The fighters' quarters occupied the lowest level of the Blood Citadel—a sprawling network of cramped cells, training grounds, and medical chambers where the wounded were either healed or disposed of, depending on their perceived value. Azreth's first night was spent in a stone cell barely rge enough for the thin pallet that served as a bed, listening to the sounds of his fellow gdiators—some boasting of past victories, others moaning from injuries, many simply silent with the weight of their circumstances.

  Morning came with the bring of bone horns and the arrival of pit masters—battle-scarred demons who served as trainers, handlers, and executioners when necessary.

  "New blood!" The lead pit master was a massive demon with skin like volcanic rock and eyes that glowed like molten metal. His voice echoed through the chamber as fighters emerged from their cells. "You have three options here. Die for the entertainment of your betters. Survive long enough to earn your freedom. Or rise high enough to gain a patron among the noble houses."

  His gaze settled on the newcomers, lingering on Azreth's unusual coloration. "You'll start at the bottom. Beast matches. Survive those, you face other fighters. Survive long enough, maybe you'll catch the eye of someone important."

  Xaris leaned toward Azreth as they were herded toward the training grounds. "The trick is to be entertaining but not too threatening. Lords want champions who can win but still know their pce."

  Azreth nodded absently, his attention focused on memorizing the yout of their new prison. Two exits besides the main gate. Guard rotations every four hours. Fighters sorted by skill level and experience. All useful information for... what? Escape? Advancement? He wasn't certain yet, but Kael's tactical mind automatically cataloged details that might prove valuable ter.

  The training grounds were divided into sections—weapons practice, physical conditioning, and magical development for those demons with innate abilities. Azreth headed for the magical training area, where several fighters were attempting to enhance their natural demonic powers under the supervision of a thin, gray-skinned trainer.

  "You. Violet-skin." The trainer beckoned Azreth forward. "What's your affinity?"

  "Fire," Azreth replied, intentionally omitting his other abilities. In the demon realm, revealing your full capabilities too soon was an invitation for exploitation—or elimination.

  The trainer scoffed. "Common enough. Show me."

  Azreth extended his hand, calling forth a small fme that danced above his palm. Deliberately modest, carefully controlled.

  "Boring." The trainer turned away dismissively. "Another mediocre fire-wielder. Try not to burn yourself to death in your first match."

  As the trainer moved on, a muscur demon with eborately curved horns snickered from nearby. "Fresh meat doesn't st long here. I give you three days."

  Azreth ignored the taunt, continuing his practice while observing the other fighters. Most demonstrated their abilities with ostentatious dispys—roaring fmes, crackling lightning, grotesque physical transformations. All impressive, all designed to intimidate opponents and attract attention.

  By contrast, Azreth focused on precision rather than spectacle, shaping his fmes into increasingly complex patterns and maintaining them with minimal energy expenditure—techniques he'd learned from Vexerus but refined with Kael's disciplined approach to combat magic.

  The horn-crowned demon who had taunted him earlier approached with two companions. "Hey, violet-skin. I'm talking to you."

  Azreth allowed his fmes to dissipate, turning slowly. "I heard you."

  "Morax here holds the record for most kills in beast matches," said one of the companions, a spindly demon with too many eyes. "Twenty-seven consecutive victories."

  "Congratutions," Azreth said ftly.

  Morax's expression darkened. "You should show proper respect to your betters, newcomer."

  "I always do," Azreth replied, meeting the rger demon's gaze steadily. "When I meet them."

  The atmosphere tensed as Morax stepped closer, towering over Azreth. Several nearby fighters paused their training to watch the confrontation.

  "Perhaps you need a lesson before your first match," Morax growled, raising a cwed hand wreathed in yellow fmes.

  Before the situation could escate further, a sharp whistle cut through the air. All fighters immediately turned toward the sound—a pit master signaling the day's match assignments.

  "Save it for the arena," the pit master barked, noticing the confrontation. "Morax, you're in the elite matches today." He consulted a bone tablet in his hands. "Newcomers start with beast matches. Azreth, Xaris, and Malkira—lower pits at midday."

  As they dispersed, Xaris appeared at Azreth's side. "Making enemies already? Bold strategy."

  "Not my intention," Azreth murmured. "But perhaps useful."

  Xaris raised an eyebrow. "Useful how?"

  "Being underestimated has its advantages."

  The lower pits were circur arenas thirty feet in diameter, surrounded by tiered seating that accommodated several hundred spectators. Unlike the grand arena where the elite matches took pce, these smaller venues catered to lesser nobles, wealthy merchants, and higher-ranking soldiers seeking entertainment and betting opportunities.

  Azreth waited in the holding pen with the other novice fighters, listening to the roars of the crowd and the occasional screams cut suddenly short. Beast matches were designed to be bloody and brief—a simple test of survival against creatures specifically bred or modified for the arena.

  A pit master approached, reading from his tablet. "Azreth. You're next. Spine Crawler match."

  Xaris winced beside him. "Nasty creatures. They sense body heat and attack from below. Keep moving."

  Azreth nodded, remembering his encounter with a simir creature during his journey. "Any advice?"

  "Don't die," Xaris replied with a grim smile. "Seriously, though—they have a weak spot at the base of the spine ridge. Hit that, and they go into spasms."

  The gates opened, and Azreth stepped into the arena to scattered appuse and curious murmurs from the audience. His unusual appearance drew attention, as did his calm demeanor. Most novices entered showing either bravado or terror; Azreth dispyed neither.

  The arena floor was covered with loose bck sand. As Azreth reached the center, the opposite gate opened, and a spine crawler was released—a segmented, worm-like creature fifteen feet long, covered in razor-sharp protrusions and ending in a circur maw filled with rotating teeth, much like the marsh hunters he'd faced during the testing grounds.

  The creature immediately burrowed into the sand, disappearing from view. The crowd grew quiet with anticipation.

  Azreth closed his eyes briefly, focusing on his surroundings. He could feel the creature moving beneath the surface, dispcing sand as it circled, assessing.

  Remember. They hunt by heat and vibration. Use it against them.

  Drawing on Kael's training, Azreth remained perfectly still, then deliberately stamped his foot twice. As expected, the creature changed direction, racing toward the vibration.

  At the st possible moment, Azreth leapt aside as the spine crawler burst from the sand, its maw snapping at empty air. Without hesitation, Azreth summoned a concentrated ball of fire and hurled it directly at the base of the creature's spine ridge—the weak spot Xaris had mentioned.

  The spine crawler thrashed wildly, its segments contorting as the fire burned into its vulnerable nerve cluster. The crowd cheered at the dispy, but Azreth wasn't finished. As the creature writhed, he sprinted forward, leaping onto its back with inhuman grace. Running along its length, he summoned fire to his hands, forming them into narrow bdes of concentrated heat.

  With surgical precision, he drove the fire-bdes deep into the creature's neural center, then leapt clear as it convulsed in its death throes.

  The entire encounter had sted less than a minute. The crowd's reaction was mixed—approval for the quick victory but disappointment at the brevity of the spectacle.

  As Azreth returned to the holding pen, the pit master regarded him with new interest. "Efficient. But not very entertaining."

  "I'll remember that for next time," Azreth replied, understanding the unspoken instruction. Survival alone wasn't enough here; he needed to give the crowd what they wanted.

  Over the following weeks, Azreth fought in fifteen beast matches, carefully building his reputation. Each victory was more eborate than the st—not through unnecessary cruelty, which some fighters favored, but through increasingly spectacur dispys of skill and control.

  He learned to time his most impressive maneuvers to coincide with the crowd's energy, to create moments of tension before decisive strikes, to make even one-sided matches appear competitive. It was a performance as much as combat, and Azreth drew on Kael's experience entertaining crowds during victory celebrations after his heroic quests.

  In the training grounds, he maintained his facade of limited ability, showing only enough improvement to justify his arena successes. Morax and other established fighters rgely ignored him after his initial victories, dismissing him as merely competent rather than threatening to their positions.

  Xaris, however, wasn't fooled. After watching Azreth dispatch a particurly dangerous opponent—a chimeric beast with the attributes of three different predators—the copper-skinned demon confronted him in the retive privacy of the bathing chambers.

  "You're holding back," Xaris stated ftly. "I've watched enough fighters to know when someone is showing their full ability. You're not."

  Azreth met his gaze evenly. "Would you show everything you're capable of in a pce like this?"

  "Fair point." Xaris lowered his voice. "But others are starting to notice. Malkira has connections among the nobles. She says there's talk about you."

  "What kind of talk?"

  "They're calling you 'the anomaly.' Your fighting style... it's unlike any demon technique they've seen. And some have noticed how you incorporate strategies that seem almost..." he hesitated, "...human."

  Azreth tensed. "Human?"

  "Tactical. Disciplined." Xaris shrugged. "Most demons fight with instinct and raw power. You fight with precision and forethought. It's distinctive."

  "Is that bad?"

  "It's interesting. And in the Blood Citadel, being interesting can be dangerous or advantageous—often both."

  After his twentieth consecutive victory in the beast pits, Azreth was promoted to fighter matches—combat against other gdiators rather than creatures. His first opponent was a brutish demon named Gorgath, known for his regenerative abilities and penchant for tearing opponents limb from limb.

  The match drew a rger crowd than usual, including several mid-ranking nobles curious about the violet-skinned fighter who had dispatched beast opponents with unusual efficiency.

  As they circled each other in the arena, Gorgath grinned savagely. "I've been watching you, anomaly. Your tricks won't work on me."

  Azreth said nothing, assessing his opponent. Gorgath was powerful but slow, relying on his ability to regenerate from injuries that would kill most demons. A war of attrition would favor him.

  When Gorgath charged, Azreth sidestepped with fluid grace, nding a precise strike to the nerve cluster in the rger demon's shoulder. The blow temporarily paralyzed Gorgath's right arm, drawing surprised murmurs from the crowd. Few fighters possessed knowledge of demon anatomy detailed enough for such precise strikes.

  Roaring with fury, Gorgath unleashed his demonic power—a wave of corrosive energy that would dissolve flesh on contact. Azreth countered with a shield of compressed fire, the two energies colliding in a spectacur dispy that had the audience on their feet.

  What followed was a carefully choreographed performance. Azreth allowed Gorgath to nd several gncing blows, making the match appear competitive while systematically wearing down his opponent's stamina. He incorporated increasingly eborate movements—leaps, spins, and combination attacks that showcased his agility and control.

  The end came with theatrical timing. As Gorgath unched a desperate all-out attack, Azreth executed a perfect counterattack that culminated in a bde of golden fire driven through his opponent's chest, precisely missing vital organs but severing the energy pathways that enabled his regeneration.

  Gorgath colpsed, defeated but alive—another calcuted choice by Azreth. Killing opponents was expected, but showing mercy could be a more potent statement of dominance. It said he didn't need to kill to prove his superiority.

  As the crowd roared its approval, Azreth noticed a group of elegantly dressed demons watching from a private viewing box. One, a female with blood-red hair and abaster skin, leaned forward with particur interest, studying him through narrowed eyes.

  "You've attracted attention," Xaris informed him ter in the fighters' quarters. "Lady Lyria of House Crimson was asking about you."

  Azreth recalled the red-haired demoness from the viewing box. "Who is she?"

  "Blood aristocracy. One of Lord Calculus's favored courtiers. She sponsors fighters occasionally, but seldom shows personal interest." Xaris lowered his voice. "They say she's a collector of rare things. Apparently, you qualify."

  Before Azreth could respond, a pit master approached. "Azreth. You've been summoned to the assessment chamber."

  The assessment chamber was where fighters were evaluated for promotion to higher levels of competition. As Azreth entered, he found not just the usual pit masters but three noble demons seated on ornate chairs. In the center was Lady Lyria, her blood-red hair flowing like liquid, crimson eyes regarding him with undisguised fascination.

  "This is the anomaly," she stated, her voice melodious yet commanding. "Approach, fighter."

  Azreth stepped forward, maintaining a respectful posture while meeting her gaze directly—a careful bance between deference and dignity.

  "Unusual coloration," observed the noble to her right, a corpulent demon with multiple mouths across his torso. "Genetic aberration or mixed bloodline?"

  "Unknown, my lord," replied the pit master. "His blood tests show abnormalities our alchemists cannot identify."

  Lady Lyria rose with fluid grace, circling Azreth slowly. "Your fighting style is... distinctive. Where did you learn it?"

  "I studied with a hermit in the outer territories," Azreth answered, offering a partial truth. "He taught me to value precision over raw power."

  "A wise teacher." She stopped directly before him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—metallic and sweet, like fresh blood mixed with exotic flowers. "And yet, some of your techniques resemble human military forms. Particurly those used by Church padins."

  The chamber grew silent. The accusation—for that's what it was—hung in the air between them.

  Azreth felt both sides of his nature stirring in response to the danger. Kael urged caution and diplomatic evasion; Azreth's demonic instincts pushed for a show of strength or indignation.

  "I study my enemies, my dy," he replied carefully. "The hermit possessed texts captured from human outposts. We analyzed their techniques to better counter them."

  Lady Lyria's expression remained unreadable for a long moment before her lips curved into a smile. "Practical. Intelligence can be as valuable as strength in battle."

  She returned to her seat, exchanging gnces with her companions before addressing the pit master. "He will advance to the mid-tier matches. And..." she paused, "I will observe his progress personally."

  The pit master bowed deeply. "As you wish, Lady Lyria."

  As Azreth was escorted back to the fighters' quarters, he repyed the encounter in his mind. Lady Lyria had recognized something human in his fighting style—a dangerous insight. Yet instead of exposing him, she had shown interest. Why?

  Over the next two months, Azreth's reputation in the gdiator pits grew steadily. "The Anomaly" became a crowd favorite, known for his distinctive fighting style and spectacur victories. He advanced through the mid-tier matches to the upper rankings, defeating opponents with increasingly eborate dispys of skill and controlled power.

  Throughout his rise, Lady Lyria attended every match, watching from her private box with an intensity that both unnerved and intrigued him. After particurly impressive victories, she would send small tokens of approval—a vial of rare healing essence, a piece of enchanted armor, once even a ancient text on fire manipution that proved invaluable to his training.

  Other nobles began to take notice as well. Representatives from several houses approached him with offers of patronage, which Azreth politely declined, citing his desire to prove himself further before aligning with any particur faction.

  In truth, he was biding his time, gathering information and building his strength while seeking a path to the Howling Peaks and the Void Whisperer. The gdiator pits provided both the physical challenge he needed to hone his abilities and the social connections that might eventually facilitate his journey.

  It was after his fortieth victory—a particurly challenging match against three opponents simultaneously—that Azreth finally gained access to the upper levels of the Blood Citadel. As a recognized elite fighter, he was permitted limited freedom to move between the arena, the fighters' quarters, and the lower public areas where nobles and commoners mingled.

  It was in one such area, a smoky tavern frequented by off-duty guards and lesser nobility, that Azreth overheard a conversation that sent a chill through his dual soul.

  "The humans are growing bolder at the borders," a gruff voice compined. "Three outposts raided in the past month alone."

  "It's that new female padin they follow," replied another. "The one with the golden sword."

  Azreth froze, his drink halfway to his lips.

  "Church calls her the Hand of Light or some such nonsense," the first voice continued. "Young for such a high rank, they say."

  "What do you expect? She's the Saintess's protégée."

  Era. It has to be connected to Era.

  "Wasn't there a raid on some settlement in the outer territories a few months back? Took a bunch of special specimens for their experiments?"

  "Aye, that was her first mission as commander. Heard they're using the captives for something called the Purification Trials."

  Azreth's grip tightened on his cup, the metal bending under his fingers as Verna's face fshed in his mind.

  "What's this padin's name?" he asked, keeping his voice casual as he turned toward the speakers—a pair of battle-scarred guards.

  They eyed him suspiciously before recognition dawned. "You're the Anomaly, aren't you? Moving up in the world."

  Azreth inclined his head. "Information helps me prepare for matches. The Church's activities interest me."

  This seemed to satisfy them. "They call her Padin Sera. Youngest ever to command the Specimen Hunters. Carries a sword they cim is blessed by the Saintess herself—cuts through demon hide like it's parchment."

  "Interesting," Azreth murmured, his mind racing. A golden sword blessed by the Saintess... a lesser version of the Divine Sword he had once wielded as Kael? The implications were troubling.

  "What's more interesting," continued the guard, leaning forward confidentially, "is what happened when Lord Machar's forces encountered her at the eastern border. They say she fought like a demon herself—no mercy, no hesitation. Sughtered dozens single-handedly."

  "The Church is training a new generation of killers," his companion added glumly. "Word is they're pnning something big. Something to do with these Purification Trials."

  Azreth thanked them for the information, purchasing another round of drinks before departing with his thoughts in turmoil. If the Church was escating its activities, if this Padin Sera was somehow connected to the Divine Sword's power, and if Verna was being held for these mysterious trials—the urgency of his quest had just increased exponentially.

  That night, as Azreth meditated in his quarters—now a private chamber befitting his status as an elite fighter—a soft knock interrupted his contemption. Opening the door, he found a slender demonic servant bearing an ornate invitation sealed with crimson wax.

  "Lady Lyria requests your presence at tomorrow evening's gathering of House Crimson," the servant announced with a formal bow. "You are to be the guest of honor."

  After the servant departed, Azreth examined the invitation carefully. Such recognition from one of the Blood Citadel's prominent houses was significant—a potential opportunity to gain the influence he needed to advance his pns, but also a risk of deeper scrutiny into his unusual nature.

  As he considered his response, his gaze fell upon the star-shaped scar on his shoulder—the mark left by the holy dagger during the raid on Shadowmist Settlement. It pulsed faintly with golden light, as it often did when his thoughts turned to his past life or to the conflict between demons and humans.

  The dual aspects of his nature—Kael the betrayed hero and Azreth the demon outcast—had begun to integrate more seamlessly in recent months. His success in the gdiator pits had proven that his unique perspective could be a strength rather than a weakness. Perhaps it was time to take a more active role in the power structures of the demon realm.

  With newfound resolve, Azreth made his decision. He would accept Lady Lyria's invitation. He would use whatever influence he could gain to discover more about the Church's activities, the mysterious Padin Sera, and the fate of Verna and the other captured demons.

  The path before him was fraught with danger—not just to his body but to his very identity. The further he advanced in demon society, the more his dual nature would be tested. But he had no choice. Power was the currency of both realms, and he would need every advantage he could muster for the challenges ahead.

  In the shadowy depths of the Blood Citadel, as nobles plotted and gdiators spilled blood for entertainment, Azreth—once Kael Lightbringer, syer of the Demon King—prepared to take his next step toward a destiny neither humans nor demons could have foreseen.