They told him to kneel.


    The staff, the coordinator, the nobles sitting above—all of them expected it.


    Caelan stood in front of the ring''s edge, staring into the arena''s hungry stone. The same arena where his hired double as “Vaal” had crushed a noble just days ago.


    Now it was him. No mask. No act. Just Caelan.


    Bare hands. Black shirt. A simple sword strapped to his back. That was all.


    The nobles squinted.


    “Is this a joke?”


    “Who let the street trash walk in?”


    But the list didn’t lie.


    Match #11: Ser Vikar Dreyl vs. Caelan Vaal.


    And when the announcer said the name, the whole chamber shifted.


    "Vaal? That Vaal?"


    "Wait, this is the funder?"


    “No… that can’t be the same—”


    But the Black Fang Trials had one rule.


    No questions. Just blood.


    <hr>


    <h4>The Noble from House Dreyl</h4>


    Vikar Dreyl walked in like he was the king of rot.


    Long black coat, red scarf soaked in aura. His weapon—a chain-whip with a living blade—clinked and twitched as if hungry.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    He didn’t hide his sneer. “What’s this? My opponent is a rat from the gutter?”


    Caelan didn’t respond.


    Vikar took a few steps, tilting his head. “You smell like piss and rust. And that name… Vaal. Did you steal it? Or just suck off the real one to use it?”


    Still nothing.


    Vikar smiled wider. Cruel and slow.


    “You’ll scream soon enough.”


    <hr>


    <h4>The Bell Rings</h4>


    Vikar moved first—of course he did.


    Whip-blade lashed forward like a serpent of steel, carving the air.


    But Caelan was already moving.


    Not backward. Forward.


    Right through the attack.


    The whip carved his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.


    Vikar blinked.


    Caelan’s eyes were locked. Empty. Focused.


    He grabbed the chain mid-swing. Blood dripped down his palm, but his grip didn’t loosen.


    And then—he pulled.


    Vikar stumbled forward, dragged by his own weapon. Caelan’s foot slammed into his chest. Then a punch. Elbow. Knee.


    Raw violence. No flair. Just prison-close brutality.


    The audience gasped.


    Vikar howled and tried to jump back, but Caelan was on him again.


    Sword unsheathed.


    No aura flash. No stance.


    Just a clean downward cut—


    —right through Vikar’s thigh.


    Screams tore through the arena.


    <hr>


    <h4>Break the Chain</h4>


    Vikar staggered, one leg half useless. Whip flailed wildly, more panic than purpose.


    “FUCK YOU—”


    Caelan ducked the next strike, pivoted, slashed—


    —severed the chain.


    The living blade clattered to the stone, twitching.


    Caelan didn’t stop.


    Another slash—right across the bastard’s face.


    Then the tip of his sword at the noble’s throat.


    Blood everywhere.


    Silence.


    “Yield,” Caelan whispered.


    Vikar trembled, spitting blood.


    “I—”


    Caelan pressed harder. “Say it.”


    “…YIELD!”


    <hr>


    <h4>Aftermath</h4>


    The medics rushed in.


    Vikar had to be dragged out, screaming threats through cracked teeth.


    Caelan stood still in the ring.


    Didn’t smile. Didn’t raise a fist. Just turned, sword dragging behind him.


    The nobles said nothing.


    Somewhere in the high box, Lucan leaned forward.


    Eryx lit a cigar.


    And Elira Veilnare, seated behind her family’s private curtain, smiled quietly.


    The name “Caelan Vaal” burned into the arena.


    But no one could tell—


    Was he the same Vaal who funded half the mercenaries in the east?


    Was he the Ghost who once fought a Lich to a standstill?


    Or was he something new?


    Something worse?