MI'KAEL SERAPHANE

The air around us grew thick, vibrating with an energy I could almost feel in my bones.

Azem’s grin widened, and he raised his arm slowly, revealing the mark on his shoulder.

My eyes locked onto it instantly—a dark, intricate design that began to glow the moment he showed it.

The mark pulsed with an intense green light, and as it did, a chill ran down my spine.

I knew exactly what it was.

A Boost Mark.

That mark was no mere symbol; it was an enhancement, an amplification of Azem’s strength.

It was a dangerous power—one that would elevate him beyond what I had already faced.

Azem’s tongue flicked out mischievously, his grin widening as the green glow spread, wrapping around his arm like a living force.

His aura exploded with renewed power, the oppressive weight of it pushing against me, as though the very air was thickening.

He wasn’t holding back anymore. I could feel the shift—Azem’s power had just escalated tenfold, and it was more terrifying than anything I had encountered.

I gripped my sword tighter, the weight of the moment settling on me.

This fight was about to take a deadly turn.

“C’mon Mi'kael. I’m not holding back against you. Use your Mark.” Azem’s voice taunted, the sound of his laugh echoing through the silent arena as the warriors' cheers suddenly ceased.

I looked around at them—warriors who once feared me, now eager for a spectacle.

Their faces were a strange blend of excitement and fear, the rhythmic pounding of their spears growing faster, matching the pounding in my chest.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, but my eyes were drawn to my left hand—the Mark.

That Mark.

The very thing that had sealed my mother’s fate, that had led to the death of my uncle, and the reason I was pushed from that cliff. The cursed Mark, the symbol of everything I had lost, everything that haunted me.

I felt a cold sweat drip down my neck as I clenched my fist.

My stomach churned with disgust.

Every instinct told me to resist it, to reject it like I had so many times before.

But I knew what Azem was asking me—no, demanding me to do. I couldn’t afford to hesitate. This was life or death, and I was far from ready to die. Not when there was still blood to be spilled.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape me. How many more sacrifices would it take to keep moving forward?

But I couldn’t afford to think of that.

Not now.

Revenge had burned too deeply within me. I had come too far to back down now, and this—this Mark was the only thing that could bring me to the level I needed to be to defeat Azem.

It disgusts me… but it’s the only way forward.

I hardened myself, pushing the memories of my mother’s screams and the face of my uncle out of my mind. If I was to survive this, if I was to avenge them, I had to embrace the Mark, no matter how much it sickened me.

I raised my fist, trembling for a moment as the Mark flared to life.

The red hue seared across my skin, matching the burning color of my irises.

Power surged through me, a force far stronger than what Boost alone could offer.

My muscles swelled with the unnatural strength of the Mark, and I felt as though I had transcended my limits, standing at the edge of something far greater.

This was it. The moment I stopped running from this damned mark. I would use it as I see fit. Whatever it takes, for the sake of reaching my goal.

Silence encapsulated the area for a while after I activated my Mark, but my gaze was set on Azem. He looked at me with a sadistic grin, his slow applause breaking the stillness.

“Bravo, bravo,” Azem said, his voice dripping with mockery. His grin widened into a hysterical smile as he added, “Now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s see if this Mark is really ‘cursed’ or not.”

I could feel the strength surging within me, an endless current of power coursing through my veins. It wasn’t just raw energy—it was clarity, a sharpened awareness that made everything around me feel slower, more deliberate.

I locked eyes with Azem, standing steadfast in my stance. Confidence swelled in my chest, not arrogance, but a realization that I could match him.

Azem rushed toward me, his Mark blazing brightly as his movements became a blur of speed and precision. Yet, despite the overwhelming force he exuded, I could track him.

No, more than that—I could predict him.

Each step, each swing of his blade, felt calculated, almost telegraphed. Whether it was the effect of the Mark or the time I’d spent breaking down his style mid-battle, I wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter.

Because now, it was working.

Azem lunged at me, his blade flashing through the air like a streak of lightning. But it didn’t matter. My body moved faster than my mind, intercepting his strikes with ease.

Parry. Counter. Step forward.

Every attack he threw was met with my blade, every step he took was forced backward by my relentless assault. His movements, once terrifying in their speed and power, now seemed predictable—almost sluggish.

I didn’t just block—I dominated. Each slash I unleashed came faster, sharper, landing closer and closer to breaking through his defense. Azem’s grin faltered, his wild eyes narrowing as the pressure mounted.

“What's wrong, Azem?” I taunted, my voice steady, almost detached. “Is this all you’ve got?”

My blade tore through the space between us in a dizzying barrage of slashes, each one forcing him to retreat further. His boots scraped against the dirt as he staggered, his arms trembling under the force of my attacks.

Then, with a burst of desperation, Azem found an opening.

He swung with ferocious power, his blade locking with mine, forcing me into a defensive stance. His knee shot up, slamming into my gut with brutal force. I stumbled backward, the impact knocking the air from my lungs, and skidded to the edge of the circle.

Before I could regain my footing, Azem let out a roar and swung his blade in a wide, arcing slash. I barely managed to bring my sword up in time, blocking the blow—but the sheer force of it sent shockwaves rippling behind me.

The clash didn’t stop there.

The warriors in the audience, standing just outside the circle, were caught in the aftermath.

A wave of energy from Azem’s swing carved through the air, slicing through several of them as if they were paper. Blood sprayed into the air as bodies fell, the sound of their screams piercing through the battlefield.

The formation of warriors broke, panic rippling through the crowd.

Men scrambled for cover, the once-taunting chorus of spears and cheers vanishing in an instant. The circle was no longer intact, leaving Azem and me in a chaotic, empty space surrounded by terrified onlookers.

Azem chuckled darkly, his face a mixture of exhilaration and madness as he pointed his blade at me. “Guess I went a little overboard,” he said, his voice tinged with mockery. “But now we’ve got all the space we need, Mi'kael.”

I steadied my breathing, planting my feet firmly as I stared him down. The chaotic surge of power in my veins hadn’t faded, and despite the carnage around us, I felt no fear.

“Fine by me,” I said coldly, raising my blade once more. “Let’s finish this.”

Azem and I clashed with relentless fury, the world around us reduced to the sounds of clanging steel and the harsh rhythm of our breathing.

There were no breaks—no time to catch even a moment's breath. His strikes came with the precision of a veteran, each swing testing my defense, each feint probing for a crack. Yet I refused to yield, my blade answering his with equal ferocity.

For every step forward I gained, Azem forced me two steps back. His experience showed in the way he adapted, reading my movements, countering my techniques.

He faltered once—a slight stumble as I feigned an overhead strike and slashed at his side. My blade grazed him, drawing blood.

But Azem was no amateur. He adjusted in an instant, his movements flowing seamlessly into a new rhythm. He pushed forward, overwhelming me with a sudden, brutal assault.

I parried and sidestepped, fighting on instinct, my arms screaming from the impact of each blow.

I didn’t care about the pain.

This couldn’t drag on.

Every second this fight lasted, the odds tipped further in Azem’s favor. His men, though scattered, still surrounded us. They watched, waiting for the right moment to pounce if I faltered. If I didn’t end this now, it would be over—for me, for my revenge.

That thought fueled me.

My strikes grew wild, vicious. I aimed not to disarm but to kill, pouring every ounce of my fury into each swing. Azem’s blade met mine, sparks flying as our weapons locked again and again.

The bloodlust surged within me, blinding everything else. My focus narrowed to one thing: taking Azem down.

He laughed, a guttural sound that cut through the chaos. “You think she’d be proud of this, huh? Her sweet little boy playing executioner?”

The taunt struck a nerve, slicing through my rage like a blade. My grip tightened on my weapon, my vision tunneling. The memory of her—of my mother—flashed in my mind, fueling the inferno within me.

Azem’s grin widened as he saw the change in me. “That’s it. Show me what that mark of yours can really do.”

I roared, lunging forward with reckless abandon. My strikes came faster, harder, each one seeking to end him. The ground beneath us cracked under the sheer force of our blows, and I pushed him back, driving him to the edge of the battlefield.

Azem parried a vicious overhead swing and stepped back, his chest heaving, blood dripping from a gash on his arm. “You’re stronger than I thought,” he admitted, his voice tinged with something like respect. Then, his grin returned, sharp and wicked. “Let me tell you a little story, Mi'kael.”

I didn’t answer, my blade steady as I waited for him to make his move.

“Do you know why I killed the elite squad?” Azem asked, circling me. His tone was almost conversational, but there was a dark undercurrent to his words. “They were given an order. Hunt you down. A sixteen-year-old boy. And do you know what they did?”

I said nothing, my silence urging him to continue.

“They refused, you know,” he said, blocking my next blow, “to hunt you. Said it was beneath them. Called it dishonorable.”

His blade slid past mine, drawing sparks.

“I didn’t mind. But disobedience?” A quick feint—testing. “The Head saw it as betrayal. And me? I saw an opportunity.”

My blood boiled, the words hitting me harder than any blade ever could.

“An opportunity?” I snarled, my voice low and dangerous. “No, Azem. It was death wrapped up as loyalty.”

With that, I surged forward, my fury reignited. This fight wasn’t about proving myself anymore. It was about finishing him—once and for all.

Azem’s deranged grin never wavered as I closed the gap between us, his blade rising to meet mine in a vicious clash. The force of the impact rippled through the air, but I pressed harder, driving him back step by step.

Every strike carried my rage, each one faster and heavier than the last. His defense faltered, cracks forming in his once-impenetrable stance. My blade found its mark over and over, slicing through his armor, his skin, and his pride.

For every counter he attempted, I was faster, sharper, more relentless. It wasn’t a fight anymore—it was a one-sided onslaught. I could see the fear flicker in his wild eyes, masked poorly by his twisted smile.

Finally, he stumbled, falling to one knee, blood dripping from countless wounds. His breathing was ragged, his aura dimmed, yet he still chuckled softly, as if mocking his own failure.

I stopped before him, blade in hand, towering over his broken form. “I brought you down on your knees,” I said coldly, my voice slicing through the heavy silence. “But I don’t need answers. You’re nothing more than a sad, broken man.”

Azem didn’t laugh.

Not immediately.

Instead, he went still.

The madness in his eyes flickered — like a torch struggling against wind.

Then… it dimmed.

He looked up at me.

And for the first time since I arrived… he looked like himself.

Not the beast.

Not the Commander.

The man I remembered.

“You used it,” he said softly.

His gaze drifted to my Mark.

No hatred.

No disgust.

Just… understanding.

A faint smile touched his lips.

“See?” he breathed.

“You’re not cursed after all, Young Master.”

My grip tightened around my blade.

“What are you talking about?”

Azem coughed, blood slipping past his teeth.

“He never wanted me to kill you.”

He...?

A pause.

A weak chuckle.

“The Order was a test.”

A shallow breath.

“To see if the curse was real… or if you were just afraid of it.”

The world seemed to tilt.

“It was either sending over the elites or your brother.” he continued faintly. “They refused to hunt you.”

His eyes fluttered.

“I wasn’t going to let them turn this into fratricide.”

My pulse thundered in my ears.

“So I became what they thought I was."

The words didn’t sound proud.

They sounded tired.

“I told the Head I’d finish what they wouldn’t.”

His fingers twitched weakly against the dirt.

“And he believed me.”

A shadow moved behind him.

Too fast.

Steel flashed.

I saw it too late.

Varek’s blade carved cleanly across Azem’s throat.

Blood spilled down his chest.

Azem didn’t resist.

Didn’t scream.

His body sagged forward.

But his eyes stayed on mine.

One last breath.

One last flicker of that old, reckless warmth and a smile that used to be.

“Don’t let them decide… what you become.”

His head dipped.

The light left him.

And the courtyard fell silent.

I turned my gaze to Varek, who wiped the blood from his blade with practiced ease before meeting my eyes.

“As expected… from the grandchild of the Head,” Varek said, his voice barely audible but cutting through the silence like a knife. “Your strength and intellect is just like his.”

Azem’s body fell limp, his smile frozen in place.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice low but steady.

Varek sheathed his weapon and gave a slight bow, his expression unreadable. “Varek,” he said, his tone cool and precise. “One of the three commanders sent to hunt you down.”

The weight of his words settled over me as the fight concluded. This wasn’t over—not by a long shot.