Chapter 3 - The Warrior's Fury

The five basilisks, colossal reptiles with sickly green scales and yellow eyes glowing like embers, slid out of the newly opened gate. Unlike the legends, their gaze did not petrify, but the threat they posed was equally lethal. They were natural predators, agile and equipped with venomous fangs and overwhelming constricting strength. They hissed in unison, a sound that sent a chill down Akane's spine, a sharp, guttural rasp that heralded death, and advanced on Daniel, surrounding him.

Daniel, in Berserker mode, had barely recovered from the dragon's fire attack. His skin, where it wasn't raw or covered in clotted blood, was a black, shapeless mass of burned tissue, exuding an acrid odor of scorched flesh. Despite his grotesque appearance, he remained standing, his obsidian-like black, opaque eyes fixed on the new opponents, the bloodied sword still firm in his trembling hand.

The basilisks' attack was immediate and brutal. They lunged from all sides, like a green, deadly wave, seeking to bite, poison, and crush the crazed human. Daniel, even in his Berserker state, was caught off guard by the creatures' speed and ferocity, his senses dulled by pain and exhaustion.

One of the basilisks managed to sink its fangs into his leg, injecting a venom that burned like acid in his veins, an agony that spread like fire, like liquid fire through his body. Another coiled its muscular body around Daniel, squeezing tightly, trying to break his bones and suffocate him, a deadly embrace that prevented him from breathing. A third lunged at his face, jaws open, exposing rows of sharp teeth, the promise of a quick and bloody death.

The arena transformed into a whirlwind of scales, blood, and roars, an infernal chaos where life and death blurred. Daniel, amidst the attack, managed to drive his sword into the head of one of the basilisks, decapitating it with a brutal blow, an act of pure fury and desperation. The creature thrashed in agony before falling, dead, blood gushing from the severed neck, forming a dark pool in the sand.

But the basilisk's death did not diminish the ferocity of the others. Daniel, feeling the poison spread through his body like an electric current of pain threatening to paralyze his muscles, used the newfound strength of the Berserker, a blind fury driving him beyond the limits of pain, to break free from the basilisk strangling him. He grabbed the creature's lower jaw with hands that felt like steel claws and, with superhuman effort, feeling tendons snap and his own flesh tear, ripped it in half, separating it from the head. The basilisk's shriek of pain was muffled by the sound of bone and flesh splitting, a grotesque sound that paradoxically fueled Daniel's insane fury.

(Short Flashback - Akane): A flash: Akane, in a sunny clearing. "Precision, Daniel," her melodious voice echoed, "not brute force." The memory of the light sword in her hand, a contrast to the current carnage.

Fangs sank into his arm, more poison, an incandescent needle tearing through skin. Another bite, leg, muscles contorting in spasms. A basilisk lunged at his torso, the dull thud of scales against flesh, the air forced from his lungs in a painful hiss. Daniel roared, not a scream, but a guttural, primal growl, pain, fury, madness merging into a whirlwind. The sword, heavy as lead, moved in desperate arcs, but the basilisks were too fast, a lethal green blur.

A colossal shadow, the beating of wings like thunder. The dragon, previously a statue of contained fury, launched itself at Daniel. A deafening roar, a sound wave that made the arena vibrate. The basilisks, thrown like rag dolls. Claws, sharp as giant razors, sank into Daniel's flesh, a deep tear, the sound of ripping fabric.

Pain. An explosion of pain in his chest, ribs cracking like dry twigs. The arm, a dead weight, broken bones grating. Blood, hot and viscous, ran down his body, a crimson cascade. The arena floor, a putrid mire of blood, venom, and death.

Daniel, the cornered Berserker beast. Trapped, the dragon's claws like steel shackles. Basilisks, a circle of death, venomous breath. Blood, the metallic taste flooding his mouth. Venom, liquid fire in his veins. Body, a ruin. Defeat, a shadow closing in. But in his eyes, not emptiness, but a black gleam, a spark of untamable fury. Not yet.

A death rattle, a guttural sound that seemed to emerge from the depths of hell, tore through the oppressive silence of the arena. Daniel, reduced to little more than a husk of the man he once was, expelled a spurt of thick, black blood, viscous clots mixed with greenish bile and unrecognizable fragments of his own organs. His body, once a sculpture of muscle and vigor, was now reduced to a trembling ruin, a grotesque amalgam of lacerated flesh and exposed bone.

The wounds, a gruesome map of his agony, covered every inch of his skin. Where once there was the smooth, warm texture of life, deep craters now opened, revealing muscles torn by the dragon's claws and the basilisks' fangs. His bones, shattered like glass, pierced the flesh at impossible angles, as if the skeleton itself sought a desperate escape from that torment. The venom, a river of liquid fire, corroded his veins, accelerating necrosis, turning the inside of his body into a putrid, decaying landscape.

The intense fury, which had sustained him like a shield against the excruciating pain, dissipated like morning mist dissolving under the sun. In its place emerged an agony of cosmic proportions, a suffering so absolute that it transcended any description. His vision, once the precise focus of a predator, was now reduced to a shapeless whirlwind of colors and shadows, the harbinger of the eternal darkness that approached. The metallic, almost sweet taste of his own blood flooded his mouth; the sweet, nauseating stench of death permeated his nostrils; and the icy coldness of the end completely enveloped him.

Daniel, the human who had lived with the intensity of a thousand suns, the warrior who had faced countless battles, the companion who had shared vigils under the moonlight, was one step away from death. The untamable beast, which had roared within him for fleeting moments, now retreated, powerless, before the irreversible destruction of its carnal dwelling. Only a shred of consciousness remained, a flickering flame about to be extinguished by the vastness of the night.

In the stands, three figures rose like statues of pain. Akane, Aela, and Eryndora felt their hearts, once pulsing with hope and deep affection, shatter into millions of fragments. The sight of Daniel, their companion, their protector, their friend, reduced to that grotesque caricature of suffering, was a blow that tore their souls apart. Hope, once a small, stubborn flame, now extinguished completely, taking with it the promise of any shared future.

But, amidst the darkness of despair, a phrase, whispered by Daniel in his last flash of lucidity, resonated like thunder in their minds: "Have faith in the Creator…"

As if driven by an invisible force, the three elves knelt on the blood-soaked sand. Tears, scalding like lava, streamed down their faces, tracing furrows amidst the dust and soot. They closed their eyes, not out of cowardice, but because the sight of Daniel's suffering was unbearable, and joined their hands, fingers intertwined in a silent plea.

And then, from the depths of their beings, they cried out. Not in articulated words, but in a primal lament, a cry of the soul that transcended language. They addressed the Creator of Faytheria, not as a distant and impersonal deity, but as the essence of Daniel's other soul, the life force he carried within him, the mystery that he himself did not understand.

Akane, the elven princess, previously untouched by the harshness of the world, now stripped herself of all her royalty, all her vanity. She humbled herself before that unfathomable power, offering her own life in exchange for Daniel's, crying out for a miracle with a voice choked by convulsive sobs, her soul bare and exposed.

Aela, the half-elf warrior, hardened by battles and disbelieving of the divine, now surrendered to blind faith. Not a passive faith, but an angry faith, a faith that demanded an answer, that challenged fate itself. Her lips, once firm in a line of determination, now trembled in silent supplications, while her heart, squeezed by a pain that seemed to crush it, screamed for justice.

Eryndora, the sweet forest elf, the personification of innocence and kindness, now drowned in an ocean of sadness. Tears rolled down her face like waterfalls, her sobs echoing through the arena like the lament of a lost child. But, even amidst the paralyzing pain, she clung to the unwavering belief that the strength of their bond could perhaps overcome death. Her prayer was a hymn to hope, a melody of faith that rose above the chaos.

Three elves, united in despair and loyalty, cried out in a single lament. Not for power, not for glory, not for revenge. But for the life of Daniel, the human for whom their destinies intertwined and who now fought his last battle, alone, against the darkness.

And, in the center of the arena, Daniel's bloodied silhouette, on the brink of the abyss, awaited the outcome. His body, once proud, was now a map of destruction, each wound a red brushstroke. His mind, a fragmented chaos on the verge of collapse. His soul, like a wounded bird, ready to take flight towards the unknown. But, deep down, where the essence of life still stubbornly pulsed, an echo of their prayer resounded like a beacon amidst the storm, an anchor in the vastness of impending death. A glimmer, a tenuous thread of hope, refused to extinguish.

Kneeling on the crimson sand, Akane, Aela, and Eryndora joined their voices in a final, desperate cry. No longer a restrained whisper, no longer a silent lament, but a scream that tore through the atmosphere, laden with the weight of pain, devotion, the faith that still remained in their shattered hearts.

"— CREATOR! —" Akane's voice echoed, choked and pained — "HEAR US! SAVE DANIEL!" The cries broke through the arena like thunder echoing in the dark night, overpowering, for a brief moment, the now-muted fairy crowd.

The desperate plea of the three elves, merging prayer and demand into a single tone, hung in the arena air for a fleeting instant.

Queen Eleonora, interrupting another of her usual mockeries, let out a shrill, cruel laugh.

"HOHOHO! What a tasteless joke!" her voice was pure venom. "Do you really believe that this… thing… this entity… will save him? Not even the Goddess of Faytheria could reverse what has been done to him, you fools! Imagine a ridiculous deity, who doesn't even have a name… 'Creator'… HAHAHAHA! Pathetic!"

The Queen's laughter echoed in the arena for a fraction of a second, before being abruptly silenced by the impossible.

A deafening silence took over Faytheria. An absolute silence. The wind ceased. The birds fell silent. The fairies themselves, previously hysterical, were now petrified.

Then, the sky tore open.

Clouds, which did not exist, formed in a furious vortex. A flash, brighter than daylight, flooded the arena, revealing the horrors in details too sharp to bear. And from the vortex in the firmament, no lightning descended: a column of divine energy, pure and blinding white, struck the arena with the speed of thought.

The impact was like the end of the world. The sand, previously red with blood, instantly vitrified, turning black and smooth. The rocks of the arena crumbled in an explosion of dust and fragments. A shockwave, titanic and invisible, swept the arena, knocking down and throwing the fairies far away, completely shattering the magical dome that protected it.

The basilisks, hit squarely by the divine fury, explode into shards of flesh, leaving behind only a hot vapor and an acrid smell of sulfur. The Red Titan, previously an imposing beast, was thrown like a toy against the arena wall, and the sound of the impact echoed through Faytheria like the wrath of the gods. The dragon remained fallen, unconscious.

Akane trembled from head to toe, feeling the wave of divine energy sweep the arena, even with her eyes closed. They watched the trajectory of the colossal beast being thrown far away, as if it had no weight at all.

A thick smoke, like a ghostly veil, slowly dissipated, carried away by a gentle breeze that seemed like a sigh from the gods. The smell of ozone mixed with the nauseating odor of blood and burnt flesh, assaulting the elves' nostrils. The ringing in their ears gave way to a heavy silence, a harbinger of something terrible or miraculous.

And then, their gazes fixed.

In the center of the smoking crater, where Daniel's destroyed body had previously lain, a figure slowly rose. It was him, but transfigured. His body, still marked by deep wounds, was covered by a thin layer of clotted blood, a grotesque armor forged in battle.

But, beneath that crimson crust, life struggled to manifest. The flesh recomposed itself in a visible, yet slow and painful process. The bones snapped back into place with dull clicks, the muscles redefined themselves in spasmodic contractions. It was the residual energy of the Berserker state, pushed to its limit, a life force that refused to be extinguished. Daniel resembled an undead, a specter returned from the threshold of death.

Slowly, the Dragon, the Red Titan, rose with difficulty, revealing several new abrasions on its colossal body. Its fiery eyes, once bright and intense, were now cloudy, but still charged with pent-up fury. It opened its mouth, revealing menacing fangs, and a wisp of smoke escaped between them, a silent harbinger of a new attack.

Daniel, moved by adrenaline and instinct, perceived the imminent threat. He turned towards the dragon, his body bent by pain, but his eyes, no longer black and empty, but brown, shining with the stubborn flame of determination. The blind fury of the Berserker had dissipated, giving way to the human's iron willpower, his desperate need to protect his companions.

And then, in an act bordering on insanity, he shot forward.

An indistinct blur. The speed was superhuman, supersonic, a fusion of the Berserker's residual strength and the divine touch. The air around him vibrated, creating a visible displacement that lifted the dust and sand from the arena.

Daniel hit the dragon's snout with his clenched fist. The impact was deafening, a crash that echoed like the end of the world, making the arena tremble. A shockwave, visible as a distortion in the air, propagated from the point of contact, shattering what remained of the magical dome, reducing it to dust.

But the price was terrible. Daniel's arm, already weakened by previous injuries, could not withstand the colossal force of his own blow. The flesh tore completely, exposing muscles and tendons. The bone, exposed and shattered, shone white as ivory under the intense sunlight.

The dragon, hit squarely, was thrown backwards, as if it were an insignificant toy. Its colossal body collided against what remained of the arena ceiling, causing the structure to collapse in a shower of debris. The creature fell to the ground with a thud that made the earth tremble, its eyes slowly closing, its breathing ceasing. This time, the Red Titan would not rise. Silence. Only the sound of the arena crumbling and the falling debris.

Daniel, with his right arm hanging limp, a shapeless mass of flesh and bone, fell to his knees, exhausted, on the brink of unconsciousness.