The warlord

Suddenly, shadows crept toward Harold from every corner, curling like dark, slithering serpents. They coiled and writhed, filling the air with an oppressive, suffocating energy.

Harold winced as a sharp pain shot through his head. His vision blurred, and darkness swallowed him whole. Dizziness overtook him, and he staggered.

[What... what is this?]

Unconsciously, he stumbled forward. A strange mirage unfolded before him: a long, dark corridor stretching endlessly, its walls flickering like faint memories. Faces and moments from his past flashed before his eyes—images of the Arena of Vornath, where he once stood with Farhad and Amaril.

Faint whispers rose from the shadows, unintelligible yet deeply unsettling. Grinding his teeth, Harold forced himself to take another step.

The shadows dissolved, but the whispers clung to the air, echoing around him. Harold heard the roars of gladiators from the distant past, their cries mingling with the present's ghostly murmurs. Yet the corridor offered no sign of an end.

---

In the grand arena, a crowd of elves buzzed with anticipation. They had gathered to witness the human's trial, their voices a mixture of excitement and disdain.

Some, driven by bloodlust or curiosity, placed bets on the trial's outcome. Others sat in silence, their expressions cold and judgmental. For them, Harold's survival was a stain on their pride.

The arena, carved into the ancient roots of the Great Tree, stood as a testament to elven craftsmanship. The polished wood gleamed under the dappled sunlight streaming through the tree's canopy. Two imposing gates faced each other across the battlefield: the southern gate, where monsters emerged, and the northern gate, where warriors entered.

At the Elven Lord's signal, the southern gate groaned open. A pack of black wolves padded into the arena, their glowing eyes fixed on the crowd. Lady Luthien motioned toward the northern gate, and the elves leaned forward expectantly. But no one emerged.

The murmurs began.

"Where is that human?"

"Ha! I knew this trial was too much for him."

"They shouldn't have let a human touch our sacred weapons."

The muttering grew louder, frustration and mockery swirling through the arena. Suddenly, a faint sound broke through the din—a steady clanking of chains.

"Look! The human's coming!"

All eyes turned to the northern gate. A limping figure emerged, dragging a pair of ancient scythes behind him. As Harold stepped into the light, the crowd gasped. His face was shadowed, his skin pale, and his bloodshot eyes unfocused.

Chains hung from his wrists, biting into his flesh. Each step he took seemed to sap the little strength he had left.

To most, he looked like a man on the verge of collapse. They jeered and sneered, their contempt echoing through the arena.

"Why bother giving him weapons? He's too weak to use them!"

"If he can't handle wolves, he won't last another minute!"

But among the crowd were seasoned elven warriors who saw something different. Their sharp eyes recognized the truth.

"That human is fighting a battle we can't see," one whispered.

"He hasn't taken a single hit from those wolves. Whatever chains him, it's far worse than any physical enemy."

Harold staggered forward, lost between past and present. Suddenly, a wolf lunged at him. Instinctively, Harold threw himself to the ground.

The crowd erupted in laughter.

"Did you see that? He threw himself down!"

"This trial will be over before it even begins!"

As Harold's face hit the dirt, a familiar scene replayed in his mind. The roaring crowd of Vornath replaced the elves. Dark-skinned gladiators, their sweat gleaming in the harsh sunlight, fought to survive the blood-soaked arena. Harold remembered the cries of the crowd, demanding a spectacle, as a towering gladiator charged at him.

The wolf's snarls brought him back to the present. Harold rolled to his feet just as another wolf lunged. This time, he swung one of his scythes, slicing through the air with a deadly precision that silenced the crowd.

Blood spattered the ground as the wolf fell. Harold straightened, the scythe gleaming in his hand. The jeers gave way to stunned silence.

The warriors who had mocked him moments ago were now speechless. Even those who doubted him couldn't deny the raw strength in his movements.

Lady Luthien watched with sharp, calculating eyes. "He's not finished," she murmured. "This is only the beginning."

The Elven Lord nodded, signaling for the southern gate to open again. The gears groaned, and from the shadows emerged a massive creature. Its fiery eyes blazed with fury, and its hulking form dwarfed the wolves.

The crowd gasped, their earlier confidence replaced by fear.

"What is that thing?"

"Even our strongest warriors would struggle against it!"

"That human is as good as dead."

But Harold didn't flinch. He tightened his grip on the scythes, his chains dragging behind him.

The man who had entered the arena a broken shadow now stood firm. He was no longer haunted by fear. Each step forward resonated with grim determination, the sound of his chains a reminder of the burden he carried—and the will to break free.

The elves watched in stunned silence as Harold faced the monstrous beast. They expected him to crumble, but instead, they saw something they couldn't deny.

The trial had just begun.