The sun rose over the Valenthis military grounds, casting a golden hue across a sprawling field where the scent of blooming flowers mingled with the metallic tang of sweat and steel. The wind carried a rare moment of serenity, a fleeting balm against the harsh reality of their lives. But peace was a stranger here.
The clang of swords and the grinding of boots on the dirt echoed relentlessly. Soldiers drilled like their lives depended on it-because they did. In Valenthis, you either died on the battlefield or during training. Both deaths were brutal, but at least dying in combat carried honor. At least, that''s what Zeke told himself.
His presence among the recruits was like a blemish on otherwise perfect steel. Soldiers glanced at him with disdain, as if his mere existence tainted their ranks. To them, he wasn''t a soldier-he was an outcast, a spoiled fruit in a basket of ripened warriors. Their scorn, however, wasn''t what gnawed at his spirit. No, his greatest enemy was the relentless, punishing training.
"Five hundred pushups, now! You sons of whores!" barked Commander Ormick, his booming voice cutting through the air like a whip.
The man was a towering beast-six feet of pure muscle, his chest wide enough to break ribs if you were foolish enough to stand too close. His beard was thick and coarse, resembling the kind of rope you''d find on a gallows.
"And a thousand for you, gutter rat," Ormick sneered, his cruel eyes locking onto Zeke.
The insult hung in the air, but Zeke didn''t flinch. He was used to it by now-"Lost Prince of Valenthis," they called him, or "The White Rat." Every word was a dagger, but Zeke had grown numb to the pain. If he reacted, they''d only dig the blade deeper.
By afternoon, the wind had picked up, and Zeke found himself in a place that felt even more alien than the training grounds: the theory classroom.
Rows of recruits sat on worn benches, their uniforms stained with sweat and grime. At the front stood Mr. Zark, an aging scholar with oversized glasses perched precariously on his nose. His stooped figure betrayed decades of knowledge and the weight of carrying it.
"Most of you will never live long enough to master your powers," Zark rasped, his voice brittle yet commanding. "Be they fire, water, air, earth, thunder, or the rare ones-light and darkness. You will die trying to wield what destiny has cursed you with."
A recruit raised his hand, his voice tinged with nervous curiosity. "How do we know what element we possess?"
Zark adjusted his glasses, his sharp gaze cutting through the room like a blade. "Bloodline or destiny. You don''t choose your power; it chooses you. Whether through lineage or the cruel whim of fate, the element you wield is your burden. And often, it''s the last thing you''ll ever hold."
Zeke''s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists beneath the desk. So me not having thunder-the power I was supposed to inherit-that''s destiny too? he thought bitterly.
The words burned in his mind, but he stayed silent. He always stayed silent. Talking only gave others more ammunition to use against him. Instead, he focused on surviving-on enduring. He followed orders, accepted the ridicule, and endured the endless pain.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Zeke returned to the barracks, his body aching and bruised. The other soldiers cast wary glances his way, some sneering, others muttering insults under their breath. He didn''t care. All he cared about was making it through the night without a blade finding its way to his throat while he slept.
Because in Valenthis, no one cared how much you bled-only how long you could keep standing.
It was dawn-a dawn drenched in blood. The battlefield loomed ahead a proving ground where there was no middle ground. You killed, or you got killed. Survival of the fittest, as the elder vampires called it.
''Rise and shine, motherfuckers!" barked Commander Ormick, his voice slicing through the cold morning air. "You won''t hear me saying it on the battlefield! Get your asses out of bed, grab your armor, and prepare for blood!"
"Bed," Zeke thought to himself bitterly. He wasn''t sleeping on a bed -he was sprawled on a torn mat, with bedbugs for company. The ragged piece of cloth barely shielded him from the cold stone beneath.
With a sigh, he pushed himself up, his body stiff from the countless bruises and scars. He washed his face with freezing water that stung his skin, then headed toward the armory to gear upThis story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
On his way to the Colosseum, he overheard the whispers of his fellow vampire soldiers. Their words were sharp, meant to wound.
"I''m the one who''s gonna kill that white shit today," one sneered.
"Stabbing through his heart will be the easiest kill of my life," another laughed, his tone dripping with malice.
As he neared the Colosseum gates, a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. It was the nurse, a kind soul amidst a sea of cruelty. She was the only one who treated him like a soldier, like a person. Her brown eyes held concern as she spoke.
"You should take care of yourself," she said softly, her voice cutting through the noise of the bustling crowd.
"Don''t worry" said zeke the only gratitude he can offer to her.
Zeke tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his resolve hardening. The whispers, the mockery, the hate- they didn''t matter. Today, he would prove them wrong. Today, blood would flow, and he would make sure it wasn''t his.
As Zeke set foot into the Colosseum, his blood ran cold. The sheer size of the crowd overwhelmed him-there weren''t just hundreds, but tens of thousands of vampires, all gathered to witness the spectacle. They were here to watch their kin slaughter one another, cheering loudly for friends or family members locked in mortal combat.
The Colosseum was a place of death, and it carried the weight of its history in every stone. Its cobblestone walls, stained with the blood of countless battles, reeked of death and decay. Though it was built just 76 years ago by the late members of the Frugal family, it looked ancient, as if it had borne witness to centuries of carnage. It was intimidating enough to make the weak-minded tremble-and for some, even lose control of their senses.
"Scared, eh? Rat?" sneered a fellow soldier, his voice dripping with mockery.
"As if," Zeke shot back, forcing himself to appear confident, though his insides churned with fear.
I''m screwed, he thought, his heart sinking deeper with every passing moment.
Soon, soldiers began gathering in the Colosseum''s center. Hundreds of them, all conscripted vampires, stood in tense silence, knowing the brutal purpose of this event. This was no ordinary day-it was a cleansing ritual, a savage method used by the Valenthis military to weed out the weak. For Zeke and the others, survival meant everything.
The ceremony concluded with fireworks-a tradition in the capital. Despite the grim circumstances, Zeke couldn''t help but admire them. He had always been fond of fireworks, their fleeting beauty contrasting sharply with the harsh reality of his life.
When it came time to arm the soldiers, Zeke was handed a mid-sized dagger. Sharp, at least-but far from enough. Meanwhile, the others were allowed to choose their weapons and armor. Some were fully outfitted, armored from head to toe, while Zeke was only given a flimsy chest plate.
The rules were simple yet cruel: soldiers were paired randomly through a name draw. There was no regard for fairness-a smaller vampire could easily end up facing a towering six-foot brute.
Zeke gripped his dagger tightly, his palms slick with sweat. As he looked around, fear and dread threatened to consume him. This wasn''t just a fight-it was survival, and he had no choice but to see it through.
The fights began, ruthless and unrelenting. No mercy was shown; it was kill or be killed. Blood flowed freely, painting the cobblestones in crimson rivers. The air was thick with the scent of death and despair, mingled with the anguished cries of families mourning their fallen.
Daggers and swords glinted under the flickering torchlight, their blades slick with the blood of comrades turned enemies.
One by one, names were called. Each announcement sent a wave of dread through the waiting soldiers. Zeke''s stomach churned with unease as he listened, heart pounding in his chest. But outwardly, he kept his face blank, hiding his fear behind a mask of stoic indifference. He refused to show weakness, even as terror clawed at his insides.
And then, the inevitable came.
"The next warriors to fight are," the announcer declared, his voice echoing through the Colosseum, "Rylie Estro..."
The brief pause that followed felt like an eternity to Zeke
"...and Zeke Frugal"
Thats it there was no turning back for zeke. I''m fucked said zeke in his thoughts.
Rylie, standing tall and imposing, with his muscular build and wind element sword, smirked at the crowd as the gates closed behind them. The tension in the Colosseum was palpable, the soldiers watching closely, eager to see the bloodshed unfold. His excitement was unmistakable, but Zeke could barely hear it over the roar of the crowd. His mind was blank-he''d never faced someone like Rylie before.
Zeke could feel the weight of the moment. The only thing he had left was his instincts, and even that felt like it might betray him. But he knew Rylie was a formidable opponent. His control over wind was lethal, the sword he wielded capable of cutting through steel as if it were paper. Zeke, however, had his own set of skills, though his mind struggled to recall them in the chaos of the arena.
The soldiers surrounding the Colosseum were growing impatient, the whispers of missed chances and crude remarks about Zeke growing louder. Their mocking laughter echoed through the arena, but Zeke remained still, focused on the challenge ahead.
"Stay calm," Zeke muttered under his breath, but the words felt hollow in the face of the storm before him.
"Ready to face your fate, prince?" Rylie taunted, his voice filled with malice and confidence. His feet shifted slightly, preparing to unleash the wind, the sword humming with energy.
The announcer''s voice cut through the tension. "BEGIN THE BLOOD."
With that, everything moved in a blur. Rylie surged forward, a gust of wind propelling him with lightning speed. Zeke barely managed to react in time, ducking and rolling away as Rylie''s blade cut through the air, missing him by a hair. The soldiers cheered wildly, their bloodlust palpable. But Zeke wasn''t just going to let himself be butchered like a lamb.
His dagger glinted in the light as he readied it in his hand. This wasn''t just about survival anymore. It was about proving that the lost prince had more than just his name.
The battle had begun.