Lian woke again.

The darkness hadn’t changed.

Still thick.

Still heavy.

Still pressing against his skin like wet cloth.

He was on the ground—cold sand beneath his palms, grains biting into the fresh cuts on his hands.

No chains this time.

No runes glowing.

No muffled drip of water from the forge ceiling.

Just the faint silver thread leaking from cracks impossibly high above, too weak to show him anything clearly.

He stayed still for a long moment, breathing shallow, listening.

Nothing.

No voices.

No whispers.

No parliament arguing in his skull.

Only his own heartbeat—slow, steady, too loud in the silence.

He was alert.

Every muscle coiled.

Enemy.

There had to be one.

He pushed up slowly onto one knee.

The sand shifted under his boot.

He scanned the shadows—left, right, behind, above.

Nothing moved.

No silhouette.

No glint of metal.

Just empty tiers rising into blackness all around him.

An arena.

Or something pretending to be one.

He rose to his feet.

Legs unsteady.

Chest tight.

He took one careful step forward.

Then the kick came.

Invisible.

Brutal.

It slammed into his ribs from the side like a steel beam traveling at full speed.

Air left his lungs in a sharp cough.

His body lifted.

Flew.

Crossed half the platform in an instant.

Back struck stone wall with bone-jarring force.

Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the impact point.

He slid down, landed hard on his side.

Blood surged up his throat.

He turned his head and vomited—thick red splatter across the sand.

Vision swam.

Colors bled at the edges.

He tasted copper and sickness.

He forced himself onto hands and knees.

Looked around again.

Still nothing.

No figure.

No movement.

Just the same empty dark.

He gritted his teeth.

Pushed up.

The second kick came faster.

Higher.

Straight into his solar plexus.

This time he flew upward—arced through the air like a discarded doll.

The ground rushed up.

He hit hard.

Shoulder first.

Then head.

Sand sprayed.

Pain bloomed white-hot behind his eyes. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

He rolled once, twice, lay on his back staring at the distant silver cracks.

Breath wouldn’t come.

Chest locked.

Then it did—in ragged, wet gasps.

He heard the voice.

Deep.

Calm.

Coming from everywhere and nowhere.

“You are weak.”

It wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

It filled the arena like water filling lungs.

Lian coughed once more—more blood flecked his lips.

He rolled onto his stomach.

Pushed up on trembling arms.

Looked into the dark.

Still nothing.

But he felt it now.

The weight.

The presence.

Older than the voices.

Older than the harvests.

Older than him.

Watching.

Waiting.

Patient.

He whispered through bloodied teeth.

“I am Lian Yu.”

The darkness listened.

It did not answer.

But the air grew colder.

And the next kick was already coming.

He braced.

Eyes open.

Ready.

For whatever came next in the unknown.