ARCADES

The chains were cold.

Not steel—enchanted alloy, laced with runes and blessed in silence. Magic meant to suppress magic. Kalamari could feel the dull hum in his bones, a constant reminder that he was not free.

They dragged him through the inner corridors of Thruans like a captured beast, flanked by soldiers who didn't speak his name. Not even a whisper. To them, he was just danger—contained for now, but not tamed.

Unomi walked behind them, her Soul Sword now sheathed, her expression unreadable. Duty had placed her in this moment, but doubt had settled behind her golden eyes.

The dungeon was a carved-out pit beneath the city—its walls layered with sigils that bled power. Doors opened without keys, closed without touch. They threw him into a circular chamber of red stone, and the door sealed with a hiss.

Kalamari didn't resist. He sat.

The silence that followed was unnatural—designed with space magic.

Floating rocks hovered near the ceiling. Drops of glowing lava dripped in slow motion, suspended in time as much as gravity. No rats. No dripping water. Just the echo of his own breathing.

He focused inward.

The restraints were strong—magical chains designed to contain an A-rank. But not strong enough to hold an Overlord. His energy flickered like a buried flame, coiled and waiting.

Hours passed.

Then footsteps echoed.

The door opened with a pulse, and Unomi stepped in alone.

She didn't speak at first.

Just stood there. Watching.

Then, finally:

"Why didn't you finish the fight?"

Kalamari didn't raise his head.

He didn't speak.

Unomi began to move, slowly pacing a half-circle around him.

The silence made her uneasy. Embarrassed.

"Where did you get the tattoos on your hand?" she pressed.

Still, no answer.

"I'm not going to stop asking," she snapped, her voice hardening. "Why didn't you finish me off?"

Kalamari finally raised his head.

Dried blood marked his lip, though there were no wounds. One eye bled slightly—but it was all a disguise. His injuries had long since healed. He left the blood untouched. He didn't want anyone recognizing who he truly was.

"Because I wasn't trying to win," he said quietly.

"You broke into my chambers," she replied.

"I came to find a sister. Not to take a life."

Unomi frowned. "You call me sister, but I don't know you."

"You forgot what we were. I haven't."

There was a pause.

The air felt heavier—not from her gravity manipulation, but from something more complicated.

"I saw the mark," she admitted, stepping closer. "But that doesn't prove anything. Arcadian bloodlines were scattered after the Fall. Many claim to be what they are not."

Kalamari's voice was steady. "I can show you. Not just power. Memory."

Unomi's eyes sharpened. "What do you mean?"

"Let me touch your hand," he said. "No tricks. No attacks. Just one memory. One truth."

She hesitated.

Her instincts screamed against it.

But her soul—buried beneath duty, rank, and scars—whispered:

What if he's telling the truth?

She stepped closer.

Kalamari raised his hand, still bound. She reached out slowly.

Fingers met.

A pulse of energy burst between them—silent and clean, like light breaking water.

Unomi staggered back as visions exploded through her mind:

A temple.

A sky of burning gold.

Children laughing in a courtyard with ash-stained robes.

The Arcadian symbol glowing in a circle of stone.

And a young boy, barely ten, standing across the F-Rank training grounds.

Kalamari.

She gasped.

Her knees buckled slightly.

"You… you were there," she whispered.

He nodded. "Before it all burned."

Silence followed.

Unomi turned from him, struggling to breathe.

Then—more footsteps.

Outside the cell stood not soldiers—but power.

The door opened, and Captain Adolphus stepped aside as two figures entered:

A man in white and silver robes—cold, calculating, and powerful.

Lord Zidion, the Ruler of Thruans.

"Heard our general found a little firecracker," Lord Zidion said, smirking.

Unomi straightened, her face unreadable once more.

Zidion stepped into the cell, eyes narrowing as he looked at the prisoner.

Then he saw it. The mark on Kalamari's upper left arm.

The Arcadian Sigil.

His eyes widened.

He turned sharply to Unomi.

"Do you know?" he asked. "Is he really… one of your people?"

Unomi couldn't hold it anymore.

Her voice cracked.

"Yes, my lord," she whispered. "He is the son of the late Master Nina."

The words hung in the air like thunder.

"He was well known among the apprentices," she added, her voice growing steadier. "Because of his closeness with—"

"—Master Olark," Zidion finished, his voice softer now. Familiar. He remembered.

Then Lord Zidion turned fully to Kalamari.

And said the name:

"Kalamari."

Kalamari smiled, his head still bowed, his hands hung in enchanted chains.

"Yes, Lord Zidion," he replied.

Then he looked up at the ruler.

Zidion's chest tightened. He wanted to free him. Now.

But the law was absolute.

In Thruans, no matter the bloodline—anyone who raised arms against a General must face judgment.

And that judgment belonged not to Zidion, but to the Chambers of Judgment—a council of masters from all corners of the world. Different species, races, powers. All sitting in a floating, ringed tribunal where fate was not whispered, but declared.

As ruler, Zidion could not overturn a judgment.

But he could appeal it. He could fight for it.

He turned quickly.

"Captain," he said, "activate the locks. Secure him. No one touches him unless I say so."

Unomi followed him out of the dungeon as the door hissed shut.

Zidion ascended the spiral tower leading to the upper halls.

At the entrance of the Judgment Chambers, the High Court was already assembling. The floating tables had begun to hum.

Judge Tyro, master of laws and the head of the tribunal, turned as Zidion approached.

He bowed deeply.

"My lord," Tyro said. "What brings you to the Chambers?"

"I request a private word," Zidion said quickly.

Tyro raised a brow. Then nodded.

He waved off the attendants and led Zidion into the private chamber beyond the circle.

As the doors closed behind them, Zidion drew a breath and spoke the name again:

"Kalamari. He's alive. And he's here."

---

Footsteps whispered in the dark.

Not the usual clank of boots—no, these were ghostlike. Tiptoes at god-like speed, flitting along the walls, merging with shadow. Whoever it was moved faster than human eyes could track, silent as breath, sharp as instinct.

He followed the trail of aura. It was unmistakable.

Kalamari.

The figure passed undetected by the guards stationed along the dungeon's perimeter, slipping through gaps in their sight like smoke through cracks. When he finally reached the heavy enchanted door, he didn't break the lock.

He simply walked through.

Kalamari, seated in the center of the circular red chamber, stiffened.

The pressure—whatever it was—wasn't hostile. It was familiar.

From the shadows, a figure emerged.

Tozi.

Kalamari blinked. Then smiled.

"What took you so long?" he asked, his voice dry but amused.

Tozi returned the smile. He looked slightly winded, slightly cocky—his usual self.

"Well," he said, "my mysterious plan took time. I had to create a safe exit for us."

He looked around, unimpressed.

"I gotta say, the security in these dungeons is… underwhelming. For a second, I thought these walls would be magic-repellent."

Kalamari rolled his eyes.

He was fed up with Tozi's constant running mouth.

His eyes flared with soft light—and with barely any effort, he shattered the magical chains around his wrists.

The sound of breaking metal echoed like glass cracking under pressure.

Tozi froze.

"You could do that all this time?" he asked, stunned. "Then why the hell did you wait for me?"

Kalamari stood, calmly unbuckling the remaining cuffs.

"I didn't know where your coward ass ran off to," he said. "So I waited for you to come to me."

Tozi grumbled under his breath that he wasn't a coward.

Kalamari heard it. Said nothing.

They moved to the dungeon door.

Kalamari, shirtless, stepped forward and faded through it without effort.

Tozi followed, matching his pace.

Both dropped to a crouch behind a wide, ancient pillar.

Ahead, two guards stood at post near the inner gate—alert, armed, and ready.

"We need a distraction," Kalamari whispered.

Tozi nodded. "Why don't Void and that little demon of yours handle it? While we sneak toward the general's quarters."

Void—Tozi's shadow construct—oozed silently out from Tozi's body, crouching beside its master with shimmering, shifting form.

From beneath Kalamari's shadow, Nylok emerged—horned, skull faced, and waiting. Its presence pulled the air downward. Always ready for war.

Tozi looked at the creature, then asked, "So… what's the name of your little demon?"

Kalamari turned, realizing he had never named it. Not properly.

Nylok stared up at him, still—silent for the first time. Waiting. Expectant.

Kalamari placed a hand on its head and read the ancient patterns hidden in its mind. Then, softly, he said:

"Nylok."

A pause.

"The consumer. The ender of fate. The demon of destruction. The first of his kind to possess the mind and shadow of an Overlord."

Tozi stared at the two of them—man and demon—eyes wide, brow raised. There was something terrifying and beautiful in the bond they shared.

Then, duty called.

Kalamari and Tozi each looked at their respective demons.

They nodded once.

Then they ran.

Opposite directions. Vanishing into the shadows.

From behind the pillar, Nylok and Void stepped into the open corridor—deadly silhouettes against glowing stone.

The guards noticed.

Too late.

The demons lunged.

Screams and chaos erupted as Nylok tore through steel, stone, and spell. Void danced through the air, slicing through defenses like paper. Guards dropped, alarms flared, and the palace lit up with flashing crimson warnings.

Dozens of warriors rushed from their posts, scrambling to restrain the intruders.

It was impossible.

Kalamari and Tozi, in the chaos, raced up the passage.

Through twisting halls and moonlit walkways, they moved with purpose, fading through doors and shadows until they reached the door to General Unomi's private quarters.

No guards.

No alarms here.

They looked at one another, nodded, and stepped through—fading through the wood like ghosts.

Inside…

They stopped.

What they saw made both of them freeze.

Not Unomi.

Not alone.

Not expected.

Watch out for Chapter Thirteen…

To discover who—or what—was waiting for them inside.