“Through here,” Tarnys said while stepping through the Arena’s contestant entrance.

Leonidas followed him silently while trying to settle his nerves.

They had arrived at the Arena after several minutes of quick walking through the Sunset Quarter, and crossing two bridges into the Residential Quarter at speed. During their journey, they had been stopped by a group of blues, though once Tarnys had informed them that they were acting under direct orders from the Dusk-Lord, the elves—whose bronze armor and blue ribbons indicated they were part of the Dawnguard—had begrudgingly let them go on their way.

When asked, Tarnys had simply stated that the Dawnguard weren’t all blues, but that there was a much stronger faction of them at the core of the force due to the Dawn-Lord himself being the Prince’s armsmaster. Duchess Latherian, it turned out, had been emphatically disinterested in the role, and had all but thrown the Prince out on his posterior.

The fact she happened to be both a woman and a military official meant that the Duchess was subsequently associated with being in the Princess’ camp, and as a result, so were the Duskguard as a whole. To hear Tarnys tell it, the entire thing was getting out of hand, and was spreading unchecked across Dawnhaven. The fact that even the Royal Guard were involved, in Tarnys’ eyes, meant things were fast approaching a bloody ending.

Until one of the two quibbling royals ascended to become Monarch in truth, and claimed Dominion; the tension was only going to grow.

“There’s a place for you to get ready over here,” Tarnys said and snapped Leonidas back to the present, while leading him down a high-ceilinged tunnel within the Arena. The building itself was immense, easily large enough to fit thousands, and built with an adherence to the same Haelfenn architecture Leonidas was used to. At a guess, he would have wagered the Arena could fit ten thousand people safely.

The tunnel they walked through was brightly lit, with magitech lamps casting a warm golden light across everything from sconces along the walls. A simple red carpet was laid underfoot over the white manastone, and the walls were wide enough for five men to walk comfortably abreast. The ceilings were high as well, and arched in a display of fundamentally elven elegance.

“Here we go,” Tarnys said while taking a left into a branching hallway and entering a curved pathway that looked to run across the entire circumference of the arena. This one was twice as wide as the previous one, and twice as high as well. Doors were interspersed to the right—opposite the flat wall to their left—in what Leonidas approximated as thirty foot intervals, and it was to one of these doors that Tarnys led him.

“This is one of the preparation chambers the Duskguard keeps in reserve,” Tarnys explained while pushing his hand against the wooden door, and allowing a surge of mana to arc across its spelled surface. The door unlocked with an audible click a moment later, and he pushed it open. “We use it for those of us that compete in the show matches every month with the Dawnguard.”

“Show matches?” Leonidas asked while following the elf into the chamber.

“Yes. It’s ostensibly to keep us sharp,” the elf said with a chuckle, “but everyone knows it’s about pride, and to see which of the two forces have the more dangerous warriors.”

Leonidas’ reply died in his throat when he entered the chamber after Tarnys, and felt himself flooded with a flush of nostalgia. The preparation chamber was almost identical to the kinds of rooms that he would use in the Royal Palace of Veleros, when he was training to become the Hero. It was rectangular in shape, with several locker-like compartments along the walls, and a paired set of weapons racks at the far side of the room opposite the door.

Tapestries depicting previous victories hung between each of the compartments along each side of the room’s length, and the floor was a tiered depression with three ‘lips’ around the edges of the room that went down half a foot at its lowest point, with six benches—pairs of two running parallel lengthwise along the depression—interspersed for preparing fighters.

Armor racks, currently empty, were set into each of the ‘locker’ compartments, with private weapon racks and even what Leonidas recognized as potion holders built into the walls at the back of each compartment.

Red highlights were everywhere within the pale white manastone interior, and Leonidas smiled to himself quietly.

“This is perfect.” he said with a quiet, bittersweet tone of memory.

Tarnys said nothing, and Leonidas knew the elf was watching him with a mix of interest and confusion—he just didn’t care. Tarnys could make whatever assumptions he wanted, as far as Leonidas was concerned. He wouldn’t let anything intrude upon his enjoyment of the moment.

Anything, that is, except the indefatigable power of time.

“Okay, Tarnys, what do I need to do now?”

“Ah… Ahem.” The elf said, and actually blinked to recall himself, as if he’d been lost in thought. “Right. You purchased the equipment, and now you need to equip it. Ask the System to deliver your purchases, and then you just need to follow the binding process. The first time, you’ll need to manually put everything on. After the first time, though, it’ll be summonable since it’s bound.”

“That’s pretty convenient,” Leonidas said approvingly.

“That's why I urged you to buy them.” Tarnys agreed with a nod. “Even damaged, bound items are incredibly valuable. If you can find a way to repair them in the future, you might even be able to upgrade them.”

“Right.” Leonidas said while glancing down at his ruined clothes. “And what about these?”

“Ah…” Tarnys said with a momentary pause, and then an abrupt laugh. “I forgot about that. Here…” he turned away and moved to one of the locker-compartments, and fetched out a set of simple white clothes with red accents. The elf crossed the room afterward, and placed the items on one of the benches. “Wear these, and summon your items. I’ll help you put the armor on quickly so you can bond it.”

“How do I bond it?” Leonidas asked while making his way to the bench, and then stripping down to his—thankfully—still-clean underwear. He began pulling on the soft, comfortable fabric Tarnys had handed him almost immediately, and blinked at how good it felt on his skin. It was like premium cotton or linen from the modern day, and breathed remarkably well.

“Focus your Psi into it, and it’ll do the rest.” Tarnys said with an assessing look while Leonidas dressed himself. “That goes for both your sword and your armor. After that, well… let’s just hope your sword skills are as good as you seem to think.”

“Thanks for the words of encouragement,” Leonidas said dryly.

“Just be glad I’m helping,” Tarnys said wryly.

“I am. Genuinely.”

“Good,” the elf said with a nod. “On that note, I need to go check in with the Arena Master and warn him that the Dusk-Lord is coming. He’s going to be in a state when he realizes she’s ordained unplanned matches. Let’s just hope it doesn’t cause issues with the games today.”If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Wait… what games?” Leonidas asked while Tarnys headed for the door.

“Oh, I didn’t say?” the elf asked with very obviously feigned innocence. “Today’s the monthly exhibition for the Town. The Dusk-Lord has basically made you the pre-show entertainment, which is why we’re on a clock.”

Leonidas stared at Tarnys in disbelief for a moment, and then just shook his head. “Fine. I get it. Revenge achieved.”

Tarnys grinned at him, nodded, and then vanished through the door.

Knife-eared bastard. Leonidas thought to himself darkly, and then immediately projected his Intent to the System.

“Deliver my purchased items,” he said simply.

The System did so without need for a confirmation screen, and with a flash of golden light, a long box of sturdy blackwood and a second, wider box of the same material appeared on the benches. Each one had latches around its edges, lacquered in silver, and seemed to be of pristine quality. There was a faint residual potency to them, too, that spoke to the power of the magic which had summoned them.

“Admire later, dress now.” He reprimanded himself while shaking off his quiet admiration and quickly unlatching the containers all the way around. When he was done, he lifted the lid first on the longer and thinner one. When he did, he took a moment and simply admired what lay within.

The sword was a firm departure from Mir’vas, and yet that only seemed bitterly appropriate given what he’s wrought for the Earth.

Its pommel was rounded on the outside, with an interior diamond shaping, and three spikes at the bottom, and on either side of its circular outer body. A dull amethyst, marked by a hairline fracture, was set into the center of the pommel, and seemed almost like it was asleep.

The hilt extended up from there, wrapped in thick black leather with visible silver wires to hold it together, and appeared large enough for him to hold with one or two hands comfortably. Its top was connected into a flat cruciform crossguard, with jagged and serrated teeth on each of its two wings, and ornate silver stylisations of a type Leonidas couldn’t name at a glance. They looked like a mix of nordic symbols, Haelfenn scripture, and a hieroglyphic-style language he couldn’t name. The center of the crossguard had another inset amethyst of its own, which was as similarly dull and cracked as the one laid into the ornate pommel.

The blade itself extended up from the crossguard, with a triangular silver affectation binding the tang to the crossguard. The sword’s blade itself was a deep and onyx black, with several crimson lines melding together along the length of its pronounced fuller. The blade’s edges were tinted crimson, and it possessed a few interspersed jagged teeth—perhaps half an inch in length—rising along the bottom-most fifth of the blade, near the tang.

Most importantly, there were several small areas of damage along the sword; not enough to truly jeopardize its durability, but enough that Leonidas could tell it had been somehow ruined by a previous encounter.

In total, the sword was an equal blend of menace and elegance, and seemed decidedly juxtaposed to anything he’d ever wielded as the Hero of Elatra.

He couldn’t help but feel that was intentional.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said simply. “First is the armor.”

Leonidas turned to the second crate, and ran his eyes over the contents as well.

The armor was as black as the blade of his sword, with cracks along its breastplate and pauldrons, and a weathered look to its overall appearance. Chainmail supplemented a lack of gorget or full-torso covering, and the pauldrons only extended down as far as the biceps. The elbows were once again covered in chainmail down to the forearms, which was covered by a relatively sturdy pair of vambraces.

Each of those melded into a pair of articulated armored gauntlets with a shielding layer atop the knuckles to defend the fingers from direct attack.

“Useful, if a little clunky,” Leonidas muttered while looking down at the rest of the plate.

The lower abdomen was a separate layer from the breastplate, but seemed to tuck in under it along with a hip-covering set of plates in an inverted chevron of three layers leading down to the thighs. A pair of thick cuisses were attached to those plates by distinctive red bolts, and the smooth plates descended down to armored knee guards, and thickly reinforced sabatons.

A stylized chainmail battle-adornment hung over the back of the legs, and was covered by a lower piece of cloth attached to the waist which looked like it would trail the ground behind him while he fought.

That, Leonidas knew, could be a lethal tripping hazard.

“Alright, let’s get you on before I have to walk out there looking like an easy target out for tea.” he grumbled, and set to work attiring himself in the warplate.

His time on Elatra had taught him the difficult skill of armoring himself alone, as was often needed during the later years of the war, and he was pleased to find that his new armor cooperated well with the skills he’d developed in that area. It only took him a few minutes to don the entire set of black warplate, and when he had, he took a moment to admire himself in one of the mirrors built into the preparation chamber.

He looked, for the first time since arriving on Earth, like a warrior again.

It was strange to feel more attached to the image of himself in armor, than the chic fashion choices he’d preferred while attending College. At some point, his identity as the Hero had become more than just an assumed role, but Leonidas couldn’t properly articulate—even to himself—when that had been.

It felt strange, really, to think of himself as anything but a soldier.

He curled his fists, and a memory slid unbidden into his mind, of when he’d first transmigrated and started his training as the Hero with his legendary mentor.

“War is like a stain,” Miranda had said to him during one of his training sessions, while watching him practice the sword against several of her own knights. “Once it marks your soul, you can never wash it away. It isn’t glorious, or distinguished, or in any way superior. It makes you an animal, in many ways.”

“Aren’t we fighting the good cause, though?” he’d asked with a frown. “We’re up against literal demons. Doesn’t that make us the good guys?”

“We are, and it does,” the Dame-Commander had agreed in her cold and assessing tone. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re animals, Leonidas. We kill, and they kill. The only difference between demons and us is the motivation. There are wolves, young Hero, and there are sheepdogs. Wolves kill the flock for food and sport, while the sheepdogs protect it.”

“And we’re the sheepdogs?”

“Yes,” she’d confirmed solemnly. “And if you want to avoid becoming as bad as the monsters you have to fight, remember that distinction. When the blood, violence, and madness are all around you; it’s the only thing you can hold onto. Even during peace, it stays with you. You can take the soldier out of the war, Leonidas, but you can’t take the war out of the soldier. Remember that.”

Leonidas took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

“I remember, Miranda.” he said to a woman who had died for her beliefs, protecting a barricaded church while injured, alone, and outnumbered. All of his power, speed, might had been unable to save her. No matter how fast he’d run, or how furiously he’d fought, she’d died—and taken an entire company of hellspawn with her.

He’d lit her pyre with his own hands, weeping like a child in front of his entire army, during one of the worst nights of his life. “I remember.”

Leonidas took a steadying breath and looked at himself in the mirror.

“You’re not a Hero anymore, Leonidas.” He said bracingly. “You’re a Psiarch, and for better or worse, you’re a Cataclysm. So fuck it, Ace. Go out there, and give them a Cataclysm.”

For all that the word was haunting in both meaning and intention; in that moment in the bowels of the Arena, it simply felt right.

The Arena of Dawnhaven Rough Concept Art

Archon's Warplate Rough Concept Art

Archon's Psiblade Rough Concept Art