Chapter 62: The Crown That Fell for Ashes

"Some warriors don't fight for glory—they fight for the hungry mouths, the broken homes, and the hope that still flickers in the ashes."

"To win in a demon's game, one must risk more than just life—one must wager purpose."

The rough stone beneath Arsh's feet was warm, as if the ground itself still carried the heat of a hundred blood-stained battles. Around him, the crowd of mixed humans and demons stirred with excitement—laughing, shouting, betting in raspy voices. The arena's dark energy pulsed like a heartbeat.

Arsh turned to the man he'd been speaking with, eyes sharp with determination. "If I win the tournament… can I choose the person I want to free?"

The man blinked, a little surprised by the directness of the question. He scratched the patchy beard on his jaw, then nodded slowly. "You can… but to win, you must reach the final. And to reach the final, you must fight Kriden."

The name hit like a stone.

Arsh's expression didn't waver, but behind him, Arjun tensed. "Wait—Kriden? The same Kriden who's guarding the A terminal? You want to fight him?"

Arsh nodded, quiet but firm. "If that's the only way."

Arjun looked at him, eyes narrowing. "Then I'll enter. Let me compete. You need to stay off the radar. You said it yourself—we're here to free someone who knows about this village. Let me buy us time."

Before Arsh could argue, Arjun was already walking toward the registration slab, a towering stone pillar where blood was required to enroll. With a sharp slice of his finger, Arjun placed his hand on the stone. A faint red glow passed over it, and his name appeared in demonic runes: ARJUN – B TERMINAL.

The nearby official demon gave a crooked grin. "Your turn comes soon, human."

As Arjun was guided into the tunnel that led to the B Terminal, Arsh stood back, eyes scanning the A Terminal across the arena—Kriden's zone. The silhouette of Kriden could barely be seen through the black iron gate, but his presence was heavy, like a storm gathering at sea. His armor was darker than coal, and even from afar, Arsh could feel his power.

Meanwhile, in the B Terminal, the first match had begun.

The announcer's voice boomed, echoing through the blood-soaked walls.

"First match! From the minor demon clan of Urzag, we have Grilak the Fang!"

A short, spiny demon with long claws and twitching muscles stepped into the ring, snarling and slamming his fists into the stone.

"And from the fallen human kingdom of Vael—King Suyon!"

A tall man stepped forward, golden armor dulled by time and dust. His face was lined with years, but his eyes burned like a warrior who hadn't yet accepted peace.

The crowd erupted. A king versus a common demon? No one expected anything surprising.

The bell rang. The fight began.

Grilak moved first—fast, wild, and unrestrained. He lunged forward with a screech, claws flashing like twin blades.

But King Suyon didn't even flinch.

In a single step, he moved in and drew a curved sword from his side—ancient, engraved with runes. He twisted his body, avoided the blow, and then brought his sword crashing down in a flash of light.

Grilak howled, blood spraying across the arena.

Suyon stepped back as the demon writhed, then raised his sword toward the stands. The crowd, to their own surprise, roared in approval.

The fight was over in moments. The king had won.

Arjun, watching from the sidelines, narrowed his eyes. "So, not all humans are weak in here…"

Suyon walked off the field and returned to the B terminal, blood-splattered but steady. He glanced around the waiting fighters, his expression calm yet intimidating, as if he was looking for his next opponent—and for the right moment to strike again.

The gates of the B Terminal groaned open once more, releasing a thick veil of smoke and shadows. From within it, Arjun stepped forward. His appearance was calm, his breath measured, and in his right hand, a slender sword gleamed faintly—polished steel with a faint blue glow running along the hilt. Compared to the roaring crowd and wild energy of the arena, Arjun moved like silence personified.

Across the battlefield, a larger gate began to rise—the A Terminal's challenger stepping forth.

"And now… entering from the A Terminal—a Rank Demon from the House of Nireth, bearer of bloodfire—Thalrox the Burned!"

The demon stomped into the arena with heavy footsteps. His body was wrapped in smoldering chains, and flames flickered from the gaps between his charred armor plates. His presence ignited the crowd—many had seen what Thalrox could do. He'd melted the last opponent's shield like butter and laughed while doing it.

But when he saw Arjun, his expression twisted—not with mockery, but something closer to unease.

Arjun raised his eyes. The faint breeze of the arena shifted. Then his lips moved—not loud enough for anyone to hear, but powerful enough for the demon to feel.

"If you raise your weapon… you'll see your own end."

It wasn't magic. It wasn't illusion. It was something deeper—Hypno Imprint, a technique forbidden in most human clans, passed only through whispers and training done in isolation. Arjun wasn't just showing fear. He was planting it like a seed, growing it in the demon's mind.

Thalrox's hands began to shake.

He took one step forward—then froze.

Sweat dripped from his ash-cracked brow. Images rushed into his mind—his death, a blade through his heart, being cut down before landing a blow. None of it was real, but it was real enough.

Thalrox stumbled back, then dropped to one knee.

"I forfeit…" he croaked.

The crowd gasped.

The bell rang. The match ended without a single blow exchanged.

Arjun walked back to the B Terminal quietly, ignoring the shocked whispers and confused murmurs. No one had seen it clearly. No one understood.

But the victories continued.

Match after match, Arjun moved with the same silent grace. Fighters lunged at him—and then backed down. Blades were raised—and then dropped. Screams turned into surrender. His path was strange, but undeniable.

Eventually, four names emerged from the chaos and carnage of the Demon Arena Tournament:

Kriden, the Vice-Captain of the Demon Ring, undefeated and brutal.

King Suyon, bearer of the runed blade and the pride of the lost human throne.

Arjun, the silent swordsman with no strikes.

Varnak, a mutant demon with a two-faced skull and mind-piercing shrieks.

That night, after the final match of the day, Arjun was sitting quietly at the edge of the training stone in the B Terminal. The low murmurs of preparation, sharpening of weapons, and nervous breathes of fighters filled the air.

Then, the King approached.

King Suyon walked tall but slow, placing himself beside Arjun. His armor clinked faintly as he sat down.

"You win without striking," he said after a pause. "That's dangerous."

Arjun didn't respond.

The King continued, voice quiet. "You've planted fear in demons' hearts… That's not strength. That's something else. It makes me wonder if it's enough when real blades come swinging."

Still, Arjun said nothing. His gaze remained forward.

Suyon sighed and placed a hand on the stone between them. "If I fall in the semi-final, you'll be the only one left who can win against the demons. So listen carefully—if it comes to you, do not hesitate. Because demons don't give second chances."

He stood up again.

"And don't waste time being mysterious… it doesn't save lives."

Arjun glanced up, but only nodded.

Somewhere far off, Kriden stood like a statue at the mouth of the A Terminal gate. His arms crossed, face hidden, but a storm was building behind those crimson eyes.

The sky above the Demon Arena dimmed as torches flared along the blood-stained walls. The moment the gates parted, the ground trembled with anticipation. From the A Terminal, Kriden stepped forward—his cloak dragging behind him like a shadow, eyes burning with controlled fury. From the opposite gate emerged King Suyon, blade drawn, his face calm yet brimming with intensity.

Arjun, seated at the edge of the arena wall, narrowed his eyes. His gaze didn't waver—not even for a moment.

The bell rang.

Suyon moved first. With lightning reflexes, he lunged at Kriden, slicing a trail of air as his runed blade came down in arcs. The sharp clang of metal echoed as Kriden barely tilted away, every movement of his body surgical, almost inhuman in precision.

Strike after strike, Suyon attacked, pushing Kriden to the edge of the arena. His sword glowed with aura—holy and heavy. The crowd gasped as sparks exploded from each clash.

From the sidelines, Arsh, hidden in his coffee-colored cloak, clenched his fists. The enslaved human beside him could hardly breathe, his eyes darting between the fighters.

"He's strong," the man whispered. "But… Kriden hasn't even shown anything yet."

And it was true.

Despite being on the defensive, Kriden's face was still. No rage. No concern. Only… calculation.

Then it happened.

Kriden vanished mid-dodge—reappearing behind Suyon, his hands ablaze with demonic markings. A blast of dark crimson energy surged forward, sending the king hurtling across the arena. Dust erupted. The ground cracked. Suyon rose, blood at the corner of his lips, but still standing.

He charged again—but Kriden's power had been unlocked.

Faster. Sharper. Stronger.

Every swing Suyon made was now met with brutal counters, Kriden turning each movement into a trap. The once-balanced battle began to spiral.

With a final burst of speed, Kriden appeared right before Suyon and struck with a shockwave punch that shattered the arena stone beneath them.

Suyon fell.

The crowd exploded into noise. The king was defeated.

And in that moment—a memory surfaced.

Years ago, Suyon was not a king. He was a carpenter's son, a nameless soul amidst the chaos of Earth's downfall. When the demons came and conquered the cities, poisoning lands and breaking kingdoms, Suyon saw not a battlefield—but a world abandoned.

With only his will, he gathered a group of fifteen—refugees, outcasts, warriors, and mothers. Together, they protected a hidden border village that linked Earth to a mysterious realm spoken only in whispers

But food ran dry. Hope ran thinner.

And the only path to gold… was the arena.

Suyon didn't fight for pride. He didn't fight for glory. He fought for the people no one remembered.

His blade wasn't forged for war.

It was forged to feed his family.

[End of Chapter 62]