In a dimly lit room, where several cells housed multiple prisoners, a tall and muscular figure sat in the center. The faint sunlight filtering through an opening in the wall barely illuminated his silhouette, creating a dramatic contrast between light and shadow.

It was Thamuz who sat there, still as a statue, his fists clenched tightly and his gaze fixed on the stone floor. The silence that surrounded him seemed as heavy as the chains imprisoning the other inmates.

"Hey! Is something bothering you?" asked a gruff voice from one of the cells, breaking the oppressive silence.

"I'm just thinking," Thamuz replied, his deep voice reverberating off the stone walls.

"Well, it looks like something else happened to you," the voice insisted. "You've got huge bruises all over your body. Did you fight some kind of creature?"

Intrigued by his interlocutor's persistence, Thamuz turned his head slightly. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw the figure speaking to him: an extremely thin man, whose body was covered in scars and who was missing an arm.

"Wow, what happened to you?" Thamuz asked, his curiosity momentarily outweighing his own concerns.

"Oh, this?" the man responded with a bitter laugh. "I used to be a shamonak fighter like you, strong and young, full of energy and determination. But I guess life takes strange turns sometimes."

The prisoner paused, as if gathering strength to continue.

"During a war started by that fool Zarakel, he chose me as his representative fighter for a shamonak match that was supposed to end the conflict. My opponent was too strong; I could hardly hurt him. I lost, and when I returned to the kingdom, they captured me, tortured me, and mutilated my arm, leaving me with all these scars."

Thamuz nodded slowly, processing the story.

"I see. You gave it your all, and yet they didn't appreciate your effort," he commented, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, it's something that happens quite often," the man responded. "It's a lifestyle that can either destroy you or turn you into a legend."

A silence settled between them, heavy with mutual understanding that only those who had experienced the brutality of the arena could share.

"By the way, what's your name?" Thamuz finally asked.

"My name is Fhogar," the prisoner replied.

"Nice to meet you, Fhogar. My name is Thamuz," he said, inclining his head slightly in respect.

Fhogar observed Thamuz with renewed interest, his eyes tracing the impressive musculature of the young fighter.

"You look like a very strong guy. How old are you?" he asked, curiosity evident in his voice.

"I'm six years old," Thamuz replied naturally.

"Six years old!" Fhogar exclaimed, the surprise making him sit up abruptly in his cell. "Six years of fighting in shamonak matches, you mean."

Thamuz shook his head, a sad smile curving his lips.

"No, Fhogar. I'm six years old."

The silence that followed this revelation was deafening. Fhogar looked at Thamuz in astonishment, suddenly understanding the true nature of Zarakel's cruelty and the system they both had served.

"By all the gods," Fhogar murmured. "You're just a child."

Thamuz nodded, his gaze returning to the floor.

"Do you know where the woman who always paints my body is? I've been waiting for a long time, and she still hasn't appeared. I think her name was Gharta," Thamuz asked, his voice tinged with impatience.

"I think she's on her way. I hear footsteps coming from outside," Fhogar replied, pointing with a trembling finger toward the door behind them.

Thamuz turned his head slightly and watched as the door creaked open, revealing Gharta. The woman walked toward him with a jar filled with a colorful liquid, resembling the orange of a sunset.

But Thamuz noticed something strange about her. She walked as if she had injured her foot, her back slightly hunched, and she held the jar with only one hand, while the other was hidden behind her clothes. A chill ran down his spine, sensing that something was wrong.

Thamuz waited for Gharta to reach him, and when she stood before him, he flashed a broad smile, concealing his unease.

"Long time no see, Gharta," Thamuz said, discreetly studying the woman's face.

"I feel the same, young Thamuz. How have the days been during the ghurkha?" she asked, her eyes shining with unusual intensity.

"Too dark, but I got plenty of rest after the fight with Khabixan. He really exhausted me with all the attacks he threw at me," Thamuz responded, with a small laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

"I can see that," Gharta said, but she noticed something about Thamuz: the various bruises still present on his body, like a map of past battles. "What happened to you?"

Thamuz detected the concern in Gharta's tone and looked at himself, giving a quick glance at all the bruises and wounds that had yet to heal.

"I had a little fight with Zarakel's son," Thamuz whispered in Gharta's ear playfully. "I almost beat him, but I tripped on a rock and hit my head."

"Well, if what you're saying is true, then you've got a lot of courage, kid," Gharta expressed, laughing a bit and placing the jar on her lap, then dipping her fingers into the liquid. "Most fighters would tremble in front of someone as big as Gigantino."

"What will the paintings be about this time?" Thamuz asked, curiosity in his voice and a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

"These paintings will represent the fear that every shamonak fighter must face if they want to become a legend," Gharta explained, starting to touch Thamuz's body with the fresh paint on her fingers. "The fear of death, a weakness that cannot have space in the heart of the strongest. If death is present, they will embrace it with the most intense heat that could be emitted."

The shapes Gharta traced on Thamuz's body were unusual and mystical. On his chest, she drew a triangle with two dots that simulated eyes and a large line above, resembling the sky.

"This symbolizes the connection between the warrior and the god to whom they give their strength, whether it's Azhamat or one from a different religion."

On Thamuz's back, she formed a large line that framed his entire spine, drawing horizontal lines over it.

"This represents the strength and resilience necessary for the challenges that lie ahead."

She finished by painting Thamuz's face, drawing horizontal lines from his forehead to his cheeks, passing over his eyes.

"This is a war mask that will hide your weakest emotions; you won't feel fear or sadness, only the heat of battle running through your veins."

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"You're done," said Gharta, wiping her paint-covered fingers on her clothes. Her hidden hand still intrigued Thamuz, but he decided not to ask.

"Thank you, Gharta," Thamuz said, rising from his chair.

The entire room began to shake with the roars of the crowd, excited by the new fight that was about to happen. Thamuz heard the howls of glory and excitement that started to fill the air, like a siren's song calling him to the arena.

"They're ready for you. Just listen to how they call for your fight," said Fhogar, leaning weakly on the metal bars, his voice filled with emotion.

"Death, something a Shamonak fighter cannot fear. I must embrace it with strength and joy," said Thamuz, clenching his fists, the paint glowing on his skin like an inner fire. "Give me strength, parents."

The doors of the dark room opened with a deafening screech, revealing a gigantic ramp in front of Thamuz. The young warrior observed it cautiously and, with slow but steady steps, began to ascend. Each step echoed in his ears, marking the rhythm of his racing heart.

When he reached the top, Thamuz found himself in the much-acclaimed combat arena. The smell of blood and sweat filled his nostrils, reminding him of past battles. He crossed his arms, painted with mystical symbols, and let out a deep sigh, allowing the energy of the place to surround him.

The voices supporting him resonated in his mind like an ancestral chant. They shouted his name, accompanied by songs in an ancient language Thamuz did not understand but that made every fiber of his being vibrate. The crowd was a sea of expectant faces, hungry for violence and glory.

Turning his head, Thamuz saw his family seated in their usual spots. Tawnylon and Aolani looked at him with a mixture of pride and concern, their eyes shining with unshed tears. Narek, on the other hand, was at the edge of his seat, eager to see his friend in action. Armesto and Yakrare completed the family scene, their stoic faces hiding the storm of emotions they felt.

Suddenly, a deafening roar shook the arena. Thamuz turned his gaze forward, where gigantic doors were slowly opening, revealing a dark room from which a sinister and palpable energy emanated. The air grew dense, and Thamuz felt a drop of cold sweat run down his painted back.

From the shadows emerged an imposing figure, almost as tall as Thamuz. His opponent advanced with confident steps, revealing his supernatural appearance. Two considerable horns crowned his head, marked by scars from past battles. His skin was ash-gray, and his body seemed sculpted by the gods themselves, each muscle defined as if it were a living work of art.

The warrior's abundant white hair contrasted with his burning orange eyes. On his cheeks, linear marks resembling eternal tears completed his intimidating appearance. He walked with a stride that oscillated between comical and terrifying, moving his arms as if they were rubber, in a strange pre-fight ritual.

The two fighters met face to face in the center of the arena. Thamuz, with his slight height advantage, looked down at his opponent, who returned his gaze with a defiant and mocking smile.

"Wow, you look worse up close than from a distance," said the opponent, his voice raspy and dripping with sarcasm.

Thamuz didn’t respond verbally, he only let out a low growl from deep within his throat, his eyes locked on his adversary’s. The tension between them was palpable, like an invisible thread about to snap.

Suddenly, the attention of both warriors was drawn to the center of the arena, where a circle of fire opened out of nowhere. The flames danced hypnotically, and from them emerged the presenter, an enigmatic and feared figure.

The presenter wore a red robe, making him appear like a giant living bloodstain. His face remained hidden under the hood, adding an air of mystery and fear to his presence. In his hand, he held an ancient scroll, which he unrolled with a fluid motion.

Silence fell over the arena like a heavy blanket. Even the crowd’s roars died down, waiting for the words that would determine the fighters' fates. The presenter raised his voice, which resonated with supernatural authority:

"In this third sacred match of the Shamonak to-the-death tournament, two fierce warriors face off in a battle that will test the two victories that the combatant Thamuz has earned. But now he faces someone well-known in these arenas, Bhaxmunt Exilias, who holds the title of the Cold Touch of Death. Let the fight begin, and may the best fighter be victorious!"

With these words, the fire extinguished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving Thamuz and his opponent alone in the center of the arena. The crowd roared with renewed energy, and the air filled with anticipation.

Bhaxmunt stepped back a bit while Thamuz did the same, their eyes fixed on each other's every movement. The shouts and chants of the crowd began to fade as they saw the two opponents doing nothing for a moment, the tension growing with each second.

"Are they having a staring contest!" some impatient spectators shouted.

"Start fighting already, I have to get home to cook!" others yelled.

Bhaxmunt turned his head to look at the crowd and gave a wide grin, his teeth shining under the arena lights.

"Just listen to them, they want a fight," Bhaxmunt said, directing his words toward Thamuz. "When I’m actually going to give them a massacre. You’ll be begging me to stop."

Thamuz, undeterred, crouched slightly and extended his arms closer to his body. He looked at Bhaxmunt with slightly lost eyes, as if in a trance, and suddenly lunged at him.

Bhaxmunt, with cat-like reflexes, stepped aside, dodging Thamuz’s charge. He made no counterattack, watching as Thamuz stopped his charge with precision.

"You’ve got good reflexes," said Thamuz, turning his back on Bhaxmunt, his voice calm despite the failed attack.

"If you keep charging like that, like in your last fight, you’re risking me landing a killing blow," Bhaxmunt replied, with a hint of annoyance in his voice, as if disappointed by Thamuz’s tactic.

Thamuz heard this and changed his fighting stance. Now, he wasn’t standing tall but with a straight back and outstretched arms, palms open as if to grasp the air itself. It was a stance that mixed defense and offense, ready to respond to any movement.

Bhaxmunt saw this and chuckled a bit, taking up a low fighting stance, similar to the one Thamuz used to use.

"Be careful, I’m going all out," Bhaxmunt warned, a predatory smile on his face.

In an instant, Bhaxmunt lunged at Thamuz. The young warrior brought his hands down forcefully, trying to strike Bhaxmunt during his charge, but his opponent was too agile. Bhaxmunt dodged the blow and grabbed Thamuz by the waist as he struck the ground, missing his attack.

With surprising speed, Bhaxmunt shifted his position and got behind Thamuz. He wrapped his arms tightly around Thamuz’s waist and, with a roar, began leaning back with great force, executing a suplex that made the arena shake. The impact echoed throughout the place, and the crowd gasped in unison.

Thamuz let out a faint groan of pain, the air knocked out of his lungs. But Bhaxmunt didn’t give him time to recover. He quickly stood up and stomped on Thamuz’s face before retreating, watching as his attack had taken effect.

Thamuz lay motionless on the ground for a moment that seemed eternal. Then, slowly, he raised a hand to his face and began to rise. Bhaxmunt, seeing an opportunity, charged again and kicked him.

But to everyone's surprise, Thamuz barely flinched at the impact. He stood up slowly, his back turned, and then rotated his body to face Bhaxmunt. His eyes burned with a contained fury, and a trickle of blood flowed from his nose.

"You’ve got strong punches," said Thamuz, grabbing his nose and cracking it back into place, the sound making some spectators shudder. "But you’ll need more than that to knock me out."

Bhaxmunt heard Thamuz's words, and a cold drop of sweat ran down his forehead. He smiled again, but this time it seemed more nervous, his initial confidence starting to fade.

"Well, they’re right about you," Bhaxmunt admitted, opening his palms in a gesture that mixed respect and caution. "You’re a freak of nature."

Thamuz responded with a slight growl, his eyes fixed on Bhaxmunt. Suddenly, he moved with superhuman speed, making it seem like he had disappeared. Bhaxmunt blinked, confused, his gaze frantically scanning the arena, unable to locate his opponent.

"Below you!" someone from the crowd shouted, their voice mingling with the gasps of astonishment from the spectators.

Bhaxmunt looked down just in time to see Thamuz crouched in front of him, his eyes glowing with fierce intensity. He tried to back away, but it was too late. Thamuz, with lethal precision, delivered an open palm strike to Bhaxmunt’s chin. The impact echoed throughout the arena, and Bhaxmunt was sent flying, his body arcing through the air before crashing down several meters away.

Thamuz slowly stood up, his movements deliberate and menacing. He began to stretch his arms, making them crack with a sound that chilled the blood of many spectators. He approached Bhaxmunt, who lay motionless on the ground, seemingly knocked out.

"Where’s that smile you always wore on your face?" Thamuz asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "I thought you were going to massacre me, make me beg for mercy. Now I see you on the ground, gasping for the air your brain was deprived of."

Thamuz stood in front of Bhaxmunt, raising his foot with the intention of stomping on his stomach and finishing the fight. He brought his foot down with great force, certain of his victory.

But something went terribly wrong. Instead of the expected impact, Thamuz felt a sharp, piercing pain in his foot, so intense that his leg instantly went numb. He collapsed to the ground, clutching the wounded area and holding back a scream of pain.

Horrified, Thamuz looked at his leg. His tendon had been punctured, leaving two deep holes that bled profusely. The realization hit him like a cold wave: Bhaxmunt was not as defeated as he had seemed.

Bhaxmunt still lay on the ground, but something had changed. Vapor began to emanate from his body, creating a sinister mist around him. With a fluid, unnatural movement, he kicked his legs and planted his feet on the ground, rising to his feet using only the strength of his back in a display of supernatural agility.

Once standing, Bhaxmunt remained in an upright position, his body tense like a predator ready to strike. He slowly turned his head until his eyes, now glowing with a cold, merciless light, locked onto Thamuz.

He raised his arms and curled his hands, except for his index and middle fingers, holding them in front of Thamuz like deadly weapons. When he spoke, his voice was low and loaded with a menace that froze the air in the arena:

"Ah, yes, I was going to massacre you. It was going to be quick and bold, the way I’d kill you," Bhaxmunt said, each word dripping with venom. "But your arrogance and your complete disregard made me realize something: I have to destroy you. I have to shatter the dreams you have, the motivation that keeps you fighting."

Bhaxmunt took a step toward Thamuz, the vapor around his body intensifying, creating a spectral and terrifying image.

"That’s why I won’t fight you with just Shamonak anymore," he continued, his eyes now glowing with a supernatural light. "I’ll fight with a style that was created to hunt Shamonak fighters: the Nilux."