Chapter 49: Flesh and Fire

Jalen staggered forward, blood pooling behind his molars. His chest rose and fell in jagged, burning heaves, and his legs—bare, bruised, barely stable—sank with every step into the crimson-stained dirt.

The body at his feet twitched once. Then stilled.

A dull clang echoed as Jalen let the sword fall from his hand. It wasn't his. None of them were. They gave him different weapons each time—some broken, some too heavy, some meant for torture, not survival.

The crowd howled. Not with praise.

With hunger.

He didn't look up at them. He didn't care.

Another gate screeched open.

Another opponent stepped through.

This one was taller. Broader. Drenched in ritual paint and wearing a stitched mask of stitched leather and jawbones. He carried no weapon. He didn't need one.

Jalen exhaled.

No powers. No aid. Just fists and fury.

The man charged.

Jalen barely moved aside in time. He caught a blow to the ribs that rattled his spine and sent him to one knee. Pain blossomed like fire through his side. He coughed, spat blood, and rose again.

The crowd chanted.

"Fall. Fall. Fall."

Jalen didn't fall; he refused to.

He grabbed a fallen chain from the sand and wrapped it around his wrist. He ducked a haymaker and slammed the chain into the man's temple. Once. Twice. On the third strike, the chain snapped and the man dropped.

Jalen stood over him, panting, shivering—not from fear, but from rage. From the ache. From the guilt.

Another life taken.

Another delay in saving the ones who remained.

Across the arena, Kieros watched from his throne of blades. Silent. Still. Like a god amused by a pet's defiance.

Jalen turned and spat blood in the dirt.

"Send the next one," he said hoarsely. "I'm not done."

But in the silence that followed, a voice rose above the jeers—quiet, terrified.

A child.

"Mister… please. Please help."

Jalen's head snapped toward the holding pens beyond the sand. Dozens of faces behind bars. Filthy. Afraid. Some he'd seen smile once.

Now they only watched.

And he couldn't promise them anything.

The crowd was still roaring when Kieros raised one hand.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

The gates to the arena groaned open again—not for another challenger. This time, it was for the prisoner.

A woman was dragged forward, gaunt and limping, her eyes wide in disbelief. When she recognized Jalen through the blood and grime, she wept.

One of Kieros' guards shoved her toward the outer gate.

"She walks," Kieros rumbled, his voice low, unimpressed. "As promised."

Jalen didn't look at the woman as she was freed. He didn't trust himself to. The guilt would make him hesitate in the next fight, and hesitation would get him killed.

Instead, he turned and limped back toward the exit.

His steps were slow. Unsteady.

Every breath was a knife in his ribs. His fingers trembled from strain. His body screamed for rest. For power. For something more than this nightmare.

But he had given up godhood the moment Kieros raised that child like a trophy.

And without it… Jalen felt human again.

Too human.

They shoved him inside without ceremony.

He barely caught himself before collapsing. His back hit the wall, and he slid down until he was seated on the cold stone. His entire body pulsed with dull, aching fire.

Chains clinked as they rebounded his wrists.

The door slammed shut.

Only then did it hit him.

Hunger.

His stomach twisted painfully, snarling like a wild thing. His throat was dry. His mouth caked in copper. It had been months since Jalen had felt these things—when he was divine, such needs faded. He could go days without eating, weeks without sleep.

But now?

Now he was starving.

A guard outside tossed a bowl through the bars. Slop. Something between porridge and mud. Jalen stared at it like it was an insult, but in the end… he dragged it closer and ate. Like an animal.

No spoon. No dignity.

Just desperation.

When it was gone, he lay back and stared at the ceiling. The stone was cracked. Old carvings etched into the rock—some prayers, some names. Some just scratches of madness.

His eyelids drooped.

Finally, rest.

But the moment he drifted—

CLANG.

The cell door opened.

Another guard. Another order.

"Back on your feet."

Jalen blinked slowly, his joints still frozen with exhaustion. "I just got back…"

"You're alive, aren't you?" The guard sneered. "Means you're ready for another."

Jalen didn't move.

The guard stepped in and cracked a baton across his knee.

He grunted, biting back a yell—but he stood.

Slowly.

Barely.

Muscles trembling, bones groaning, hunger gnawing, sleep clawing at the edges of his mind.

But still, he stood and once again went off to another fight.

*One Week Later*

The cell door opened again.

The guards didn't speak anymore.

They didn't have to.

Jalen rose, breath shaky. His feet were blistered, wrists raw from the chains. His body was held together by bruises, muscle memory, and a soul too stubborn to quit. Every joint screamed when he moved—but he moved anyway.

They led him into the light of the coliseum for the ninth time that day.

The crowd welcomed him with jeers and bloodlust. Sand clung to his skin, still stained from last night's fight. His shirt was long gone. His ribs showed. But his eyes were the same—dead quiet. Rage was buried beneath exhaustion.

A new opponent waited in the arena: a warrior draped in jagged iron, red tattoos glowing faintly beneath the armor. He carried a sword the size of a man, etched with the names of the gods he claimed to have killed.

The announcer bellowed: "Divine Pretender versus the Saint-Killer! Let the fight begin!"

No weapons were given to Jalen.

No armor.

Just his fists.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the ridge, the sun barely broke through the red sky as survivors streamed past the remnants of their ruined camp, their faces tired, soot-streaked, and hollow. Dozens moved in a staggered line—some supported by makeshift crutches, others carried on their shoulders.

Lucio stood at the front, overseeing the exodus.

"You head back west," he instructed a grim-faced woman with a boy clinging to her sleeve. "Follow the river until the water clears, then keep walking. Don't stop until you reach the white banners. Tell them Kullen sent you."

The woman nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "You'll bring him back?"

Lucio didn't answer.

He just looked toward the eastern ridgeline—toward the Black Spine, where smoke still curled into the air and the echoes of war drums pulsed like a heartbeat.

Behind him, Kullen tightened the straps on his coat. "That's the last group. They'll be safe once they cross the highland pass."

Nathan sat on a broken cart, staring at his hands. "Every day, they send another one back. And every day, they say the same thing."

Lucio turned. "He's still fighting."

"Without his power," Kullen said, voice grim. "Without food. Without rest."

Nathan's fists clenched. "How long can he keep that up?"

Lucio looked toward the horizon again. "…Long enough."

Kullen's eyes narrowed. "Barely."

Nathan stood, his coat catching the breeze. "Then we'll go soon."

Lucio nodded. "We give it one more day. Let the last of the survivors get clear."

Kullen tightened his gloves. "Let's go meet with Vexa, then we'll go get him."

Lucio looked out across the burning horizon."Hold on, Jalen. Just a little longer."