"Get… up!"

The words pierced the quiet serenity of the darkness like a sudden crack of thunder. There were no soft streetlights to illuminate his surroundings or reveal who had spoken. A slight ringing in his ears accompanied him in the oppressive silence, a ghostly reminder of something he couldn’t quite place. Those words echoed through the void, reverberating like a broken record in the cavernous blackness.

"Stand your ground."

The next command came with force and authority, each syllable heavy as stones plummeting into a deep ocean, dragging him down with them. He felt himself sinking, desperately reaching out for something—anything—to grasp, to anchor himself amidst the swirling abyss.

"Fight."

A single word, sharper and louder than the rest, cut through the obscurity like a beacon. It rolled over him like a wave, carrying with it the hissing, crackling sounds of a distant crowd. The noise grew, a mix of cheering and clapping, until a name emerged from the cacophony. At first faint and indistinct, it finally hit him with full force, clear and undeniable.

“Sicras! Sicras!”

Spots of faded light twinkled in the dark, casting fleeting glimpses of vague, yet familiar images. He felt as light as a feather, floating and flapping his arms to maintain balance in the void. An ocean of pitch black stretched around him, dotted with sparkling stars that grew larger and larger, coalescing into a single bright light like a vast tunnel beckoning him forward.

Rows of oblique, blurred silhouettes lined wooden benches arranged in a circle. They cheered and stomped their feet in unison, a rhythmic echo that filled the air. Amidst them, a disembodied mouth—nothing but lips and teeth—laughed with a chilling, hollow sound that sent shivers down his spine.

Suddenly, like a massive stone crushing him from above, Sciras collapsed face-first onto the ground. A searing pain shot through him as if every nerve ending had caught fire.

Silhouettes morphed into different societies, each distinct and vibrant, as the hiss of the crowd grew louder, snapping him back to reality with an abrupt jolt. The hot sand seared Sciras's face, and he lay stiff as a board, paralyzed by the heat and the pain coursing through his body.

“Had enough, Worm?”

From the void, a man emerged, kneeling over Sciras with an air of dominance. Sunlight glistened off his smooth skin and toned muscles, highlighting his imposing presence. His laughter echoed across the arena, a taunting sound meant to provoke the crowd. He raised his arm triumphantly, drawing cheers and jeers from the spectators gathered around. Each gesture seemed designed to elicit a response, feeding the frenzy of the onlookers and asserting his control over the moment.

Sciras rolled onto his back, the relentless heat of the high sun beating down on him. The strong scent of suntan oil and sweat filled his nostrils, grounding him in the reality of the arena. Above, clouds drifted lazily, forming shapes of recognizable animals and objects, a surreal contrast to the intensity of the moment.

"Stand your ground, Sciras. Get up and fight! You are a Wardan."

The words of his former master echoed in his mind, a powerful reminder of his teachings and identity. Hysterical giggling bubbled up inside him, a release of pent-up tension, and finally burst forth. He swung his right arm over his eyes to shield them from the sun, his master's voice resonating within him, impossible to ignore.

He felt his blood pumping through his veins, each pulse synchronized with his heartbeat. His hands itched for the visceral contact of skin on skin, the thrill of combat. Closing his eyes, he composed himself, drawing on his inner strength and resolve. With determination, he prepared to give the man his answer, ready to rise and face the challenge head-on.

“No. I’m just getting started.” Sciras pounded his fists together, using the momentum of his legs to propel himself back onto his feet. Dirt clung stubbornly to his sweaty back, and the hot ground kissed his bare feet as his toes dug deeper into the soft earth. Blood dripped from his nose, mixing with the sweat and grime, while bruises spread across the bridge, turning it an angry black and blue.

His opponent chuckled, a smug grin spreading across his face. “I knocked your ass out and you still want more, you little shit?”

Covered in bruises, Sciras squared up to face him, bending his elbows in readiness. A piece of wrap hung loose from his forearm, and he gripped it with his teeth to tighten his left wrist. With a swift motion, he wiped the moisture from his face and pointed defiantly at his opponent, eyes filled with determination.

Sciras cracked his neck back and forth, a smirk playing on his lips. “I was testing the power behind your punches. Good to know that they are not as strong as I feared.”

Without warning, the man shouted and charged aggressively toward Sciras, his footsteps pounding the ground like a drumbeat. The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices a cacophony that shook the very earth beneath them. Amidst the uproar, Sciras closed his eyes and reached into the void, seeking clarity and focus.

The vibrations from the crowd were the loudest, a tidal wave of sound that was easy to identify and set aside in his mind. Beyond that, he sensed the natural frequency of the planet, a steady hum that he had learned to drown out with ease. Once these distractions faded into the background, only the man’s movements remained—a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor.

Every slight shift and twitch sent ripples through the air, vibrations that Sciras could sense with acute precision. By tuning into these minuscule signals, he could predict the man's next move, anticipating each step and strike before they happened. With this heightened awareness, Sciras prepared to counter the attack, ready to turn the tide of the battle.

The cheers from the crowd seemed to stretch endlessly, each echo growing longer as time itself appeared to slow. Sciras focused intently as the time between the man's steps increased, each footfall resonating like a distant drum. He sensed a wave of energy pulsing off the man's fist as it arced toward his face, a powerful strike that seemed inevitable.

Yet, at the very last second, Sciras skillfully dodged to the side, his movements fluid and precise. The muscled man stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him off balance and leaving him vulnerable. Seizing the opportunity, Sciras pivoted and delivered a swift, calculated kick square to the man's back.

The force of the blow sent the man sprawling forward, surprise and pain etched across his face. “That’s quite a kick you have, little man. You won’t get a second.”

Sciras stood ready, poised to continue the fight with newfound confidence and determination. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling as he danced lightly on his feet, fists up and guarding his face. He knew the hybrid powers he wielded, powers he had never truly mastered, would not sustain him for long. The toll they took on his body was significant, and time was not on his side. He needed to end the fight quickly and decisively.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

His opponent charged at him once more, determination etched across his face. Sciras deftly hopped to the left and executed a swift spin, delivering a sharp kick to the man’s back. The impact elicited a grunt, but only seemed to fuel the man's resolve as he turned and launched a flurry of heavy punches.

Sciras moved with agility, weaving and ducking around the oncoming blows. Each punch missed its mark, and Sciras could sense his opponent’s growing frustration. The muscled man began to waver, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps as he struggled to maintain his assault. His stamina was waning, and Sciras knew the moment to strike was fast approaching. With determination coursing through his veins, Sciras prepared to make his next move, focused on ending the fight before his own strength gave out.

Sciras hopped nimbly from one foot to the other, a playful yet calculated move that served to taunt his opponent. His eyes locked onto the man’s, conveying both confidence and a challenge. The crowd roared with excitement, sensing the shift in momentum as Sciras took control of the fight’s rhythm. “Are you out of breath? We just started having fun.”

With each hop, Sciras's movements became a dance, a display of agility and finesse designed to unnerve the muscled man. The subtle taunt was not just a show of bravado—it was a tactic to further exhaust his opponent, both physically and mentally. Sciras could see the frustration building in the man’s eyes, his resolve beginning to crack under the pressure of Sciras's relentless energy and unpredictable movements.

He knew that keeping his opponent off balance was key to securing victory. The longer he could maintain this psychological edge, the closer he would be to delivering the final blow. Adrenaline coursed through Sciras’s veins, fueling his determination to see the fight through to its end.

“Don’t get cocky.”

The men circled each other warily in the colosseum, maintaining a respectful distance as if testing the air for the right moment to strike. The tension between them was palpable, a thick, electric charge that heightened the anticipation of the watching crowd. The spectators were captivated, loving every minute of the suspense that hung over the arena like a storm cloud.

Finally, Sciras’s opponent decided to make the first move, lunging forward with a powerful swing. Sciras instinctively shifted his weight onto his left leg to dodge, but suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his shin and up to his lower back. The unexpected agony froze him in place, paralyzing him for a crucial second.

In that vulnerable moment, his opponent’s punch closed in, hurtling straight toward him with unrelenting force. Sciras was an easy target, caught off guard by the betrayal of his own body. The crowd gasped, the outcome of the fight hanging in the balance as Sciras faced the oncoming blow.

Sciras slammed onto the hot desert sand, the impact jarring his senses as his consciousness began to slip away into nothingness. The din of the crowd filled the air, a chaotic mix of cheers and boos that seemed to ebb and flow like ocean waves. Above it all, the triumphant laughter of the towering, muscled man rang out, echoing through the arena as he paraded around, pumping his fists in victory.

As Sciras lay there, his vision blurring at the edges, he caught a final glimpse of the scene around him. The last thing he retained before succumbing to unconsciousness was the sight of medical personnel rushing onto the field, their faces focused and urgent as they hurried to his side. Darkness enveloped him, drawing him away from the noise and chaos, leaving only silence.

The locker room was a stark contrast to the chaos above. Ice melted in an oblong metal tub, the water rising soaking the bloody bandages draped over its side. Nearby, a pile of glass vials lay scattered, with small traces of red liquid dripping onto the floor, creating dark spots against the cold, hard surface. The atmosphere was tense, punctuated by the sound of a fight broadcast blasting through nearby speakers, keeping the energy from the arena alive within these walls. Above, the rhythmic thumping of the crowd's stomps was muffled, an echo of the fervor just beyond reach.

Cold air flowed steadily from an upper vent, turning the locker room into a morgue, adding to the sterile, almost lifeless feeling of the space. It was a place of stark contrasts—where the intensity of battle met the quiet aftermath, and where the warriors prepared themselves for the next bout.

Sciras awoke, gasping for air as he leaned forward off the cold steel table. His heart raced like a jackrabbit, pounding in his chest with relentless urgency. The fight replayed in his mind, each moment vivid and unyielding, a relentless reminder of his defeat. Though the sting in his left eye socket was sharp, it was his wounded pride that throbbed more painfully.

Turning his head, he caught sight of his reflection in a nearby mirror hanging from a support pillar. The image staring back at him was almost unrecognizable—a broken nose, and his left eye bruised and swollen shut. The sight was a harsh testament to the battle he had endured.

Across from Sciras, an aging bald man sat tinkering with something at a cluttered table. Blood stained the man's overalls, an indication of his recent work. Sciras recognized the man instantly—Vator Dolet, an old acquaintance who had become like family. Vator had always been a figure of complex brilliance, a man who dabbled in the fringe science that blended magic with scientific insight.

“It happened again, didn’t it?” Sciras asked, his voice tinged with frustration and resignation as he glanced down at his leg. Clean bandages wrapped securely around the injury, offering both support and a reminder of his limits. He wiggled his toes, feeling a wave of relief that his leg hadn’t broken this time. Memories of the last attempt to use his hybrid form flooded back—how close he had come to serious harm when he nearly tore off his arm.

Vator looked up from his work, concern etched on his face. “You’re lucky it was only a fracture,” he said, spinning his chair to face Sciras. “It took all the potions I had on hand to stop you from hemorrhaging. You can’t go in like that again, your body can’t take it.”

Sciras knew Vator was right. The hybrid form was powerful but unpredictable, and mastering it would require patience and discipline. He nodded, acknowledging both the caution and support of the man who had become a mentor and father figure to him.

“I take it you watched the fight?”

They had been friends for a long time, and nothing ever got past Vator. He had an uncanny ability to read Sciras, knowing his intentions and plans even before Sciras spoke a word. Vator’s deep understanding and intuition were a testament to the years they had spent together, weathering countless challenges and adventures.

“I never miss a fight.” Vator’s smile faded, putting his hand on Sciras's uninjured leg. “You need to stop punishing yourself, Sicras. You are going to get yourself killed.”

Fighting is the only thing keeping him going, the only thing that makes him feel alive again. The adrenaline, the competition, and the pure physicality provide a brief escape from the monotony and the haunting memories of his past. Yet, deep down, Sciras fears that even this will eventually lose its meaning, like the drugs and the drinking. Hells even being a killer for hire had lost its fun.

He shifted and sat on the edge of the table, his legs dangling over the side as he contemplated his next move. The locker room was cold and quiet, a stark contrast to the noise and chaos of the arena. Sciras knew he needed to find something more, something that could anchor him and reignite his passion for life. Until then, he would hold onto the fleeting moments of vitality that fighting provided, hoping for a change that could bring new meaning and purpose.

“Gods, you sound like Momi.”

Vator slammed his fist on the table, causing the contents to jump an inch. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to compose himself. Sciras shifted his gaze toward the ground, avoiding eye contact, knowing that Vator had every right to be upset.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken concern and frustration. Vator exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he calmed himself. “Maybe because we care about you,” he said, his voice softer but still firm.

Sciras knew the weight of those words. Vator’s care and concern were genuine, born from years of friendship and shared history. It was a reminder that, despite the mistakes and the darkness he often found himself in, there were people who still believed in him, who wanted to see him find his way back to a place of stability and purpose. But they didn’t understand.

“The world would be better off with one less shifter,” Sciras muttered, the weight of his own self-doubt pressing heavily on his shoulders.

“Maybe so, but lycanthropy doesn’t control you,” Vator replied firmly, his eyes steady and filled with conviction.

Sciras snorted, a reflexive gesture acknowledging the truth in Vator's words. He knew better than to argue with Vator, someone whose wisdom and insight had consistently guided him through life’s challenges. Vator always chose his words carefully, and this time was no different. He was right on all accounts.

The struggle with lycanthropy was undeniably difficult, but Vator’s reminder was that Sciras still held the power to choose his path. It was a call to rise above the stigma and the fear that threatened to define him. Sciras took a deep breath, letting Vator’s words settle within him, a reminder that he was more than his condition, that he had the strength and the support to forge a new path forward.