He didn't remember her name. Only the warmth of her voice—and the scream he might have caused.
Now he stood on bloodstained earth, and the ruins whispered like they'd been waiting for him to remember.
The sun sank low, bruising the savannah sky with shades of crimson and burnt orange. Dust devils danced in the fading light, swirling like lost souls over the cracked ground. The air hung heavy with the acrid smell of scorched grass and something sharper—blood, perhaps, or something older still.
Kairon woke with dirt in his mouth, blood on his palms, and no memory of how it began. He didn't remember touching anything cursed. But now the ground beneath him pulsed like it owned his heartbeat. His wiry frame was silhouetted against the last sliver of light. Thick calluses hardened his hands, each knuckle a testament to years of struggle. His startling electric blue gaze traced the swaying silhouettes of distant acacia trees.
Somewhere deep in his bones, a warning stirred. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to him. Not to any of them. There had been no invitation. No promise of greatness. No careful selection. Only small moments—scattered across the world—curious teens touching relics that whispered with power, like echoes from a hidden world running parallel to their own they thought were abandoned, exploring ruins that pulsed too quietly to hear, buying trinkets from markets no one remembered building. Moments where something deep beneath the skin of the world had stirred—and marked them. Unseen. Unasked.
Kairon couldn't remember what he'd touched. Or where. Only that he'd woken here—and that the ground beneath his feet hummed like a heartbeat not his own. The shadows shifted. A low growl rumbled from the thickets. The ruins weren't dead. They were waiting. And Kairon knew, with a sickening certainty, he was not alone.
Around him, the makeshift arena stirred like a living beast. Stone and charred wood framed the space, stained by blood and burden. Fighters clashed in grotesque duels, their cries muffled by dust and the metallic tang of fear. Tattered banners fluttered in the breeze, ghosts of tribes long gone.
He could hear her voice. He didn't remember her name—just her laugh, echoing from a memory that felt like someone else's. Maybe she was never real. But if she was… she wasn't here now. Or worse—
His fingers clenched around his weapon—a jagged shard of metal bound to a rusted pipe. Crude, but in his grip, it was more than a blade. It was a promise. A tether. A hope he couldn't name.
Across the arena, his opponent emerged.
Thoren.
Part machine, part menace—his armor shimmered dully under the waning light, mechanical limbs hissing softly with each calculated step. He moved like a predator built in a lab; his hair was cut in a parted bob style with the same metallic appearance as his mecha arms, his presence stirring hushed murmurs among the other fighters and their opponents alike. Unlike Kairon, who wore no armor but his resolve, Thoren looked like a manufactured resilience, forged by a different kind of cruelty.
Thoren's voice dripped with cold amusement. "Hey, Kairon. Look at you—fire in your eyes but blind as a bat. This place will chew you up if you don't learn fast. Rules? You don't even know which side of the dirt you're on."
What rules? The unspoken laws that governed this world—of strength, shadows, and sacrifice. Kairon didn't fully understand them yet. But he knew going down was not an option.
Kairon's throat tightened. "I don't know who you are... or why I'm here." His voice cracked, but his grip tightened on the weapon. "But I swear, I'm not going out like this. Not today."
Thoren gave a hearty laugh at that. "You don't even know which end of the spear to hold!"
A horn blast shattered the air, and time fractured.
Thoren surged forward, a blur of alloy and rage. Kairon moved instinctively—sidestepping, the wind from Thoren's strike kissing his cheek. The ground shattered beneath the blow, dust rising like ghosts from the past.
Momentum was everything now. His body moved like it had been doing this before. Like it remembered.
He pivoted, low and swift, and slashed at Thoren's thigh. Sparks danced from metal. It wasn't a decisive hit—but it was a mark. A reminder: he was here. He hadn't vanished.
Thoren's laugh was cruel and hollow. "That all you've got? I expected the ruins to choose someone... less pathetic."
But Kairon didn't flinch. The battle pulsed outward. Around the arena, mechas and fighters dueled, hope flickering in their eyes. Kairon grounded himself.
I'm not just surviving. I'm taking myself back.
Thoren lunged again.
Kairon ducked, rolled, and struck—steel meeting steel in a clash of willpower and war. For every blow absorbed, a memory stirred. The scent of his someone's cooking. Laughter by the fire. A girl leaning against a crumbling pillar, fire in her hand and sunlight in her smile.
His chest ached. Did I know her? Did I lose her? Or worse... did I—
Pain lanced through him. Thoren struck hard—a monstrous kick that sent Kairon sprawling. Dirt bit into his skin. He heard a voice—not from the other fighters, but from deep within. A memory half-surfaced, unbidden, wrapped in the voice he wasn't supposed to hear yet.
Her voice, again.
"K… you promised me, remember? My wildfire. My lion—storm in your blood—you're not allowed to stay down. Get up... or I'll come find you myself and mess you up."
The name clung to him like a half-remembered lullaby. It should've meant something. Her voice felt real. Felt... his.
But his mind wouldn't let him reach for it. Not now. Not while death still circled.
Adrenal stress barrier. Or trauma's cruel defense. Whatever it was, it kept her face locked behind a fog he couldn't break through.
And that made him furious.
He stood. Bloodied, bruised, but blazing with purpose. Thoren advanced, relentless. But something faltered. His parted hair had shifted to the side—barely visible. His breath was slower.
And Kairon saw it: a crack.
Fueled by instinct and muscle memory he didn't understand, Kairon moved like a current. He struck low—not to win, but to say I'm still here.
Metal screamed as it split. For a moment, Thoren bled disbelief.
"You'll regret that!" Thoren roared. "I'll carve your name into my bones before I rip the soul out of you!"
But Kairon had no time for fear. He moved again—ducking, weaving, striking. Blow after blow landed. And for the first time, Thoren recoiled—not from pain, but disbelief.
Kairon gritted his teeth, voice ragged. "I'm more than this mess you see." He hissed, every word carved from bone-deep frustration.
Someone's helping me… I don't know who. But my body remembers. My head's just refusing to catch up... and it's driving me nuts.
With a surge of renewed strength—raw and chaotic—he launched upward. His weapon arced like lightning, striking Thoren's jaw with a crack that turned silence into thunder.
The arena seemed to still.
Thoren faltered.
Kairon did not. To an immobilized Thoren on his knees, he demanded, "Why am I here and what is this place?!"
"You'll know if you go beyond the second," Thoren sputtered. "No one ever has."
Then his mecha arm snapped upward—unexpected. It bruised Kairon badly as he barely avoided the fatal arc. He answered with a final strike to the back of the neck. A deafening clash. Sparks burst into the darkening sky.
Thoren's hair was the first to fall.
Then his head.
And in that moment, Kairon realized: it was a wig.
The severed head rolled to a stop. The wig fluttered nearby, gleaming strangely despite the blood. His hand moved almost on its own, brushing the strands.
They felt… alive.
A memory flickered—too quick to hold. The voice again, dragging itself up through the dark. His body froze for a breath, not from fear, but from something heavier: the weight of something he should have remembered.
But it slid away again, just beyond reach.
His body knew her. His heart too.
But his mind—his mind had locked the door.
Then, like a ripple breaking through, came the whisper:
"Victory leaves a mark, K... but some marks take more than they give. You said pain was a good teacher—just don't forget who first showed you how to listen."
Kairon shivered. His chest tightened. Why does her voice feel so real?
Was that her?
Was that—
No. I don't remember. I can't.
But the ache inside him said he had lost something. Someone.
And maybe—just maybe—it was his fault.
He hovered, fingers twitching above the wig. Every nerve screamed back. Don't. Or do. He couldn't tell anymore.
Then he lifted the wig and placed it on his head.
For a breathless second, the world tilted. The sky blurred into earth. Something stirred inside him: a rage not his own.
It vanished before he could grasp it. The wig fused. The ruin pulsed.
Far across the arena, a girl with fire in her hands turned her head—as if she'd felt it too. Something inside him lurched at the sight of her. His breath caught. Not recognition, not yet—but a pull. As if the part of him that remembered had just taken a step forward.
He blinked. Confused.
Around him, the sounds of battle roared on, uncaring.
Somewhere deep inside the island, something ancient smiled.
Above, the stars blinked into existence like witnesses.
This was more than victory.
"And if Thoren's right… it's only the first of three."
If that's just the start… what the hell have I gotten myself into?