An Alpha's Forbidden Mate-Chapter 21: COMBAT BY TRIAL

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Tom woke to sunlight stabbing through his eyes.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t remember where he was. Then the smell of iron, damp stone, and old blood crawled into his lungs, and memory snapped back into place. He raised his hands slowly, squinting at them.

No bruises. No broken bones. No scars where there should’ve been scars.

Everything was healed.

He flexed his fingers, half-expecting pain—or power. Nothing came. He still felt like himself. Still small. Still fragile.

He swung his legs off the slab and stood. His body held, steady and light, as if it had never been broken at all.

Before he could take a second step, the doors burst open.

Two guards strode in—hybrids, unmistakable. Vampire sharpness in their eyes, werewolf mass in their frames. Their presence alone made the air feel heavier.

A voice echoed from the corridor.

"It’s time."

"What—wait!" Tom protested as they grabbed him. "Time for what? No one has told me anything!"

They didn’t answer. They never did.

They dragged him through twisting stone corridors, deeper and deeper, until the air turned cold and hollow. Then, without ceremony, they shoved him forward.

The doors slammed shut behind him.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Tom’s heart began to race. "even till now no one explained the combat by trial..." he whispered to himself. "What does that even mean?"

He took a cautious step.

His foot struck something solid.

Clatter.

The sound echoed unnaturally loud, sharp and brittle—like bones scattering across stone.

At that exact moment, the ceiling above him erupted with sound.

Cheers. Drums. Roars of excitement.

A massive wall in front of him began to rise.

Light flooded in, blinding him.

Tom shielded his eyes, blinking hard—and then his breath caught in his throat.

He was standing in a field of death.

Skeletons littered the ground. Not just human—werewolf frames twisted mid-transformation, vampire remains with elongated fangs still intact, and others... things Tom couldn’t even name. Rusted weapons lay scattered among them, half-buried in dried blood and dust.

His stomach twisted violently.

This wasn’t a dungeon.

It was a graveyard.

The ground trembled beneath his feet. Stone walls began to close in from behind, pushing him—and the dead—forward. He stumbled, nearly falling, until the space opened suddenly.

An arena.

Tens of thousands of voices crashed over him like a tidal wave.

"Place your bets!" a man shouted, his voice magically amplified. "Five minutes! Will the pureblood survive with this time?"

Coins clattered. Laughter rang out. Cheers followed.

Tom’s knees threatened to buckle.

He searched the crowd in panic—and found them.

A raised platform reserved for power.

The king sat at its center, expression unreadable. John was there too, seated slightly lower, his head bowed. Lothbrok stood behind them, lips curved into a faint, cruel smile.

Then Tom saw him.

A man in a dark suit.

He didn’t look imposing. No armor. No crown. Just stillness.

Slowly, the man turned his head.

Their eyes met.

For a fraction of a second, his pupils burned crimson.

Tom vomited blood.

An invisible force crushed down on him, driving him to one knee. His veins screamed as if his very bloodline was being strangled, suppressed, erased.

In that moment, Tom understood.

He wasn’t prey.

He was less than prey.

An ant, staring up at something divine and cruel.

John bowed his head instinctively to the man.

So that was him.

The one who had put the slave collar on John.

The announcer’s voice boomed again. "Today, Tom will prove himself worthy to live among us! May the old gods and the new decide in our favor— now release the beast!"

The arena shook.

A massive gate on the opposite side slammed open.

Something stepped out.

A monster unlike Tom has ever seen before, it looked almost humanoid.

Its skin was crimson, stretched tight over slabs of muscle. Human skulls and werewolf skulls hung around its neck like trophies. Long claws scraped against the stone, sparks flying. Old lash marks and claw scars crisscrossed its body, telling stories of battles survived.

The stench of blood followed it.

It roared.

The shockwave alone nearly knocked Tom off his feet.

The beast moved.

Despite its size, it was fast—too fast.

Tom barely dodged as claws tore through the air where his head had been. Even missing, the force sent him flying. He slammed into the arena wall, bones cracking, blood flooding his mouth.

Before he could breathe, the beast was on him again.

Tom staggered upright and grabbed a sword from the pile of weapons at his feet. With a desperate cry, he launched himself into the air, aiming straight for the monster’s skull.

The blade shattered on impact.

The beast clenched his fist which met Tom midair.

The sound of breaking bones echoed across the arena.

Tom screamed as he was sent crashing to the ground. Blood splattered stone. The crowd erupted.

"Kill him!" "Finish him!"

Tom tried to stand. Failed. Tried again.

"I—I don’t want to die," he sobbed, tears mixing with blood. "Please... someone, anyone save me."

John looked away.

The man in the suit noticed—but said nothing.

The beast continued its assault, pounding Tom into the ground again and again until even the crowd began to cheer louder.

At the brink of death, something inside Tom snapped.

So this is it, he thought. Pathetic.

He had spent his life running. Hoping someone else would save him.

No more.

If no one will save me—then I will save myself.

A vow burned through him.

I will be stronger than every living thing in my way.

The beast leapt high, preparing the final blow.

Then—

It froze in midair, everyone was confused.

Dust settled.

And there Tom stood.

One hand raised.

Silver-white veins glowed beneath his skin. His hair had turned pure white, eyes blazing with cold resolve.

The beast struggled, suspended by invisible force.

Telekinesis.

The king leaned forward. "unbelivable It seems the boy has evolved... a Silver Crest Omega."

The cheers faltered.

Then the murmurs began.

"A... Silver Crest Omega?"

"What the hell is a silver crest omega?"

"Is that some kind of rare trait?"

A young blood hound vampire in the crowd leaned toward the man beside him.

"I’ve never heard of that rank before."

The man stiffened.

Slowly, he turned—his face pale, eyes wide with disbelief.

"...You’ve never heard of it?"

The young vampire shook his head.

"I mean—omegas are weak, aren’t they?"

The man let out a low, humorless laugh.

"Weak?" he repeated. "No. Normal omegas are limited in the amount of power they can display."

He gestured toward the arena—toward Tom, who still stood with one hand raised, the beast suspended helplessly in the air.

"Among all supernatural races—vampires, werewolves, wendigos—power is ranked differently."

He lowered his voice, as if speaking too loudly might invite death.

"Vampires grow stronger with age. They climb naturally."

He began counting on his fingers.

"Nightlings.

Blood Hounds.

Crimson Fangs.

Blood Lords.

Night Sovereigns.

Elder Regents.

Progenitors.

And above them..."

His lips trembled.

"Ancient Progenitors."

Each rank is higher than the next by a 100 years of age with power and skills increasing ten fold.

A hush spread through the crowd.

"But werewolves," the man continued, "are different."

"How?" someone whispered.

"They don’t grow stronger with time. They evolve."

The word sent chills through the stands.

"A normal omega," the man went on, "at their absolute limit... could maybe kill a Blood Hound vampire."

A few scoffs rose—then died immediately.

"But an evolved omega?"

His gaze snapped back to Tom.

"They don’t have a ceiling."

The crowd leaned in.

"One evolution alone allows them to slaughter Night Sovereigns by the dozens."

Someone sucked in a sharp breath.

"A Silver Crest Omega," the man whispered, voice shaking now, "is an evolution so rare it’s considered a myth."

The young vampire swallowed hard.

"H-how strong are they?"

The man didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he watched as Tom slammed the beast into the arena floor again—hard enough to crack stone.

"...A Silver Crest Omega could tear through a hundred Night Sovereigns," he finally said.

"And still keep evolving."

Fear rippled outward like a wave.

"So what does that make him?" someone asked.

The man’s voice dropped to a whisper.

"A future threat to us."

Above them, in the royal section, the mysterious man in the dark suit smiled faintly.

"...Interesting," he murmured.

The man in the suit smiled faintly. "Things are finally getting interesting."

Tom lifted the beast—and slammed it into the ground. Again. And again. Bones shattered. Roars turned to screams.

"You feel only a fraction of the pain you inflicted on me ," Tom said, his voice steady and cold. "And yet you have the audacity to scream in pain."

Weapons rose into the air, wrapped in white aura.

They struck.

When it was over, Tom twisted the beast’s head clean off, blood spraying over the field everyone was silent in shock.

He stood alone in the arena, blood dripping from his fingers.

"From this moment forward no pain will ever destroy my will," he said quietly. "From my will... my strength is born."

Silence fell.

And something ancient stirred.