The days that followed were marked by a silence that carried significance—the kind born not from the absence of sound but from the sheer concentration of two souls striving toward transcendence. Lukas had changed.

Every sunrise found the King of the Dragons drenched in sweat, body trembling as he repeated the same movements again and again under the Priest of Pan's unwavering gaze. His breath was ragged, his arms burned, and the Dance of Dragons had become ingrained into every fiber of his muscle.

The Priest said little, as always. His eyes followed Lukas's every move with silent approval and caution.

"You walk a path that none has ever walked thus far," the beastman murmured, as Lukas steadied his stance and guided his mana through the rope once more, the energy flickering like a second pulse beneath his skin. "But remember—determination without purpose leads only to destruction. Remember why you fight."

Lukas said nothing in return, he did not have breath to spare.

Every moment mattered. Every breath brought him closer to what he sought. For the Tournament of Khaitish was only a week away and with it, the chance to face the most elusive being in all of Hiraeth, the High Septon of the Church herself. Even the Priest of Pan, ancient and wise, respected her; a figure who served a different immortal altogether.

The High Septon was legend made flesh—both saint and enigma, her words shaping kingdoms and her silence shaping the course of history. Lukas had not understood why even kings had bowed their heads towards the High Septon that night but he did now. She had appeared during the Duel in Easthaven, the fight between Rosalia and Soren, and even that was a surprise to most. None had ever seen her, not unless they were worthy enough for the High Septon to grace them with her presence. And over the years, those worthy were the ones that could call themselves the Champions of the Coliseum, chosen by fate and blood to stand above all others.

The rules were simple, yet cruel.

Win, and you would be granted an audience with the High Septon herself.

Fail, and you would vanish into the sea of forgotten names, like countless warriors that had come before you.

But to win meant more than glory.

It meant the right to ask a single question. A single truth, freely given, from the one who possessed the Gift of Foresight—the power to see what was, what is, and what would be.

Throughout the lands of Hiraeth, kings and conquerors alike trembled at the thought of that question. A single whisper from her lips could set empires ablaze or bring them to their knees. The knowledge she offered could crown rulers, end dynasties and awaken truths that should have never been brought to light.

The only one to stand before her had been Rowan of the Morningeyes Clan, the one they called the New Conqueror of Khaitish. No one knew what question he had asked nor the answer he had received from the High Septon for those who ever had the chance to meet her were sworn to an oath of secrecy upon the River Styx herself.

Now, ten years later, that same opportunity had come again.

The Coliseum of Khaitish stood ready, its ancient walls humming with restless energy as warriors from every corner of the realm gathered for the right to challenge fate.

Lukas had to become the next Champion of the Coliseum.

He could not allow doubt to creep into his mind, for the moment he did, it would all be over. Doubt was a seed that once planted would take root, because if he let it grow then it would strangle purpose until only fear remained.

The Inner Cities of Khaitish awaited him where warriors bled for glory and knowledge while the world watched entranced by the thrill of battle. It was there that Lukas would reunite with Jesse and beyond that reunion, like a beacon through the most violent of storms, was his true goal: the High Septon, Pythia of Delphi, the woman Kronos himself had promised would have the answers Lukas sought.

But before any of that, Lukas had to survive.

From dawn until dusk, the rhythm of training became the pulse of his existence. The Priest of Pan had given him no rest. There were no breaks, no moments of reprieve. Only the ceaseless motion of the Dance of Dragons—the sacred art that had once symbolized beauty and grace, now turned into an act of survival. He moved across the floor with a precision that bordered on madness, his bare feet striking the ground again and again until the skin tore and bled, smearing crimson across the rock and sand.

Each step brought pain, but that pain was proof that he still lived.

The rope in his hands resisted him as if alive—its fibers thrumming with magical tension, challenging him to bend it to his will. The magical energy within Lukas surged with each movement, roaring like wildfire through his veins.

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And always, there was the voice of the Priest of Pan.

"Again, dragon!"

"Stand!"

"Do not give up now! Do you hear me, Lukas?"

Each command struck Lukas hard yet it brought him back to reality each and every time he was ready to drown in despair and exhaustion.

The air was thick with mana and heat, each breath tasting of iron and smoke.

Lukas' arms trembled, his legs buckled, but still he moved.

He could feel it—the ticking, invisible weight of time pressing down upon him. It had always been his ally once, back in Kairos Castle. There, time was abundant, flowing like an endless river. He had trained religiously, honed his craft with patience and purpose, knowing that he need not worry about the seconds that went by.

But now, time was no longer his friend. It was his enemy. And it had its blade pressed up against his throat.

The arch of his arms, the rhythm of his steps, the control of his breathing—all of it was perfect, all born from repetition that bordered on obsession. And yet perfection was not enough.

"Again!" the Priest roared.

Lukas stumbled. His vision blurred. The edges of his world darkened into static. He fell, his body slamming into the cold stone floor, gasping for air that no longer seemed to exist. But before the darkness could take him, he heard the Priest's voice one last time—sharp, unyielding.

"Stand, Lukas. If you cannot stand now, you will not stand in the Coliseum."

Something deep within him stirred—a stubborn, defiant flame that refused to die. Lukas pushed himself up, each movement agony. His blood dripped onto the floor, his breath came in broken gasps, but his eyes…his eyes burned with the fire of a dragon.

He was wrong.

Time was not his enemy.

Again, Time was testing him.

It was weighing his worth as if Kronos himself sought to see whether he truly deserved this second chance. And Lukas would not yield. He would not break.

Not now. Not when everything—everyone—he loved was on the line.

The minutes blended into hours, and hours into days, until Lukas no longer knew when the sun rose or when it fell—only that his body continued to move, pushed beyond all reason.

The only rest he knew was when his body betrayed him and collapsed against the ground, forcing him into unconsciousness. But even then, he never stayed down for long. Minutes later, he was back on his feet, driven by sheer will, the echo of his own heartbeat pounding like a war drum in his ears.

Sleep was a privilege he could not afford. Food had long lost its taste. Pain had long lost its sting.

There was method to this madness—Lukas knew that much.

This was not training.

This was destruction, orchestrated and precise.

Because even as Lukas's body began to adapt to the flow of mana coursing through his muscles and into the rope, it would not be enough. And so the Priest had given him a single command, one that would define these seven days: "Break yourself down. Every muscle. Every fiber. Tear it all apart until nothing remains. Only then can you rebuild what is broken."

And Lukas obeyed. He danced. Again and again, the Dance of Dragons unfolded beneath the dim light of the training ground. The rope in his hands glowed faintly, humming with resistance, alive with the magical current he forced through it.

Each motion was a battle; each breath was war.

He could feel every muscle in his body screaming in defiance, begging for release. But there was no mercy here. There was only movement, only purpose. He was no longer dancing for mastery or glory, he was dancing to survive.

The Priest of Pan stood at a distance, the dim firelight catching on his solemn features. The beastman's expression never changed, even as Lukas's movements grew erratic, as the rhythm began to falter. This was the part of the ritual where most would fail, where the body gave up before the spirit did.

Then came the fifth day. And on that day, Lukas finally fell.

The dragon crumpled to his knees, the rope slipping from his trembling hands. His body hit the ground with a dull thud, sending up a puff of dust and sand. His breath was ragged, his heart struggling to keep pace. He pressed his face into the sand, gasping, clawing at the ground as though he could pull himself up through sheer will. But his body refused him. His muscles trembled violently, his limbs heavy as stone.

"Move…" Lukas whispered hoarsely, speaking to every fiber of his being. "Move, damn you…"

Nothing.

"Get up!" Lukas screamed, his voice cracking, echoing through the empty chamber. "Please…"

Tears stung his eyes as his fingers dug into the earth. He had nothing left. Every ounce of strength, every fragment of endurance was gone.

"Enough."

Lukas lifted his head weakly to see the Priest of Pan kneeling beside him. The beastman's face, usually calm and unreadable, now bore an expression Lukas had never seen before—pure, unguarded astonishment.

"You truly are something else," the Priest murmured.

He placed a clawed hand upon Lukas's shoulder.

"You are ready," the Priest continued, his voice low but certain. "Now…prepare yourself, Lukas Drakos. You must live through what comes next. For the sake of your people, for the sake of your survival. Your body will be rebuilt—through the Rivers of the Underworld."

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