I am the Only Son of Nyx

Once the Chancellor finished the opening speech, a dean stood up from his seat.

Dean Lincoln called out the participants to make their first appearance before the crowd—and the first one to be called was Chester. Following the call, the stadium groaned as the only gate finally rose open.

And the morning sun itself seemed to hold its breath at the sight of the silhouette behind it.

A figure stepped through, and the sunlight caught him like a declaration.

Chester walked onto the arena floor draped in a combat suit of midnight black; the fabric was tight-fitting and alive with faint pulses of mana that traced every contour of his frame. Blood-red lines blazed along his limbs, accentuating every cord of muscle, every lethal angle of his build.

A second skeleton of fire mapped onto the body of a fierce warrior.

In his right hand, a curving sickle gleamed with cold, liquid brilliance. Its edge caught the sun and splintered into white-hot shards across the stone. In his left hand, a scaled shield that was more than three inches thick hung and glinted like a promise of unbreakable defense.

Armour encased his torso and legs—plates that shone with the deep luster of obsidian.

Dense enough to turn a blade yet somehow sculpted—so perfectly that they didn’t weigh him down in the slightest, keeping him weightless and dangerous. A plumed black helmet rested on his head, settling over the draconic white mask beneath.

And the twin layers of shadow and bone gave him the air of something utterly without mercy.

He was armed to the teeth.

Every inch of him was purposed for battle.

Seeing him, the crowd erupted—the roar came like a physical wave. Chests pounding, voices shredding, feet stamping against stone. It was the Ichor Legion group that was the loudest of all; their certainty rolled across the arena like a war drum.

For them, the tournament was already over.

Chester was already crowned.

No doubt—none whatsoever that he would be the one to seize the mantle of Red Prince, And, though their screaming chants sounded like encouragement, it was more like celebration. It was a coronation before the tournament had even begun.

Chester walked into the center of the arena with the calmness of a veteran warrior.

He stepped onto the smooth stone platform, and the world around him seemed to dim at his presence—as though the sun knew where it was most needed. He turned toward the seats for the important people.

The deans and the chancellor were now sitting on seats in the wall behind the shield.

Settled to watch the closest to the arena.

Chester bowed at them out of respect. A polite—measured inclination of his head. Only then did he straighten, and then raised his sickle high above his head as he turned to address the crowd gathered to watch the tournament.

And the arena lost its mind.

It was clear without a doubt that he was the one favoured to be the Red Prince.

Meanwhile, inside a dark and isolated chamber, a grating shriek of the steel door tore through the air. It was a sound akin to bone dragged across stone, and it echoed off the circular walls— long after the door had ground to a halt.

Clanking noises rang soft as the chains around Kai’s wrists moved.

As he lifted his head with agonizing slowness, he tried to make do of the scene before him.

His vision was a watercolor smear of grey and shadow—the edges bled into one another, but he forced his eyes to focus on the figure entering through the silver pale light, and approached him with deliberate steps.

High Angel Hensen. Again.

Despite his sadistic inclination, he had stopped torturing Kai more than half a day ago.

One could easily mistake it as pity, but that wasn’t the case at all.

It would be a bad look for the academy if Kai couldn’t stand up straight due to the torture and lack of rest, so High Angel Hensen gave him breathing room until the tournament. Of course, his back was still a messy painting of blood and gore.

At this point, his body was too spent to even heal on its own.

But due to being given rest, the lacerations on his back at least had already stopped bleeding.

High Angel Hensen said nothing. He crossed the chamber in brisk, efficient strides—his boots clicked against the blood-stained stone, and then he knelt to unlock the manacles. The chains fell away with a clatter, and Kai’s arms dropped limp to his sides.

Just the sudden freedom alone shocked his body; it didn’t know how to process the sensation.

Around his wrists, the skin was a ruin of bruised purple and black.

A ring of crushed flesh where the iron had bitten deep and held on tightly for days.

Before Kai could piece together what was happening, something landed on the ground before him with a dull, dragging thud. He stared at it dumbly as his mind was still sluggish from the torment he had endured.

He rubbed his wrists and felt needles of pain shoot up his forearms from the friction.

And then, he blinked until the blur resolved into shapes.

Kai’s weary eyes fell on a change of clothes—a midnight black combat suit with red linings, folded with surprising care. Resting on top of it was his Blood-phantom Scimitar, now in a plain but neat black scabbard.

It was a new scabbard, as he’d never owned one before.

Another item was dropped before him, sliding across the stone, stopping beside the clothes.

It was a draconic white mask that he had never seen before.

"Get up and change into them." High Angel Hensen’s voice was flat, but demanding.

He stood about five steps away, motionless, hands clasped neatly in front of him, watching as Kai wrestled with the confusion clouding his thoughts. But when Kai heard what he said, the fog in his mind finally cleared.

Tournament day.

It had finally arrived.

Being whipped had warped his sense of time badly. Through the endless stretch of pain, he’d convinced himself multiple times that Ragnar and Chester had found a way to somehow get rid of him from the tournament entirely.

But that wasn’t what had happened at all.

"Can you get me some salves for my back?" Kai asked weakly. "You hit me too hard."

"No." High Angel Hensen replied shortly.

"Okay, what about water? I’m dehydrated."

"No."

"By the Gods," Kai smacked his lips in annoyance. "Can I at least get some privacy to change?"

High Angel Hensen tilted his head a little. "Also no."

Even though he was a mess right now, exhausted and wounded, he was given no reprieve or mercy. He was given no water to wash the dried blood from his skin. No salve or even cream for the lacerations that crisscrossed his back. No healing vial to mend the deep, throbbing ache that had fused itself to his bones.

Just the suit and the blade and the mask, waiting for him to drag himself upright.

Kai’s body screamed when he moved.

From being forced on his knees for days, every joint protested, and every muscle howled. Kai stripped away the tattered remnants of his old clothes in front of High Angel Hensen; peeling the fabric off his back with a wet, ripping sound where the blood had dried—and glued cloth to wound.

Once he was freed, he grabbed the new combat suit.

It was tight, designed to fit like a second skin, and pulling it over his ravaged flesh was a slow, grinding torture. Kai hissed through clenched teeth as the fabric dragged painfully across the barely closed lacerations on his back.

He groaned when it sealed over the bruises.

It compressed the swollen tissue and forced his broken body into the shape of a fighter.

Even under High Angel Hensen’s impatient gaze—it took a moment for him to fully change. Kai even took several pauses as the pain was unbearable to the point of making him sweat as if he was under the harsh sun.

But inch by inch, he pulled the suit into place and sealed it shut.

And then, he strapped the sheath to his hip with numb, fumbling fingers.

His Blood-phantom Scimitar clicked hope; its weight a cold comfort against his thigh.

Finally, with trembling hands, he reached for the white draconic mask.

His weary fingers curled around its edges firmly, and then he pressed it to his face, wearing it. For one long breath, he closed his eyes, gathering the scattered remnants of his strength—and also his thoughts.

Kai stood up and walked towards the steel door stumblingly.

Behind him, High Angel Hensen pushed him, gesturing for him to walk faster.

As soon as he stepped outside, harsh sunlight struck him. He raised a hand to shield his eyes—letting the gentle warmth seep into his skin that had known only bone-deep cold in the last couple of days.

Just then, he was shoved again from behind.

"Move."

High Angel Hensen was unwilling to let him savour even a sliver of comfort.

Nothing at all before the tournament began.

Along the entire way, Kai could do nothing but walk.

Each step was a battle to keep his legs straight beneath him. His body was a weight dragging him down, and he knew that even a single moment of weakness would send him crashing to the ground.

So, he held on.

He forced his mind to stay sharp, his feet to keep moving.

Right now, other than the wounds and exhaustion, his mana was also drained entirely.

He barely had any due to the manacles.

Days of whipping had served their purpose.

Kai had needed every lash to trigger the Retribution Ending Fragment. In that sense—he had welcomed them. But acceptance did nothing to dull the excruciating pain. The pain had been painfully real, and he had to endure it.

Of course, he didn’t want to give High Angel Hensen any satisfaction, but it was hard.

It was hard for him not to scream.

And though he was ashamed, he did squeal for a break, but that only made things worse.

His squeal only motivated High Angel Hensen to whip him even harder, and the pain was so much at times that he passed out. Regardless, he had gone through it. He had endured it, and now, his chance to turn everything around has arrived.

Nobody was on the street across the entire way.

A good thing, as nobody needed to see Kai in this weakened state.

Kai was brought to the stadium, entering it not from the main entrance, but from another way in leading to the underground. Darkness wrapped around his body again, and after he passed through several doors, he met with the others.

Goddess, sister, give me the strength to win this tournament.