Chapter 10: Claimed by Ash
The gates opened.
Thirty-seven remained.
From over four thousand combatants across a dozen camps, this was all that was left — the strongest, the bloodiest, the survivors.
Kaelren stepped out with them into the roar of the coliseum. Stone walls loomed like cliffs, stained dark from decades of slaughter. The sun hadn't even crested the spires, but already the air stank of sweat, rust, and anticipation.
The crowd was thunder.
Tens of thousands packed the stands — Synth merchants, Bloodfang warriors, Gloomtide assassins, beast-tamers, pit lords, and mercenaries from across Vel'Drakka. Above them all, in the rune-sealed tiers, the faction elites stood behind shimmering wards of silence and luxury.
Bets flew like ash in the wind.
Currency in Vel'Drakka was primal — shardmarks, carved from beastbone or alloy, each infused with a trace of lifeforce. The lowest were black — common bone. The highest, radiant crimson — godbeast marrow alloyed with voidsteel. Most of the crowd dealt in graymarks, the standard coin of warriors: spined, etched, and blood-oiled.
A bell rang.
And in the elite box marked by coiled bone serpents and flame-forged banners, The woman in the white-gold masked leaned forward.
Her white-gold mask caught the sun. Her lavender eyes sparkled behind it as she handed a carved crimson shardmark to the ash-robed officiant.
"Five on the Fleshstorm," she said, voice low. "To win it all."
The officiant blinked, surprised.
The crimson shard was the highest value of currency equalling a million grayshards.
But she simply turned back to the arena, her
nine ghost like tails flickering with amusement.
On the field, the horn blew.
And the Cull Finals began.
It was no longer a series of duels.
This was war.
The Bone Widow struck first — a Gene Warrior in the shape of a spider. Her arms were elongated, jointed twice, and her black skin shimmered with venomous runes. She leapt onto a hulking Synth from Camp 9 and drove her talons into his throat, tearing out his augments with wet cracks. She didn't stop. She drank his blood as he died, shrieking a laugh that echoed through the arena.
Near her, Ravien the Red was a blur of light — glass-armored and wielding twin plasma claws that cut through flesh like silk. He danced between two Gene Warriors, severing limbs mid-motion. His strikes were too fast to follow. When he stopped moving, three corpses hit the ground, smoking.
Then came Harnok of the Chain.
No elegance. No speed.
Just power.
He slammed one opponent to the floor with a punch that cratered stone, then used that body as a flail to strike another. His chains whipped and rattled as he roared — not words, just sound. His bare fists cracked skulls like eggs. Blood misted around him like breath in winter.
All three were monsters.
But they weren't Kaelren.
From the edge of the field, Kaelren moved.
And five turned toward him.
Five strong ones — survivors, killers, finalists.
They came not as cowards, but as predators sensing a threat.
Kaelren didn't wait.
He walked forward — slow, calm, each step heavier than the last.
The first blow came from his left — a Synth with jagged forearm blades and plated thighs reinforced with spring-pistons. Kaelren ducked low, and the wind of the blade sliced over his scalp.
He didn't counter.
Not yet.
Because the second was already on him — a Gene Warrior girl with copper skin and a snake's slit-eye glare. Her fingernails had hardened into bone razors. She slashed at his chest. Kaelren leaned back. One of the talons carved a line across his pectoral. Blood welled.
Now he struck.
Kaelren lunged forward and headbutted her so hard the crunch echoed louder than the crowd. Her legs folded. He spun, raised a knee, and caved in her chest before her body even hit the ground.
But there was no time to breathe.
A hammer blow crashed into his back — one of the five, a Synth tank with shockwave fists and scaled plating bolted into his skin. Kaelren was driven to a knee, sand blasting upward from the impact.
Another Gene Warrior — lean, sharp-eyed, four-armed — rushed from the right. Two hands reached for Kaelren's face. The others aimed for his ribs.
Kaelren moved like a weapon.
He twisted, caught the wrist of one hand, and slammed his elbow into the charging warrior's temple. Then again. Then again. Bone cracked. Kaelren tore free one of the arms — tore it off — and used it to block a plasma spike from the third Synth, who'd closed in during the chaos.
A blade carved into Kaelren's shoulder.
Another caught him in the thigh.
His vision blurred.
His knees buckled.
And in that moment — the Sutra ignited.
It didn't rise gently.
It roared.
Something inside his marrow caught fire — not with heat, but with violent pressure. Every cell in Kaelren's body surged. Muscles fibered tighter. Bone grew heavier. Veins burned with red-gold light. The Gene Refinement Sutra, long silent, long waiting, awakened fully.
Kaelren bled.
But he didn't fall.
He rose.
And when he did, the air bent around him — a visible distortion like steam from fire.
Spectators froze.
Even in the soundproofed elite boxes, nobles leaned forward. Runes flared. The crowds jaw dropped.
"He just—"
"Extreme Realm."
"Are you certain?"
"LOOK at him—"
In the Ashwalker box, the masked woman stood. Her masked eyes burned with intent. A flick of her fingers sent a golden token spiraling into the air — a silent signal to claim right of recruitment.
But across from her, the envoy of the Vilethorn Legion raised a black fang-carved medallion. And beside him, the Ember Howlers threw a bloodmarked coin.
The air above the arena thickened with tension.
The crowd had no idea.
But war was being waged in the stands.
On the field, Kaelren stopped dodging.
He advanced.
The Synth tank raised his arms to block. Kaelren hit him in the ribs once. Just once. But the armor cracked like ceramic. The man vomited blood and folded in half.
The four-armed Gene Warrior tried to circle around. Kaelren twisted and drove his foot up in a snapping heel-kick — the chin shattered, the skull twisted sideways, the body hit the dirt limp.
Another came from behind.
Kaelren didn't turn.
He back-elbowed with full weight, his shoulder blade popping mid-motion.
The jaw he struck broke clean off.
Blood sprayed. Teeth scattered. The crowd lost its mind.
"FLESHSTORM! FLESHSTORM! FLESHSTORM!"
Kaelren exhaled — slow, measured. His skin steamed. His heartbeat was a war drum in his ears.
The last opponent tried to flee.
Kaelren caught him by the ankle and slammed him into the ground. Then again. And again. Until he stopped moving.
Silence hung for a moment.
Then the crowd exploded.
Stone trembled from the noise. Bones rained from the stands. Wagers changed hands in droves. The masked woman's crimson shardmark had already tripled in value — and still she watched, silent, still, her eyes locked on him.
"He's ours, Aelvara Zavrekh" muttered a rival noble beside her.
She didn't speak.
The Ashwalkers would claim him at all cost.
But Kaelren, blood-slick and breathing like a beast, stood unaware of what was about to happen.
The taste of battle still on his tongue.
The Sutra still burning in his veins.
The moment Kaelren struck down the last of the five, the tension in the upper tiers snapped.
It began with a single flare of violet light — the crest of the Vilethorn Legion, projected high above their viewing box in defiance. A heartbeat later, the Ember Howlers responded with a crimson warcry rune, thrumming with flame.
Then came House Zurrakh of the Chain Lords, The Red Forge Syndicate, Gloomtide Exarchs, and others — each sending their mark into the sky like a gauntlet thrown.
In the Ashwalker tier, Aelvara Zavrekh stood perfectly still.
Her voice did not rise.
Her tails did not stir.
She only raised her right arm and snapped her fingers once.
The response was instant.
The Ashwalker sigil ignited.
Not projected — manifested. A colossal fox-shaped flame, nine tails curled behind it, burst forth from the bone-etched runeplate beneath her feet and lit the sky with silver fire.
The arena went silent.
Then all hell broke loose.
The barriers shattered.
What had been soundproof elite boxes became craters in the stands as the strongest faction heirs and champions leapt into the sky. The rune-seals meant to keep them hidden and silent disintegrated like ash before wind.
Waves of energy ripped through the air.
The Vilethorn commander, a war-shrouded brute of a Gene Warrior with a crown of bone, hurled a mace carved from Leviathan spine.
Aelvara dodged mid-air, tails rippling like ribbons of starlight, and launched a barrage of illusion-cloaked slashes from her clawed gauntlets. Three missed. One landed — and the Vilethorn's right eye exploded in a spray of pink.
Below, the crowd screamed — in awe, terror, ecstasy.
Kaelren stood still, blood-soaked and panting, as the sky burned above him.
"What's happening?" one finalist whispered behind him.
Another answered, trembling. "They're… they're fighting for him."
Kaelren's breath slowed.
He looked up.
And saw the gold masked woman trading strikes, her silver-white hair blazing like fire, her nine tails warping space with every whip and flick.
The battlefield stretched hundreds of meters above the arena now — stone cracked, banners were torn, and the very sky rippled with the pressure of their blows.
One Ember Howler dove from above, twin scimitars blazing with molten Qi.
Aelvara caught the first with her claw, parried the second with a flick of her tail, and then vanished — reappearing behind him in a burst of silver mist. She whispered one word.
"Fall."
The Howler dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
The Chain Lord heir tried next — a mountain of a man with obsidian skin and whip-chains made of enchanted ore.
He roared and launched a barrage of strikes that cratered the very air.
Aelvara twisted through them with fluid grace. She didn't overpower him — she outmaneuvered him. One tail coiled around his throat. Another pierced his shoulder. The third peirced his heart.
He too fell.
Now only the Vilethorn remained.
He howled, full of rage and desperation, and unleashed his full might — a battlefield storm of brute Qi, mutant strength, and beast aura.
Aelvara let him.
She walked through the storm.
Her body blurred, shifted — silver flame licking her limbs, eyes glowing beneath her mask, a predator beyond reason.
One strike. That's all.
A single, perfect claw thrust through the chestplate of the Vilethorn's armor. His heart shattered. His body collapsed. And Aelvara, without a word, turned back toward the coliseum below.
Kaelren looked up as silence descended.
Ash drifted through the air.
The sky glowed with embers and ruin.
And then — the Ashwalker fox-flame sigil burned overhead once more, towering, undeniable.
The Fleshstorm was claimed.
The final message etched into the sky with silver flame:
"Right of claim: Aelvara Zavrekh."
Trumpets sounded.
The crowd went berserk — some in rage, others in stunned awe. No one remembered the last time a faction battle had erupted mid-Cull.
Gene healers and Synth medics rushed the arena, ushering the remaining finalists — Kaelren among them — off the blood-slick sands and into the undercells.
Time to rest.
Time to heal.
Because tomorrow… the final duels would begin.
And only one name would rise.
Kaelren sat in silence.
The house was too quiet, and everything that just happened shaking his world veiw.
For the first time in years, there were no howls in the distance, no snoring tents, no metal groaning in the wind. Just a low hum — faint arcane currents pulsing through the walls, keeping the air perfectly warm, the lighting soft.
He sat near the central hearth, dressed in clean dark robes stitched with the Bloodfang sigil. His body still ached — not from wounds, but from the weight of it all.
The Cull was over.
He had won.
Not with blood, but with presence.
The finals had begun in a round-robin format — the last ten fighters, each to face the others. But one by one, when it came time to face him, they knelt.
Not out of loyalty.
But out of respect.
And fear.
They had seen what he had done to five of their strongest. They had watched him enter the Extreme Realm mid-fight, evolve before their eyes. They knew that stepping into the ring with Kaelren wasn't just a guaranteed loss — it was a possible death sentence.
So they bowed.
And the crowd, the wild, bloodthirsty, vicious — approved.
There were no boos. No riots. Just cheers, laughter, and the crack of wagers being cashed in.
Kaelren had become more than a pit fighter.
He had become a name.
Kaelren didn't feel like watching the other fights.He left the arena back to the undercroft. That's when he saw her.
Aelvara Zavrekh entered without a word, silver hair tied, white-gold mask gleaming in the flickering light. She wore light armor now — less battlefield, more ceremonial — but the nine ethereal tails still shimmered faintly behind her like a warning.
"You should savor this," she said, circling the room slowly. "Most who survive the Cull limp away half-dead. You walked away claimed by me. Your mine now all of you."
Kaelren didn't respond.
She didn't mind.
"I'm Aelvara Zavrekh. Heiress to House Zavrekh. Ashwalker leader. I own the right to your future now — by blood, by battle, and by formal claim."
He turned to look at her, eyes unreadable.
She stepped closer.
"The Ashwalkers are the tip of the Bloodfang spear. We don't posture in politics. We don't rot behind walls. We are sent where no one else can survive. And now, you're one of us."
Aelvara smiled slightly. "You've earned the same rank as one born into the clan. No tests. No chains. You bled for it. Fought for it. That's more than most can say."
They walked.
Down bloodlit avenues toward the heart of Blood Gloom City's bloodfang territory.
Kaelren had expected darkness. Shackles. Screams.
But what he found was... life.
Children darted between vendors, pretending to be warriors. One, with a makeshift headband and fake tail, reenacted Kaelren's five-versus-one brawl using sticks and roars.
Vendors barked prices for spice-drenched meats. Mercenaries haggled for weapon parts. A one-eyed grandma slapped a youth upside the head for stealing a fruit.
It was warm. Lively. Real.
Kaelren said nothing.
But his eyes took in everything.
"This is the part of Vel'Drakka they don't show recruits," Aelvara said. "This is home — for those strong enough to earn it."
She took him to a restaurant built into a ribcage of a dead colossus. The food was rich, spiced, fragrant — grilled meats soaked in fruit glazes, strange herbs that tingled on the tongue, black bread that steamed with savory oils.
Aelvara watched him eat.
She didn't flirt. She didn't push.
But her eyes lingered.
When the meal was done, she led him through winding alleys until they reached a hilltop villa — dark stone, gothic towers, crimson windows glowing faintly with rune-light.
"This is yours," she said. "You won the Cull. You are clan now. This house belongs to you."
Kaelren said nothing.
She turned to leave.
"Someone will come at first light," she added, glancing back. "They'll escort you to Ashwalker headquarters. From there… your life begins again."
She vanished into mist.
Kaelren stepped inside.
The door hissed shut behind him.
The interior was… surreal. High ceilings. Stone walls inlaid with bloodsteel veins. Furniture that shifted to suit his posture. Lights that dimmed at a thought. A kitchen.
A training room carved from obsidian colored rock. A bedroom with a view of the city skyline and stars beyond.
He walked it all in silence.
Until he found the bath.
It ran itself.
Steam rose as Kaelren stripped and stepped in. The water was hot. Clean. He sank beneath it, and for the first time in years, didn't need to watch his back.
He scrubbed blood from his skin. Dried. Found robes. Explored the house again.
Eventually, he found the bed.
It was too soft.
He lay on it anyway.
His eyes stared at the ceiling, sharp and unblinking.
No tents.
No gravel.
No hunger.
He had risen.
Camp 12 was over.
End of the Camp 12 Arc.