Deus Necros

Hours later, miles away, another scene unfolded beneath banners and cheers.

The capital of Tulmud rose like a jewel, its great arena a roaring heart of stone and sand. The sun was high, casting long shadows across the fighting grounds. Inside the arena, two contenders clashed, aura flaring with every strike, the air itself trembling with the pressure of their blows.

Up in the VIP stands, Hiro slouched in his seat, spinning a dagger between his fingers as though it were a toy. He yawned loudly, drawing a few sharp looks from nearby bishops. “Do I have to sit through all of this?” he groaned, tapping the edge of his boot against the marble balustrade. “The finals doesn’t even start for another week. This is a waste of my time.”

“Sit,” Cardinal Clementine’s voice was soft, but the weight behind it made even Hiro flinch. The older man’s presence was a storm held in check, his eyes steady and unblinking as he watched the fighters below.

Hiro grumbled, trying again to twirl the dagger. The blade slipped from his grasp and clattered against the stone floor, skidding dangerously close to one of the bishops. The man stiffened, but bent quickly to retrieve it, his face a mask of strained patience. “Sir,” he said, handing the weapon back. “Lady Titania was expecting you in here in the capital. She’s already cleared the area from all threats for your arrival.

“There’s a week left!” Hiro protested, his voice rising petulantly. “What am I supposed to do here for a whole week? Stand around looking impressive?”

“You need to be seen,” Clementine said simply, his gaze never leaving the arena. “The people need to know you. Trust you.”

Hiro snorted. “They’ll trust me when they see what I can do.”

The bishops behind them were about to argue that so far he hasn’t shown them anything that was praise worthy besides noticing a couple of demon worshippers.

“They’ll trust you when you stop acting like a child,” another voice interjected, low and cold. Mot leaned lazily over the railing, one hand resting against his chin, his eyes fixed on the duel raging below. The hero’s antics didn’t even earn him a glance.

Hiro scowled but said nothing, turning his attention back to the match. A massive spear-wielder advanced on his opponent, aura crackling around him like a storm. The swordsman darted in, elegant and precise, his golden-handled blade flashing. Sparks showered from each clash, the air vibrating with every impact.

“Flashy and pointless,” Hiro muttered. “Just cut through the spear, what’s taking so long?”

Behind him, the bishops traded looks, each silently mouthing words they dared not speak. The arena crowd roared as the spear struck true, knocking the sword from its wielder’s hand and sending it skidding across the sand. The swordsman raised his arms in surrender, and the crowd’s cheers intensified, echoing through the stands.

Hiro stretched his legs out and yawned. “How much longer is this? I should be training, not watching these clowns.”

“You will sit and watch,” Clementine said, his tone sharp as a blade now. “Your companions are out there. Know them. Learn them. they’ll help you fight the evil of this world that is soon to descend.”

“We’re just pushing the plot for no reason man.” Hiro muttered under his breath.

“Plot? Is someone plotting against you?” the cardinal asked.

“Well, right now you are. By gathering companions you’re just making the ’evil’ I’m supposed to fight act faster.” He shook his head, “The best thing to do in this situation is to not do anything.”

Mot turned to the man and said, “Sometimes I doubt you have a brain on your shoulders. What would not acting ever achieve?”

“You wouldn’t understand me,” Hiro said. “This is far too advanced for you. Stick to your wriggly god and creepy eyes.” Hiro said. Though the way he spoke of sounded arrogant he couldn’t help hide the slight tension he had from Mot, after all, unlike Hiro, Mot is truly powerful.

A single glance from Clementine silenced Hiro who returned to twirling the same dagger, making both unfortunate bishops take a step back. This time he might actually stab someone by mistake.

Mot, still leaning over the railing, narrowed his eyes. His focus had shifted, the tension in his shoulders changing. “Oh… interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself.

The cardinal turned. “What is it saint Mot?”

Mot’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “Didn’t think I’d see that dreamer here again.”

“A dreamer?” Clementine asked.

“Yes,” Mot said, eyes locked on the next challenger stepping onto the sand. “A boy I met years ago. One who should have died a long time ago.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “But there he is. Still alive.”

The cardinal followed his gaze. A young woman with a short sword and buckler strode onto the field, her movements precise, almost rigid. Across from her, a figure in a hooded coat waited, face obscured by shadow. There was nothing remarkable at first glance, until the man shifted, and even from this distance, Mot could feel the intent coiling within him like a blade drawn in secret.

“Who is he?” Clementine asked softly.

Mot’s smile widened, though his eyes were distant, troubled. “It must be fate. That boy is the last surviving child of House Drak.”

“Drak?” one of the bishops gasped behind them. “But that house… they were condemned for black magic… We eradicated them all. Some of their offspring still lives?”

“Yes,” Mot said, his tone thoughtful now, almost reverent. “And yet here he stands. The same man who did what many couldn’t, the boy who slipped through the Sacrosanctum’s fingers.”

“It was a different time then, we didn’t have the same securities we have right now. No one can escape us. Not even Van Dijk.”

Mot snickered and leaned back, folding his arms. “Tell me, child,” he whispered to the arena below, “do you really want to join the Hero’s party? Or are you here to weave your own fate?”