Part 6: Certamen

Dorian's breath was ragged as he stumbled through the thick fog, his body aching from the brutal battle. The blinding smoke had obscured everything, disorienting him to the point where he could no longer tell where Erik had gone. The sounds of battle—the crack of pulse rifles, the clash of swords—faded as the fog thickened. He had lost sight of his comrades, lost sight of everything. It was as if he were in a nightmare.

Panic began to rise in his chest, but he pushed it down. Focus. He needed to focus. He couldn't afford to lose himself out here. He had fought too hard to go down here.

His eyes scanned the hazy landscape, and through the veil of smoke, he spotted something—a silhouette in the distance. A structure. A building. A faint glimmer of light that broke through the darkness.

Dorian moved toward it, his steps cautious but driven. As he neared, the structure grew clearer: a large, sprawling palace, its tall spires rising from the crumbled landscape like ghostly sentinels. The palace was eerily quiet, its massive doors ajar as if waiting for him. The walls, once regal, now looked faded and worn, scarred by the ravages of time.

He stepped inside, his boots clicking against the cold marble floors. The silence was overwhelming, almost unnatural. It felt like a world apart from the chaos of the battle, as if he had stepped into a forgotten place—dead, abandoned, left behind by time itself.

He moved deeper into the palace, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through shattered windows. The grand hall stretched before him, lined with statues and murals of figures long lost to history. The remnants of once-proud tapestries hung from the walls, now frayed and torn, their colors faded. This place had been untouched for years—perhaps decades—yet there was a sense of history here, a weight of something ancient, something that had endured far beyond the present conflict.

Dorian's pulse quickened as his instincts told him something was wrong. The silence was too still. The air too heavy. He should have been hearing the distant sounds of the war—rifles, blades, screams—but here, there was nothing. Just the oppressive quiet.

Then, a soft footstep.

Dorian spun around, his hand instinctively going for his blade, but it was too late. A shadow moved in the corner of his vision, a massive figure emerging from the darkness of the hallway.

A man—no, a giant—stepped into view. The figure was clad in dark, jagged armor, the design unmistakably Malum. His face was hidden by a vicious helmet, but his eyes glowed with an unholy light, cold and predatory. This was no ordinary soldier. Dorian had heard the rumors, whispers of Malum's greatest warriors—beasts forged in war, fighters whose very presence could crush the will of an army. This one was no exception.

"Who are you?" Dorian's voice was hoarse, but steady. "Another one of Malum's dogs?"

The giant didn't respond. He simply stepped forward, the weight of his armored form shaking the ground beneath him. He carried no rifle, no pulse weapon. Only a massive, jagged sword, dark and cruel, the blade reflecting the dim light of the palace like a shard of broken glass.

The two locked eyes, and in that instant, Dorian knew—there would be no talking, no negotiation. This would be a fight to the death.

The giant's voice was deep, resonating with power, yet eerily calm. "You've come too far, boy. You're in my world now."

Dorian's muscles tensed as he dropped into a defensive stance, his blade raised. "I won't let House Decus fall. Not while I still breathe."

The warrior didn't respond. With a roar, he lunged, his massive sword swinging with terrifying speed, aimed straight for Dorian's chest.

Dorian's reflexes kicked in. He sidestepped the blow just in time, feeling the wind of the giant's strike pass mere inches from his face. The force of the swing cracked the marble beneath him, sending fragments scattering across the floor. The warrior was fast—too fast for someone of his size.

"Damn," Dorian muttered under his breath, eyes widening as he adjusted his stance. This would not be like any fight he'd ever had.

The warrior swung again, the blade coming down like a hammer, but Dorian was ready. He met the blow with his own blade, the clash ringing through the silent halls, the shock reverberating up his arm. The giant pushed forward, using his weight to force Dorian back. But Dorian's feet dug into the floor, and he dug deep into his reserves of strength, resisting the pull of the larger man.

With a grunt, Dorian twisted his sword, redirecting the giant's blade just enough to avoid being cleaved in two. He swung back, aiming for the giant's exposed side, but the warrior twisted, raising his elbow to deflect the blow. Dorian's blade skittered off the dark armor with a harsh screech of metal.

The two warriors circled, each waiting for the other to make a mistake. The tension was palpable, the silence of the palace wrapping around them like a vice, pressing in on their every movement.

"You're faster than I thought," the warrior said, his voice a low growl. "But you're not fast enough."

He lunged again, his sword a blur of darkness, but Dorian was ready this time. He sidestepped, avoiding the strike by mere inches. His sword found the opening he was looking for—a slash to the warrior's exposed arm. It was a glancing blow, but it drew blood, and the giant howled in pain.

"Not bad, little man," the warrior said, wiping the blood away with a swipe of his armored hand. "But it won't be enough."

He swung again, and this time, Dorian didn't have time to react. The blade crashed into his side, the force sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain shot through his ribs, but he refused to let it slow him down.

The giant stood over him, raising his sword for the final blow. But as he swung, Dorian's eyes flickered toward the broken remains of a pillar behind the warrior. Without thinking, he rolled, using the momentum to rise to his feet.

The giant's strike missed—barely.

Dorian seized the opportunity. His sword flashed as he closed the distance, aiming for the warrior's throat. The blade met its mark, but it didn't pierce. The warrior's armor was too thick. Dorian grunted, pushing with all his might, but the giant's grip on his sword tightened, holding him in place.

"You fight well," the giant said, voice filled with admiration. "But you are still just a boy."

The warrior shoved Dorian back with a powerful force, sending him skidding across the floor. Dorian struggled to regain his footing, the pain in his side threatening to overwhelm him.

He couldn't keep up like this. The warrior was stronger, faster. The giant would crush him if he didn't find another way.

Then, something clicked.

The palace around them seemed to echo with a sudden quiet, as if time itself held its breath. Dorian's mind raced. He had only one chance. He had to outsmart the giant.

With a sudden burst of energy, Dorian lunged forward again, feigning a strike to the warrior's chest. The giant raised his sword to block, but Dorian twisted mid-swing, aiming low. His blade cut through the air and into the giant's unprotected leg.

The warrior bellowed in pain, staggering back. Dorian pressed the attack, not giving him a chance to recover, his blade flashing in the dim light. The giant's defenses faltered.

And that was enough.

With one final, desperate strike, Dorian drove his sword into the warrior's chest, deep into the gap in the giant's armor. The warrior's breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.

The warrior fell to his knees, blood spilling from his wound, his massive body collapsing to the ground with a deafening thud.

Dorian staggered back, panting, sweat and blood dripping from his face. He had done it. The Malum beast lay dead at his feet, but the victory felt hollow.

The palace around him was silent once more, the echoes of battle fading. He had survived—barely. But the war was far from over.