striking back with calculated ferocity.
Then the guards poured in, spears leveled, forming a wall around their champion.
From the shadowed tunnel where Dren and Sylric had emerged stepped Vespers, her face draining of color as she took in the carnage. Her lips parted in silent horror.
Yiva felt it first—a subtle warmth, a sickening pull. Dot's torn flesh began to knit, wet tendrils of muscle weaving back together with unnatural speed. She froze, eyes wide.
"Get away from him!" Vespers shouted, voice cracking with urgency.
Outside the bar in Quitfort around the same time.
Julius sat on a chair. The voices of Caesar and the blind man overlapped , clashing and echoing.
Suddenly, Julius felt something.
He turned—his eyes widening.
Cut to the stadium
A deafening crack split the air. Dust exploded outward in a choking cloud as black, tentacle-like appendages erupted from Dot's reforming body—writhing, unstable, slick with something darker than blood. They lashed blindly, shattering stone and hurling rubble in every direction.
Vespers thrust out a hand; a pulse of violet light enveloped Yiva and yanked her backward through the chaos, depositing her safely at the arena's edge just as the tentacles fully unfurled.
The crowd's panic crested into a tide of terror. "Demon!" they shrieked, scrambling over seats and barriers. A massive chunk of debris hurtled toward fleeing civilians—only for Dren's blade to flash, cleaving it in two before it could crush them.
"Kid, calm down!" Dren called, voice straining over the din as he advanced.
The tentacles answered with violence, flinging more rubble toward him. Sylric lunged next, trying to grapple Dot back to sanity, but a whip-like strike caught him across the chest and sent him flying into the stands with a bone-jarring crash.
Dot's body—now whole, now wrong—turned toward Boldr. The tentacles surged forward like living shadows, driven by a single, murderous impulse.
"We have to kill him before it's too late," Vespers said, voice low and grim, her words cutting through the noise to reach Dren.
Yiva shook her head violently. "No!" She broke into a run, straight into the swirling dust and destruction.
The stadium groaned under the strain—ground cracking like thunder, pillars trembling, chunks of masonry raining down as Dot's power tore at the very structure.
Shift – Unknown Enclosure
Mysterious man murmured to the woman at his side. "Finally, you've grown." His voice was velvet over steel. "See that Surtr."
**Back in the stadium**
Boldr swung his axe in a killing arc. The blade bit deep into Dot's shoulder—only for the wound to bubble and close instantly, flesh knitting with a wet, sucking sound.
Dot's tentacles snapped forward, coiling around Boldr's thick neck like iron cables. They tightened, veins bulging, as Dot's voice emerged—deeper, colder, layered with something infernal. "I told you… I'll have your head."
Then Yiva was there, slipping behind him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, fingers interlocking over his chest. "Dot," she whispered against his back, voice steady despite the fear. "Come back."
The tentacles lashed out in frenzy, slashing across her arms, her sides—bright lines of red blooming through her torn clothes. She didn't flinch. Didn't let go. Blood dripped warm onto the cracked stone, but her hold only tightened.
"This isn't you," she said, louder now, voice cutting through the roar. "Come back."
Dot's mind plunged into darkness.
He stood in an endless void, black as pitch, cold seeping into his bones. Before him stood… himself. But wrong. Eyes glowing crimson, skin veined with shadow, a cruel smile curling lips that should have been his own.
"Stop resisting," the other Dot said, voice echoing inside his skull. "Accept who you truly are. A demon from hell."
Dot wavered, the pull seductive, heavy. His hand began to lift—
Yiva's voice pierced the void like a beacon. "Dot… please."
The darkness shattered. Reality rushed back.
Vespers was already moving—golden chains of light snapped into existence, wrapping Dot in a glowing prison box that hummed with containment magic.
**Present**
Dot's face crumpled, guilt carving deep lines. "Did I… hurt you?" His voice was small.
Yiva shook her head quickly, squeezing his hand. "No. I'm fine. See?" She lifted her arm; fresh bandages covered the cuts, but the bleeding had stopped.
"Anyone else?" he pressed.
"No," Sylric answered gruffly from the doorway. "We got lucky."
"Where's Dren?"
Sylric's jaw tightened. "Fighting alongside Boldr now. In the coming war."
Dot's eyes widened. "What?"
"A lot happened while you were out, kid. Two days." Sylric rubbed the back of his neck. "Greenwood armies are marching—Boldr's brother is dead, and they're exploiting the chaos. Someone else is hitting villages. And the news about you… it spread fast. Every assassin, every big name—they want what makes you special. You're top of every list now, boy."
Yiva shot to her feet, grabbing Sylric's arm and dragging him toward the tent flap. "Enough," she hissed outside, voice low and fierce. "He just woke up. Why dump all of this on him?"
Sylric met her glare evenly. "Because he needs to know what he's facing. He's the most wanted man in this world now."
The scene shifted.
A heavy canvas tent rose against a blood-red sunset, emblazoned with the sigil of a three-headed dragon coiled around a gnarled tree.
Inside, a middle-aged warrior sat sharpening a blade. Scars crisscrossed his face like a map of old battles; his eyes were hard, calculating.
"We move out today," he told the aide before him.
The aide bowed and departed. A moment later, a woman stepped inside—elegant, dangerous, familiar. Redman's partner her face covered only her eyes shown.
The monarch's brow arched. "What are you doing here?"
"My master sends his regards," she said, smiling thinly. "And something to aid you in this war."
She gestured. Three figures entered: two young men roughly middle aged , and a girl with vivid pink hair.
"What are they?" the monarch asked, leaning forward. "More of your lab rats?"
"Even better." Her smile widened.
As demonstration, she drew a slender knife and—without hesitation—severed one of the young men's heads. It hit the ground with a dull thud.
The body didn't fall. Flesh bubbled at the stump, tendrils of muscle and bone reaching upward. Within seconds, a new head sprouted, identical, blinking in mild confusion.
The monarch's scarred lips curved into a slow, predatory smile.
"What do you call them?"
"Rejects," she replied.
"And what do you want in return?"
"The same as last time." Her eyes gleamed".
The tent flap fell closed behind her.
End of Chapter 20