Chapter 2 The Art of The Void

The first ten days were less a training regimen than a systematic deconstruction of my ego.

Mephistopheles was a master of the blade, though even that description felt inadequate.

When he sparred with me, it did not feel like a lesson.

It felt like being corrected by a hurricane.

He moved with terrifying, fluid precision, his steel whispering against mine. He was always a fraction of a second faster, always positioned at an angle that turned my own force against me.

“Again.”

He always said it with a smirk, completely amused.

He was never winded.

Never frustrated.

Never impressed.

I lunged, frustration overwhelming my senses.

His cane snapped against my wrist.

My blade flew from my hand.

A heartbeat later, his foot swept my legs out from under me, and I hit the dirt hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.

“Now, where did we go wrong?” he asked, laughing.

I groaned and pushed myself upright, furious that he was not only beating me but laughing while he did it.

My ribs ached.

My palms were slick with blood.

My lungs burned from the cold, thin air of the manor.

I retrieved my sword.

Reset my stance.

Lunged again.

And again.

And again.

Rage had finally overcome control.

“You’re telegraphing your intent through your shoulders and your eyes,” Mephistopheles said, stepping over my prone form after another failed attempt. “You would do well to conceal that murderous intent.”

I glared up at him.

“You fight like a dog crazed with rabies.”

He extended his cane.

I grabbed it.

He pulled.

I went face-first into the dirt.

“You’re even too stubborn to accept what an opponent offers you.”

I spat dust from my mouth.

“Would you trust an opponent’s hand in the middle of a fight?”

He looked down at me.

That stupid smirk was still there.

“No.”

Then he walked away.

I stared after him.

“Asshole.”

“Such language. That is no way to treat your noble sponsor.”

“Some noble.”

I pushed myself to my feet.

Lunged again.

By the twentieth day, exhaustion had carved deep lines into my face.

But something else had changed.

The movements that once felt foreign were beginning to settle into my bones.

My footwork had become steadier.

Lighter.

More graceful.

My hands were faster.

More precise.

My body was learning the difference between instinct and control.

Mephistopheles was no longer simply defeating me.

He was forcing a lifetime of crude habits to break.

Then he stopped holding back.

I could no longer read his feints.

His attacks became faster.

Sharper.

More precise.

Some would have killed a lesser man.

So I adapted.

I stopped trying to overpower him.

I started trying to outthink him.

I caught him.

He came at me with a series of strikes that would have put me on the ground a month earlier.

I blocked the first.

Redirected the second.

Barely avoided the third.

Then I stepped inside his guard.

I planted my foot against his toe and drove my fist upward.

It connected squarely with his nose.

Blood sprayed.

My sword came up.

For once, the murderous intent was not something he had to point out.

It gleamed in my eyes.

I twisted my wrist.

Riposte.

The blade stopped inches from his throat.

For the first time since I had met him, Mephistopheles did not have that stupid smirk on his face.

He looked at me.

Then at the blade.

Then back at me.

“The rabid dog fights like an old wolf.”

A slow smile returned.

“What took you so long?”

Steel sang against steel as he knocked my blade aside.

We separated.

Neither of us moved.

He glanced down at the dust on his sleeve and calmly brushed it away.

“I suppose that was decent.”

I stared at him.

“That is all I get? I just defeated you, and all you can say is, ‘I suppose that was decent’?”

I was furious.

This man was insufferable.

“You want praise?”

“I deserve credit!”

“Aww. Is the little pup’s ego hurt?”

I rolled my eyes.

“You want credit? How about next time you start using that head of yours sooner in the fight. It is a more useful tool than being used as a hat rack.”

I blinked.

Counted to ten.

Then walked away.

“Asshole.”

“Your favorite.”

I stopped.

He smiled.

“And do not forget it.”

I looked down at my hands.

The shadows beneath my skin stirred.

They seemed to be manifesting my annoyance and frustration.

The shadow magic, the Mark, remained the one variable I could not quantify.

Mephistopheles could teach me how to use a sword.

He could teach me politics and how to read a room full of nobles.

He could break down my movements and rebuild them.

But he could not teach me what lived beneath my skin.

So while the days belonged to steel, the nights belonged to darkness.

I spent the final week obsessing over the connection between the Mark and the shadows.

Every night, I sat alone in the courtyard.

The manor slept around me.

Or whatever passed for sleep in Hell.

I held the practice sword across my knees and closed my eyes.

I remembered the first time the shadows had appeared.

The ink-like darkness curling around my fingertips.

The strange sensation beneath my skin.

The way it had followed me.

The way it had called to me.

I finally answered.

I invited it.

I breathed slowly.

Focused.

Reached inward.

The darkness answered from the depths of my core.

It slid up my arm like liquid mercury.

Cold.

Smooth.

Almost weightless.

And yet...

it reminded me of the gentle touch of someone I loved.

I stood and began practicing movements with the sword.

With each step, the shadow followed.

With each swing, it answered.

Then, the moment the shadow touched the steel, the blade sang.

A low vibration traveled through the weapon.

The surface darkened.

Black.

Not ordinary black.

An abyssal black that seemed to drink the moonlight around it.

I tightened my grip.

All my sorrow.

All my frustration.

Every emotion I had spent my entire life suppressing.

Even the hope that one day Amara and I would escape those poverty-stricken streets.

I swung.

The blade struck the stone wall of the manor.

The air did not scream.

It tore.

An explosion rocked the fortress.

A slash carved through the stone, gouging deep into the wall and tearing all the way through to the inside.

The sword hummed softly in my hand.

I struck again.

Stone split.

The weapon had become longer.

Heavier.

And beneath my fingers, I could feel it vibrating with something that felt almost predatory.

I smiled.

For the first time in my life, I felt release.

True peace.

I felt possibility.

I felt hope.

The real breakthrough came on the twenty-sixth day.

Mephistopheles and I were sparring in the courtyard when he stopped holding back.

His first strike came fast.

I blocked.

The second nearly took my head off.

I ducked.

The third caught my shoulder.

Pain exploded through my arm.

I stumbled backward.

He followed.

Strike.

Block.

Strike.

Parry.

Strike.

I kept retreating until my back slammed against the courtyard wall.

I was trapped.

I was furious.

All I wanted was to wipe that damn smirk off his face.

Mephistopheles raised his blade.

I had nowhere left to go.

The shadows surged.

I heard their whispers.

And somehow...

I understood them.

I did not think.

I listened.

I stepped into the shadows’ embrace.

The world inverted.

For a fraction of a second, everything disappeared.

There was a sound like a wet snap.

Then—

I was somewhere else.

Air rushed around me.

My clothes snapped against my body as the vacuum I had left behind collapsed.

I turned.

Mephistopheles stood six feet away.

His blade was still raised.

He had not moved.

His eyes shifted from the empty space where I had been...

to me.

I grinned.

“Who’s laughing now?”

He turned fully toward me.

The inky black of the shadows reflected in my eyes.

They coiled around me like a snake ready to strike.

They were in the air I breathed, as if every exhale released nothing but darkness.

For one fleeting second, his mask slipped.

He looked frightened.

I raised my blade.

Shadows crawled over the steel.

I swung with no concern for whether I would cut that damn face of his off.

My attack struck nothing but rock.

“That is awfully violent,” he said. “You could have killed me just then.”

He was trying to sound sarcastic.

But he was clearly shaken.

“Had I not used my wind magic to teleport myself out of sight, I am afraid you would have lost your chance at obtaining that wish you so desperately desire.”

“Then I suggest you keep that damn smirk off your face while we train.”

His gaze moved to my sword.

The shadow coating the blade was still twisting around it like smoke.

I looked at him.

He slowly lowered his weapon and sheathed his sword.

Then he walked toward me.

“You are not a soldier, Dontae.”

His eyes followed the shadows crawling along my blade.

“You are a natural hazard.”

I laughed.

“That sounds encouraging.”

“It was not meant to be.”

He studied me for another moment.

“If you can maintain this form... if you can master the step...”

His eyes met mine.

“The tournament will not know what hit it.”

Something about the way he said it was different.

He no longer looked at me as an unruly child.

He looked at me as a dangerous possibility.

A weapon he had not expected to find.

No.

Not a weapon.

Something unpredictable.

A champion.

“We have three days left,” he said.

He turned toward the manor.

“Tomorrow, we stop sparring.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

He did not look back.

“There is nothing left I have to teach you.”

The final night arrived without ceremony.

No bells.

No celebration.

No announcement.

Just silence.

The silence of the manor felt heavier than anything I had experienced since arriving in Hell.

Violet fire licked weakly at the hearthstone, casting long, fractured shadows across the vaulted ceiling.

Beyond the stone walls, the realm surrounding the manor remained frozen in ancient stillness.

A graveyard of stone and silence.

Even the wind seemed to have forgotten how to blow.

I sat on the edge of a cold stone bench in the courtyard.

My breath fogged in the frigid air.

Twenty-nine days.

That was all it had taken.

Twenty-nine days to give me at least a fighting chance.

Every muscle in my body felt as though it had been woven from steel wire.

My hands were scarred.

My knuckles were bruised.

My body hurt in places I had not known could hurt.

But the pain had become a welcome.

The darkness beneath my skin was a comfort instead of an anomaly.

The shadow magic had become a steady hum.

A presence.

A strange, loyal companion.

For the first time since waking in the Intermission, I did not feel completely alone.

The sound of footsteps pulled me from my thoughts.

Mephistopheles stepped through the archway.

He was not carrying a sword tonight.

He was not carrying his cane.

Instead, he held two crystal tumblers.

Dark liquid swirled inside them, almost black beneath the violet firelight.

He walked toward me and held one out.

I took it.

Our fingers brushed.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he released the glass.

I took a sip.

The liquid burned pleasantly down my throat.

“Satrieal is not like this place,” he said.

His voice was quieter tonight.

The usual polished arrogance was gone.

He looked toward the jagged horizon.

“Satrieal is a violent, screaming machine of crystal, neon, and static.”

I listened.

“It never sleeps.”

He took a drink.

“It never stops judging.”

I looked toward the darkness beyond the courtyard.

“What should I expect?”

“A city where every word is a trap.”

I laughed.

“Sounds like Earth.”

He turned toward me.

“Yes. I suppose we do share a similar kind of realm.”

I smiled.

“You will not have to worry about me. I can take care of myself in a city of snakes.”

“Says the kid who got shot.”

“That was a fluke. There was something... someone.” Mephistopheles’ smile faltered a little. “I was just distracted.”

Mephistopheles cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, these nobles don’t have firearms. They command armies.”

He studied me.

“You have a gift for seeing through bullshit, Dontae. But I am afraid you do not know how to bullshit back.”

I took another sip.

“I do not like bullshit. It is a waste of time, and it can get you killed.”

“I agree. But there is a time to bullshit and a time for your particular expertise.”

“My kind of expertise?”

“Only the poor and unintelligent would fail to understand.”

“Excuse me?”

“See? Your reaction just offended every noble lord in the room.”

“I fail to see how my reaction to insults is a cause for offense.”

“My point exactly.”

He smirked.

“You must learn to look more like that.”

I stared at him.

“I fucking hate that smirk.”

“See how much more effective it is than throwing a fist into everyone’s nose whenever they insult you.”

“Why, yes, Lord. I may be a little slow, but the smirk says it all. Go ahead. Let me see what you have.”

My expression did not change.

“Now that is a scowl that screams, ‘I will rip your head off.’ You can do better than that.”

The corner of my mouth twitched.

“I do not think you have the capacity to display even a trace of positive emotion.”

He sighed dramatically.

“You are hopeless, Dontae. Absolutely hopeless.”

“Good thing this tournament is won with a sword instead of smiles.”

“I suppose so. But sheesh, you must be terrible with women.”

“I have no need for them. They only complicate things.”

“No wonder you cannot smile, my poor boy. You are still a virgin.”

“Hey, I did not say all that.”

“Sure, kid. Lie to yourself, but do not lie to your friends.”

He walked away laughing.

I stared after him.

“Asshole.”

I laughed softly.

Tomorrow, the machine begins.

I watched the last embers of the fire burn out.

Tomorrow, we would leave.

Tomorrow, I would see Satrieal.

Tomorrow, I would enter a world where demons fought for power, where every smile could conceal a knife, and where my life would be decided by the strength of my blade.

I should have been afraid.

Instead, I felt something I had not expected.

Excitement.

Hope.

I looked down at my wrist.

The Mark pulsed beneath my skin.

Once.

Twice.

Steady.

Confident.

I closed my hand around the glass.

Tomorrow, Hell would finally see me.

And I was ready.