Chapter 220 – Duskworn Rises
Aerica paused, her head tilting slightly in that strange, almost feline way of hers.
"Is this his first fight?" she asked, the tone of her voice tinged with something new—curiosity. It wasn’t often that a rookie carried even a fraction of her name.
"No, my lady," the maid replied, eyes respectfully lowered. "He fought once before against a lower-tier fighter. It wasn’t anything outstanding, but... he wasn’t bad either."
Aerica hummed, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of her chair.
"What are his chances of success? And what has Atreus wagered this time?" she asked as she slowly adjusted her posture, sensing some intrigue forming.
"His chance of success is less than three percent. As for Lord Atreus..." the maid hesitated slightly before finishing, "It’s the usual. If Duskworn loses, he becomes a slave. If he wins, Atreus gives him a bonded SSS-rank shadow beast."
Aerica brought her fingers to her chin, thoughtful—but her musing was abruptly interrupted as a screen materialized in the air before her, flickering to life with a soft hum.
She looked up.
There, on the screen, stood a young man with a lean frame, dressed in plain black clothes, just standing in the center of the arena like he belonged there.
Aerica’s lips curved into a slow, amused smile.
"Well, this might actually be entertaining," she said, stretching. "Might as well enjoy it properly. Bring me something sweet, Lora."
"As you wish, my lady," the maid said before vanishing smoothly into the shadows.
Alone now, Aerica settled more comfortably in her seat, her eyes glued to the screen.
It was time to watch the fight of the man named Eric—no, the man now called Duskworn.
...
In the arena’s center, Eric stood calmly, glancing around like a child in awe.
Even after fighting here once before, the sheer grandeur of this place still struck him.
It was incredible.
The stadium was at least ten times larger than the biggest arena on Earth, its structure laced with glowing red threads that twisted around the black stone in mesmerizing arcs. Everything here—the seats, the walls, the floor—was made of a special material unique to the Shadow Realm, found only within Lord Mortis’s domain.
Nioulrock.
A dark, ominous substance, slightly corrosive, but with defensive properties that made it perfect for housing beings of immense power.
’Interesting material,’ Eric mused as his eyes studied the floor beneath his feet. ’What’s more interesting is how these nobles sit on something corrosive like it’s velvet.’
But his musings ended the moment his opponent arrived.
A tall, muscular man with striking white hair and a hardened gaze stepped into the arena. He looked down at Eric with the kind of disdain that came from too many victories.
"What a waste of time," the man—Mori—muttered as he walked forward. "Why pit me against a rookie? Give me someone in my league."
Eric said nothing.
Instead, he calmly extended his right hand, and his black sword shimmered into existence as if summoned from the void itself.
Then, high above them, the referee materialized with a booming voice.
"BEGIN!!"
The arena erupted with a deafening roar.
"WOOOOOAAAAHHHHH!"
Mori let out a long, exasperated breath and lifted his hands into a loose hand-to-hand combat stance.
"SSS-rank shadow beasts aren’t easy to come by. I better finish this quickly—"
His words were cut short.
A flash of movement. A blur. A strike.
BOOM!
Mori was sent flying backward, the ground beneath him cracking from the sheer force of Eric’s first strike. He barely managed to stop himself, planting his foot hard against the shattered floor.
And there was Eric—already dashing toward him with unnerving speed, his face unreadable, his stance almost lazy.
Mori’s eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, shadows burst from the ground and wrapped around him. A moment later, they receded—and standing there now was Mori, clad in sleek black armor that shimmered like liquid obsidian. Even his face was masked, and in each hand, dark gauntlets radiated strength.
He smiled beneath the helm.
Eric saw it all—and cursed inwardly.
Still, he didn’t hesitate.
His sword suddenly shifted—its blade unraveling into a fluid shape of condensed shadow. Not quite solid, but not vapor either. Still shaped like a weapon. Still deadly.
He struck again.
Mori, now fully armored, countered with a punch, immense force surging through his body.
But the moment his fist touched Eric’s weapon, the blade dissolved into pure shadow and seeped past the cracks of his armor, slipping inside.
Eric dodged the punch by a hair, his head tilting to the side. And in a voice as cold and flat as sharpened steel—
"Shadow Spike."
Mori froze.
His body convulsed as dark spikes burst from within, ripping out through his back with sickening force.
Blood splattered across the arena floor as he fell to one knee, stunned.
He looked up—just in time to see Eric’s hand raised, summoning another blade of twisting shadow.
The blade came down fast, targeting his head.
Mori exhaled slowly.
’Well... this rookie isn’t half bad,’ he admitted inwardly—and then he smirked beneath his helm.
"Shadow Transformation..." he whispered.
Eric’s eyes widened.
A deep, primal sense of danger flooded his instincts. He didn’t wait—he immediately leapt back, putting as much distance between them as he could.
"...Gloomfang Form."
The words finished. And Mori exploded into shadow.
His body melted, twisted, and reformed into something monstrous—something feral.
The crowd exploded in manic cheers.
"AND HERE IT IS! THE BELOVED CHAMPION OF LORD ATREUS! THE ONE AND ONLY... GLOOMFANG!" the referee screamed, his voice filled with wild excitement.
The entire colosseum shook with applause.
Eric stood frozen for a moment, then smiled—a crooked, unstable grin.
"Time to surpass myself," he muttered, his voice low, steady, and a little bit unhinged.
He took a stance.
He waited.
With Noah’s talent fused into his being, death wasn’t truly death anymore. Not for him.
So—
’Let me go crazy.’
Madness flickered in his eyes like a second soul.
...
Back in the VIP room, Aerica watched with intense concentration.
She hadn’t looked away once.
Her gaze was fixed on the boy named Duskworn—on his cold eyes, sharp movements, and lethal timing.
"He has potential," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "He looks serious. Focused. Motivated."
She leaned forward, lips curling.
"Duskworn, huh..." she repeated slowly.
Then, her smile widened. It was a devilish thing. Dangerous.
"Lora," she called out softly.
Her maid stepped from the shadows silently. "Yes, my lady?"
"...I think I’ve found my next champion."
—End of Chapter 220—