Oath of the King-Chapter 39: Trial by Bloodlust

The contestants were herded into the arena like cattle.

Five thousand strong.

Knights, assassins, sellswords — every hungry dog from every corner of the empire had come to claim the Phoenix Crown.

But not all would survive the first trial.

Leonhardt stood beside Alden and Althea on the cracked stone floor, their group packed tight with hundreds of others. Above them, iron gates slammed shut with the groan of ancient machinery.

A low voice echoed across the bloodstained arena.

"Contestants," it said, cold and merciless. "Welcome."

A figure stepped out onto the central platform — clad in gold-trimmed armor, a lion's mane cresting his helm.

General Holy Knight Argelius of Lionfelt.

A monster in human form.

Althea stiffened immediately, her hand ghosting toward her dagger.

Leonhardt felt Alden tense, even half-healed as he was.They all felt it.

The suffocating presence.The killing intent.

General Argelius smiled thinly.

"You crave glory," he said, voice carrying like thunder. "You crave titles. Wealth. Power."

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"But you are weak. Unworthy."

"And so, we cull."

He raised a hand.

And unleashed it.

The bloodlust hit like a tidal wave.

The air turned solid, crushing, impossible to breathe.Men screamed — high, broken animal sounds — and fell to their knees.Some clawed at their faces, tearing at invisible horrors.Others dropped dead on the spot, their hearts giving out from sheer terror.

Alden stumbled but didn't fall.Leonhardt clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms.Althea gritted her teeth until blood ran from the corners of her mouth.

All around them — chaos.

Five thousand reduced to thousands in seconds.

"Endure," Leonhardt growled under his breath, locking eyes with Alden.

"Anchor yourself. Do not bow. DO NOT BREAK."

The pressure grew worse, like sinking into the deepest black ocean.

Alden's knees buckled.Memories flashed — beatings, betrayal, failure, the sick stink of his own weakness —NO.He shoved it back, gritting his teeth so hard he tasted blood.

The cloth on his wrist — Sylvie's cloth — burned against his skin.

A reminder.A vow.

He would not fall here.

He would not be broken again.

Minutes felt like lifetimes.

The screaming thinned.The bodies piled.The strong remained — trembling, bleeding, but standing.

Finally, Argelius lowered his hand.

The bloodlust snapped away like a guillotine blade.

Silence crashed over the arena.

Dust hung in the bloody air.

Only four hundred remained from the original five thousand.

Alden was still standing.Leonhardt, pale but steady.Althea, dagger in hand, breathing like a cornered wolf.

Argelius surveyed the survivors with mild amusement.

"Congratulations," he said. "You are not entirely worthless."

"But the true tests begin now."

Above, the great stone gates rumbled open again.

Dozens of robed officials poured into the arena, sorting the survivors into smaller groups.

Some carried scrolls.Some carried shackles.

One of them pointed at Alden.

"You," he barked. "Section Twelve. Immediate preliminary duel."

Leonhardt grabbed Alden's arm.

"You're not ready," he hissed. "You're still healing—"

Alden shook him off, a grim fire burning in his fevered gaze.

"It doesn't matter.""I survive. I rise.""Or I die here."

Althea smirked fiercely.

"Well," she said. "At least you're finally talking like someone I don't have to babysit."

Leonhardt muttered a curse but let him go.

As Alden limped toward Section Twelve, the arena lights shifted — focusing, narrowing, trapping the survivors under a single bloody sun.

The Tournament of Phoenixes had truly begun.

And the fires would only grow hotter from here.