CHAPTER 166: The Crucible of Chaos - Part III

CHAPTER 166: The Crucible of Chaos - Part III

An opulent room, bathed in the faint light of crystal chandeliers. Panels of dark wood cover the walls. Viktor, with a sharp face and penetrating gaze, sits behind a monumental ebony desk. In front of him, a gigantic screen shows in real-time the violent scenes of the Crucible of Chaos.

In one corner of the screen, a list of names updates constantly. With each disappearance, a dull and ominous beep echoes through the room.

Viktor holds a fine crystal glass with amber liquor. He takes a slow sip, savoring it. Suddenly, his gaze fixes on the screen. A name has just vanished.

"Fénix?" he murmurs, arching an eyebrow with interest.

His index finger taps a touch panel on the desk. The image zooms in, showing Fénix's elimination at the hands of a man armed with a machete. The scene is methodical, brutal.

"Interesting. I thought you'd last longer."

Beside him, Darem, arms crossed, observes with disdain. His eyes, however, betray a glint of sadistic curiosity.

"So the great Fénix has fallen? Wasn't he your favorite?"

Viktor offers a cold, calculating smile.

"I don't have favorites, Darem. Only pieces on a board. But Fénix was... intriguing."

Darem approaches, his shadow falling over the desk.

"And now what? Without him, who will keep this interesting?"

Viktor sets the glass on the ebony and leans back. His fingers drum the arm of the chair.

"That depends on the others. Although... there is something fascinating about this game." He makes a dramatic pause. "When a participant is eliminated, their mark disappears. Forever."

Darem frowns, confused.

"And why does that matter?"

"The mark is a bond, a vital connection to the Crucible. As it fades, the soul is no longer tied to the game. Fénix is no longer here... in any sense."

Understanding lights up Darem's face, followed by a quick flash of frustration.

"And I was looking forward to amusing myself with him. What a waste."

"You'll have to find other prey. Fénix is no longer available for your... diversions."

Darem lets out a dry grunt, clearly annoyed.

"Tsk. And I thought he'd be more resilient."

Viktor raises his glass in an almost ceremonial gesture, a mocking toast to no one.

"To Fénix. An interesting player, albeit short-lived."

Darem walked toward the gigantic windows that dominated the room. The glass reflected his tall, threatening silhouette while, on the other side, the red sky burned like a living furnace over Manhattan. The clouds seemed like embers dragged by an invisible wind, and among the skyscrapers, flashes of explosions were visible, shadows moving, chaos in its purest state.

He rested a hand on the cold window frame. His fingers, gnarled and marked by years of violence, clenched tightly. His gaze was lost in the crimson glow.

What irony, he thought. From the very first day... from that damned orphanage... there was only one capable of standing up to me without trembling.

He remembered the creak of the old wooden hallways. The smell of dampness and cheap disinfectant. The echo of that encounter. And him... with a gaze that didn't match his age. A gaze that didn't back down.

Fénix...
A name that still sparked something in his blood.

He was the only one who fought even when he was near death. The only one who didn't break. The only one who, despite being on the verge of death, remained standing.

My first real rival. My imperfect reflection... but a reflection nonetheless.

He clenched his jaw, his chest rising and falling with contained fury.

And that's how it had to be.
Him and me, destined to face each other again and again... grow, break, surpass ourselves. The only worthy death I could accept was one in combat. Either him killing me... or me killing him. That would have been just. That would have been perfect.

But now there is nothing left. Only ashes. Only a name erased from a list.

A hoarse sigh escaped him, laden with rage and disappointment.

What a waste.
An entire life built for that final clash... and now fate robs me of that last blow.

The sky lit up with another distant explosion. The red light reflected in Darem's eyes, hardened, but with an underlying shadow of regret.

Fénix... your death is a loss for me. For the game. For the fight we deserved.

Darem raised his head, as if speaking to the horizon.

It shouldn't have ended like this. Not for you. Not for my only rival.

His fist struck the frame softly, not breaking it, but leaving a dent.

A shame. An absolute waste.

The metallic echo of her boots resonates against the damp concrete walls. Enid advances with determination through the gloom, the thick air heavy with miasma and decay. Her face, barely illuminated by the faint light filtering from some distant grate, is a mask of concentration.

"How far does Viktor plan to go with this?" she murmurs to herself, her voice a rough whisper lost in the darkness. "This isn't just entertainment. There's something more... something deeper in the Crucible."

The nauseating stench and the humidity saturating the air are merely an inconvenience. Her military training has hardened her against much worse discomforts. It's the uncertainty, the hidden purpose behind so much calculated cruelty, that truly gnaws at her thoughts.

Her eyes, adapted to the gloom, scrutinize every shadow, every nook. A faint glimmer, a reflection of rusty metal on the muddy ground, catches her attention. She crouches with the fluidity of a predator, her fingers closing around the cold metal.

"A semi-automatic," she murmurs, sliding the full magazine home with a satisfying click. "At least luck hasn't completely abandoned me."

She hooks the weapon onto her tactical belt. The familiar weight is a small comfort. But as she straightens up, her mind returns, inexorably, to him.