Carion didn't respond. He just moved in again.
They clashed, hand to hand. Fast. Direct.
Carion was quick, fluid, every strike sharp and deliberate. But Volon was on another level. He weaved through Carion's movements with ease, countering with solid blows that landed clean. A punch to the ribs. A knee to the side. An elbow to the temple that sent Carion staggering.
The crowd tensed as dust kicked up around them. Carion was already bloodied, cut just above the brow, blood trickling down the side of his face.
Volon straightened, calm and untouched. "Is this what you've got? If that's it," he said, brushing dust off his shoulder, "then it's better to admit defeat now."
Carion didn't answer.
But his eyes shifted.
Red lines flickered in the air behind him, rough, jagged, barely-there outlines of a figure. The silhouette of a centaur, sketched in light and barely clinging to form. It stood upright for a moment, then leapt forward, right through him.
For a second, Carion seemed to stretch, like something ancient had pressed its weight onto his frame. His stance widened. His movements slowed… but only to gather more force.
He stepped forward again.
Rhys murmured "He really is first order..."
Ian didn't respond right away. He'd looked into Carion, he knew Carion followed the path of Nameshells, an obscure, loosely structured philosophy that revolved around identity and recognition. Power through naming.
One could name themselves, declare who they were. But that name meant nothing until others started to believe in it. The more people accepted the name as truth, the stronger it became. Recognition turned identity into power. And that power demanded consistency. You had to act in line with the meaning of your name, or it would falter.
The other path was more easier: being granted a name by a figure of power, reverence, or authority. But there was always a price.
If the naming was earned, say, through great deeds, service, or merit, then the world bore the cost. It was a natural exchange, a collective shift. Reality made room for the new title.
But if it wasn't earned, if the name was given freely, without cause, then the one who gave it paid the price. The act of naming came at their expense, as if they were forcing the world to accept a truth it hadn't witnessed yet.
That made the path rare. But for someone like Carion, it made sense.
His family thrived on recognition and influence, webs of status and perception. The kind of thing Rhys despised, which was probably why the two never got along.
Carion's given name was just that, a name, passed down by his parents like anyone else's. But the meaning and title he associated with it were his own creation. 'Carion, A wise and powerful centaur warrior' which came from some obscure old tale, half-lost in the fringe texts.
The fight between Carion and Volon resumed, the tension palpable in the air. Carion, now fueled by the power of his title, moved with increased aggression. His strikes were sharper, faster, and more deliberate, yet Volon remained untouchable, still handling Carion with the ease of someone far beyond his level.
Volon's every movement was controlled and precise, his body gliding through the air with practiced ease, each strike calculating. Carion, however, wasn't backing down. His muscles burned with the effort, but he pushed forward, determined. The centaur's presence grew stronger, every action now seemed to carry weight, each strike seeming to echo with the power he was channeling.
Carion's form, though still bloodied, had taken on a more ferocious edge. His movements became more in tune with the ancient centaur spirit, and with each moment, it seemed his resolve solidified. Volon's eyes narrowed, his opponent had found his rhythm, but he was still in control.
Then without warning, a dark figure materialized at the edge of the field. Its shape was faint, shrouded in shadow. A silhouette of a ferry. Then, the figure slowly came closer, rowing a boat through the air. It was almost imperceptible at first, but as the figure drew nearer, the tension thickened. The dark ferry's cloak billowed behind it, adding to the ethereal, unsettling presence.
And then it happened.
The cloaked figure swung a paddle, aiming for Volon. The strike came out of nowhere, catching Volon off guard. The paddle struck his side with a solid thud, sending a ripple through his stance. Volon staggered back for a brief moment, a surprised expression crossing his face, something he hadn't shown throughout the fight. For the first time, he was truly injured.
Rhys murmured once more, "Is this how you want it to be?"
Reian leaned in beside Ian, voice low: "There's another layer to Carion's name. In some old legends, 'Carion' is referred to the ferryman who carried the dead across the river of souls, guiding them into the afterlife."
Ian's gaze sharpened, curiosity lighting his eyes, he was really curious to know how this Nameshells path worked.
"Well, now you've done it," Volon growled, wiping blood from his lip, and straightening himself.
His eyes changed, becoming deeper, colder. The air around him crackled with power as scales began to form along his skin. It was the unmistakable sign of a transformation, one that marked him as a ascender from Thalgryn Pact.
The Thalgryn Pact allowed two beings to form a contract, each able to draw on the strengths and abilities of the other. Volon's bond was with the Skyrnox, a sub-dragon species known for its immense power and agility. The pact's bond fully manifested now, and the massive form of the Skyrnox appeared behind him, its shadow stretching ominously.
The battle resumed, now with a different energy. Carion, the centaur, and the dark ferryman, all united, charged forward with renewed aggression. But Volon, with the strength of the pact fueling him, met each attack with ruthless precision. The battle was fierce, and for a while, it seemed balanced, each side clashing in quick bursts, the sounds of combat echoing around the arena.
But as time passed, Volon began to take control. His strikes grew faster, more ruthless. Carion staggered under the pressure, and even the ferryman couldn't keep up with the raw force they faced. The centaur's defenses cracked with each blow, bit by bit, it felt like his form would vanish altogether.
Just as Carion's guard was almost broken and Volon's strike was poised to land, just a single hit away from ending the fight, Volon hesitated. He pulled back at the last moment, the edge of his power held in check.
"Get lost now," Volon growled, his voice cold, "You'd be dead if I hadn't held back."
He turned to the referee, his expression hardening. "The game's over... Let's declare it as my win."
But before the referee could respond, a shift tore through the field.
Cairon stood at the center, bruised and bleeding, deep gashes across his arms, chest, and back. Blood ran in thin streams, but something was wrong. From the wounds, gray tendrils began to emerge. Slithering, pulsing. His fingers twisted unnaturally, joints cracking as thick cords of muscle warped beneath his skin. The tentacles grew longer, thicker, alive. One of them lashed out with brutal force, slamming into Volon and sending him crashing back with a sharp roar from the Skyrnox.
Volon, caught off guard again, coughed, stumbling back to his feet. His face twisted in frustration. "You didn't learn your lesson. Now I'll break some of your bones."
But then he saw it, really saw it.
Cairon's body was changing fast. His arms were reshaping, flesh hardening and limbs elongating in unnatural ways. The tentacles moved, not like mindless extensions, but like a second intelligence. Something sentient. Volon's snarl paused for a breath. He stared, this time not just irritated, but surprised.
Outside the ring, murmurs rose.
Rhys narrowed his eyes. "This seems like... a parasite-type path. When did he start following that?"
Beside him, Ian sat frozen. His gaze sharpened, cold. The shape was different, but the feel, the presence, was unmistakable. He'd seen this before. Not exactly like this, but close. Hamon. Enira's servant. But this… this was more advanced. More aware. Maybe a successful experiment.
He understood now. There was no doubt left in him.
Cairon was connected to the Quiet Testament. He was the one responsible for the attack on him and Myrra in Efsagroth. The one who brought the Quiet Testament's attention to her. From what Enira had told him, very few could detect the "lord's blood" in Myrra. But Cairon might have sensed something in her. He had to have something, a tool, a trait, maybe even a tie to Phyrra herself.
It didn't matter how. He would not be forgiven.
Ian's hands clenched slowly. His eyes stayed fixed, expression unreadable, but the bloodlust poured off him in waves.
Reina, seated beside him felt it, she gave him a slight nudge. "Let's talk about this later," she said softly.
Ian exhaled, slowly, and blinked. The haze broke. He nodded once, just slightly, and the tension in his shoulders faded.
On the field, the battle continued.
Volon charged forward, his expression cold, controlled. With a sharp movement, he sliced through two of the gray tentacles wrapping toward him, their tips shrieking as they recoiled. The Skyrnox lunged beside him, jaws snapping onto another mass and tearing it away in a burst of writhing flesh. For a moment, Volon was in control again, swift, brutal and precise.
But the tentacles grew back. Quickly.
Cairon didn't flinch. The moment one limb was lost, another took its place, stronger, thicker. He fought back with a strange calm, his strikes almost detached.
The centaur joined again with thunderous hooves, and the dark ferryman floated near, launching sharp, spectral blows whenever Volon left himself open. Piece by piece, the fight turned.
Volon's breathing grew heavier. His stance slowed. The Skyrnox was limping, one wing hanging twisted, unable to lift.
Cairon advanced without pause. His hits struck harder now, relentless. Volon faltered under the weight of it, trying to stay upright, but the tide had shifted. He was getting beaten down.
Then, in a tone filled with mockery, Cairon echoed Volon's earlier words:"The game's over."
But Volon didn't yield. Even staggering, even bloodied, he refused to fall back. He raised his arm again....
And was struck.
Blow after blow. Until he dropped to one knee, barely able to keep his eyes open. His vision blurred. The Skyrnox let out a low, pained sound beside him.
Cairon stepped forward, his body trembling. His eyes were locked on Volon, but they didn't look focused. Something in him was off. Twisted. He couldn't think clearly anymore.
He wasn't just trying to win.
He was trying to kill.
"Cairon, stop! Volon can't fight anymore. You win!" the referee called out.
But Cairon didn't listen. Energy surged around him, crackling violently. His body shifted again, something darker taking hold, as he raised a final strike.
"The match is over! Stop it, Cairon, or the result will be voided!" the referee shouted again.
Still, Cairon moved forward.
Volon blinked. Dazed. "Well... is this my end...?" he whispered, barely audible.
He looked toward his Skyrnox. The beast lay beside him, one wing shattered, breath shallow.
Then...
Everything slowed.
Just as Cairon's final strike was about to land, a figure appeared between them. Silent. Sudden.
The referee / Ian's instructor.
He didn't raise his hand. Didn't shout. He simply looked at Cairon and spoke in a low voice.
"I told you to stop, didn't I?"
With a flick of his fingers, barely more than a gesture, Cairon was launched backward with incredible force, crashing across the field and landing hard, unmoving. Unconscious.
It all happened so fast, most didn't see what really occurred. The crowd gasped, confused, murmuring. The referee stood frozen. No one was sure when he'd tried to intervene, or if he even had the chance.
But Ian saw everything. Clearly.
The referee looked down at Volon, then at the crowd.
"The match is over," he said calmly. "The results will be left to the discretion of the committee. But Cairon will face a severe penalty."
With that, he turned and walked off the field, leaving the arena in stunned silence.
Rhys stared at the scene, frowning. "What happened to him..? He shouldn't be this stupid…" he muttered, almost questioning himself. He had known Cairon since childhood, and this... this wasn't like him.
Ian didn't respond but his mind already calculating. If he fought Cairon now, his chances of winning were at least eighty percent. He was sure of it. He could take him down.
Still… it would be better to step into the first order of the Eldritch Path before that. That would push the odds past ninety-five.
One way or another, he'd have to deal with Cairon soon.