Chapter 77: Chapter 77—Shadows

The arena floor had been freshly raked that morning, the sand and dirt mixture still damp from the night’s rain. It gave the ground a darker color—almost rust-red—that made Silas think of old blood.

Appropriate.

He stood in the prep tunnel with the rest of Tyven’s squad, listening to the muffled roar of the crowd above. The Bone Reapers were already in the arena, warming up, showing off for the nobles in their cushioned seats.

Silas could hear the announcer’s voice echoing through stone:

“—SPONSORED BY THE ESTEEMED HOUSE DRAVEN, THE BONE REAPERS HAVE CLAIMED FOUR CONSECUTIVE VICTORIES—”

Garren spat on the ground. “Four victories against who? Farmers?”

“Does it matter?” Kael muttered, adjusting his chest guard. The leather was worn, patched in three places. Nothing like the gleaming armor the Reapers wore.

Tyven stood at the front of the tunnel, arms crossed, face carved from stone. He’d been quiet since the briefing, and that worried Silas more than any amount of shouting would have.

Quiet Tyven from his observations meant thinking Tyven.

And thinking Tyven usually meant bad news.

“Sergeant,” Bessia said softly. “What’s the plan?”

Tyven didn’t turn. “Same as always. Stay tight. Cover each other. Don’t get separated.”

“And if they’re better than us?” Kora asked. Her hands were already on her throwing knives, fingers twitching nervously.

“Then we make them work for it,” Garren growled. “Make them bleed. Make them tired. Make them afraid.”

Silas watched Garren carefully. The man was confident—too confident, maybe—but that confidence had a way of spreading. The others straightened slightly, shoulders squaring.

Good.

Fear was poison in a fight. Better to be overconfident than paralyzed.

The horn blared.

“SHADOWS—REPORT TO ARENA FOUR!”

Tyven finally turned, meeting each of their eyes in turn.

“Remember,” he said quietly. “We’re not here to be heroes. We’re here to survive.”

He stepped into the tunnel.

They followed.

—–

The light hit them like a wall.

Silas squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes as they emerged into the arena. The crowd noise swelled—thousands of voices blending into a single roar that pressed down on him like physical weight.

He’d fought in front of people before. Small skirmishes, outpost raids, patrol actions. But this was different.

This was a theater.

The arena was larger than the others—sixty meters across, with scattered obstacles: stone pillars, wooden barricades, a shallow trench running diagonally across the center. Enough cover to be useful. Enough open space to be dangerous.

The Bone Reapers waited on the opposite side.

Six fighters, all wearing matching armor—polished steel trimmed with bone-white accents, House Draven’s sigil emblazoned on their chest plates, bought and paid for, slathered in their sponsors emblem. Their weapons gleamed in the afternoon sun: twin swords, spears, a massive war hammer.

But it was their stance that caught Silas’s attention.

Relaxed. Almost casual.

They weren’t preparing for a fight.

They were preparing for a performance.

Silas’s jaw tightened.

These weren’t soldiers. These were duelists. Arena fighters who’d spent weeks—maybe months—training specifically for this format. They knew how to fight humans. How to exploit openings, how to read body language, how to make kills look impressive for the crowd.

But monsters?

Silas doubted they’d seen a real crawler in months.

The judge stepped forward, raising both hands. The crowd noise dimmed slightly.

“ARENA MATCH—SHADOWS VERSUS THE BONE REAPERS!”

Roar.

“RULES: Standard engagement. First team to incapacitate or force surrender wins. Lethal force discouraged but permitted. Medical teams standing by.”

Silas as well noticed the judge didn’t say “forbidden.” Just “discouraged.”

Wonderful.

“COMBATANTS—READY!”

Tyven raised his hand—a silent signal. The squad fell into formation immediately:

– Garren at the front, fists already crackling with barely-contained energy from his strength core.

– Tyven just behind, hands loose, ready to shape stone.

– Kael and Kora on the flanks, weapons drawn.

– Bessia at the rear, bow nocked but not drawn.

– Silas, floating with no fixed position, ready to move wherever the chaos took him.

Across the arena, the Bone Reapers mirrored them with practiced precision. Their captain—a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and colder eyes—drew twin swords with a flourish that made the crowd cheer.

Showoff.

The judge lifted the horn.

“BEGIN!”

—–

The Bone Reapers moved first.

Three fighters surged forward in a perfect wedge formation, weapons raised. Two hung back, flanking wide. One—the captain—held center, directing with hand signals so subtle Silas almost missed them.

They were professional, disciplined and dangerous for this sort of thing.

“HOLD!” Tyven barked.

Garren planted his feet, fists raised. The first Reaper reached him—a heavy fighter with a war hammer—and swung.

Garren caught the hammer mid-swing.

The impact sent a shockwave through the dirt, but Garren held, muscles bulging, veins standing out on his forearms.

The Reaper’s eyes widened.

Garren grinned.

Then he twisted, ripping the hammer from the man’s grip and slamming it into his chest.

*CRACK.*

The Reaper flew backward, armor dented, gasping.

The crowd roared.

But the other two Reapers were already moving.

One came at Garren from the left—twin swords flashing. Tyven stepped in, weapon flashing by.

Stone erupted upward, forming a space between Garren and the attacker.

The Reaper stumbled, momentum broken.

Kael surged in from the side, blade aimed at the gap in the man’s armor—

The Reaper twisted, impossibly fast, deflecting Kael’s strike and countering with a pommel strike to the ribs.

Kael grunted, staggering back.

Too fast. These bastards were too fast.

On the right flank, Kora engaged a spear-wielder—dancing back, throwing knives flashing. One, two, three—each blade aimed at joints, gaps, weak points.

The Reaper deflected two, dodged the third.

Then closed the distance in a single lunge.

Kora barely got her dagger up in time to block. Steel rang against steel. She was fast, but the Reaper was stronger. He drove her back step by step, spear thrusts coming in rapid succession—

Bessia’s arrow whistled through the air.

The Reaper jerked aside—barely—the arrow grazing his shoulder instead of punching through his throat.

He hesitated for just a second as Kora slashed across his thigh.

Blood sprayed.

The Reaper cursed, stumbling back.

First blood fell to the shadows.

—–

Silas watched from the edge of the chaos, counting heartbeats, measuring distances.

The Bone Reapers were good. Better than he’d expected. Their movements were precise—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Every strike calculated. Every block practiced a thousand times.

But there was something missing.

Instinct.

They fought like people who’d trained against other people. Who’d drilled combinations and counters until they were muscle memory.

But people weren’t crawlers.

People didn’t lunge from unexpected angles. Didn’t have mandibles or claws or bone plating. Didn’t move with the chaotic, feral unpredictability of something that wanted to eat you.

These fighters had forgotten that.

Or maybe they’d never known it.

Silas smiled.

He could use that.

He focused, channeling his soul force outward. His illusion talent wasn’t strong yet—still developing, still growing—but it was enough.

A shimmer appeared beside Garren—a flickering copy of Silas himself,a technique he often didn’t use even in his fledgling stage,blade raised, lunging at the Reaper captain.

She reacted instantly, twin swords snapping up to block—

But the illusion passed through her blades like smoke.

Her eyes widened.

The real Silas came from behind, blade aimed at the gap between her shoulder plates—

She twisted at the last second, impossibly fast, one sword deflecting his strike while the other swept toward his throat.

Silas dropped flat, rolling, the blade passing inches above his head.

Too close.

He scrambled back, breathing hard.

The captain smiled—cold, predatory.

“Cute trick,” she said.

Then she pressed forward.

—–

The fight devolved into chaos.

Garren brawled with two Reapers at once, trading blows that would’ve killed lesser fighters. His strength core made him nearly unstoppable in close quarters, but the Reapers were coordinated. One would engage, drawing his attention, while the other struck from the side.

They were wearing him down.

Tyven tried to control the battlefield,

But the reapers adapted very well to his strengths.

Kael and Kora on the other hand fought desperately on the flanks, barely holding their ground. Kael’s strikes were solid but predictable. Kora’s speed kept her alive, but she couldn’t land a killing blow.

Bessia fired arrow after arrow, each one forcing the Reapers to adjust, to hesitate, to think.

But it wasn’t enough.

They were losing.

Slowly. Methodically.

But losing.

—–

In the stands, the nobles and some stewards that acted as proxies watched with varying degrees of interest.

Some leaned forward, engaged, analyzing every move.

Others looked bored, already counting their winnings.

In the section reserved for House Crownhold, a woman in dark blue silk sipped wine, eyes half-lidded.

“Predictable,” she murmured.

Beside her, a younger man—her aide—nodded. “The squad from the ruined outpost lacks refinement. They fight like survivors, not soldiers.”

“Survivors have their uses,” the woman replied. “But this isn’t the Shroud. This is civilization. And civilization has rules.”

She gestured toward the arena floor, where Garren took a vicious strike to the ribs and staggered.

“The Bone Reapers understand those rules. This people don’t.”

Her aide hesitated. “What about the illusionist? He’s… unconventional.”

The woman’s lips curved slightly. “Unconventional isn’t enough. He’s clever, but cleverness without power is just… entertainment.

The shroud isn’t the only enemy the republic has in this world, the army should do well to re-educate this fellows”

She took another sip.

“Still. I’ll keep watching. Desperation makes people interesting.”

—–

In the Kadesh section, the atmosphere was different.

Louder. Rougher.

A broad-shouldered man in leather armor laughed as Garren headbutted a Reaper, sending the man sprawling.

“Now that’s a fight!” he roared.

His companion—a scarred woman with one eye—shook her head. “He’s going to get himself killed. Too aggressive.”

“Better than being passive,” the man shot back. “At least he’s got spunk.”

—–

Silas was running out of options.

His illusions were buying time—forcing the Reapers to hesitate, to second-guess—but they weren’t winning. And the captain had figured out his tells. She no longer flinched at his copies. She waited, watching for the real strike.

And when it came, she was ready.

He tried again—three illusions this time, all lunging from different angles.

She ignored two, blocked the third—

No. She blocked him.

Silas’s blade met her sword with a jarring clang that sent vibrations up his arm.

She stepped in close, too close, her other blade sweeping toward his side—

Bessia’s arrow took her in the shoulder.

The captain hissed, stumbling back.

Silas didn’t hesitate. He lunged, blade aimed at her throat—

She dropped low, faster than he expected, sweeping his legs.

He fell hard, breath knocked from his lungs.

Her blade pressed against his throat.

“Yield,” she said quietly.

Silas stared up at her, heart pounding.

The crowd held its breath.

And in that moment, Silas understood something fundamental:

These people—the Bone Reapers, the arena fighters, the noble-sponsored squads—they’d spent so long fighting humans that they’d forgotten what it meant to fight something that didn’t follow the rules.

But Silas hadn’t forgotten.

He’d crawled through the Shroud. Bled in the woods. Survived things that wanted to eat him.

And monsters didn’t care about honor.

Or rules.

Or yielding. No

Silas smiled.

And triggered every illusion he had left.

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