Another seven years passed. In the Shadow Citadel, time was not measured in days, but by the number of times our bodies were reshaped under the crushing weight of pain. Every passing night was a battle for survival against the "Dark Mana" gnawing at our vitals. Seven years of waking to the crack of Igor's whip and sleeping in cells that reeked of blood and magical gunpowder.
Training was a never-ending purgatory. Igor forced us to meditate in pools of toxins and fight shadow beasts until our bones shattered. He never allowed us to die; instead, he would patch our bodies together with sickening sorcery, only to renew our torment the following day.
At fourteen, I was no longer the child who feared the shadows. I stood in the center of the arena, my black hair veiling dark eyes that had lost every spark of life, appearing instead like two hollow voids. My face was a mask of stillness, devoid of expression, as if carved from cold, somber stone. I was lean—a body stripped of all excess fat, leaving only sinew and corded muscle.
Before the hundreds of eyes belonging to the Citadel guards, Number (02) stood with boastful arrogance. His magic had evolved terrifyingly; he possessed the ability to shape darkness, molding it into any form he desired.
With a sudden, impulsive roar, massive black wings of raw mana sprouted from (02)'s back, and his hands transformed into jagged claws that tore through the air. He soared toward me with blistering speed, beating his wings to kick up storms of dark dust.
"Adrian! Are you just going to stand there like a statue?" Niko (02) screamed as he brought a claw down toward my head.
With agonizing effort, I evaded the strike, though the claw grazed my shoulder. Fighting (02) was difficult and distracting; he shifted his weapon's form every second—from a sword to a hammer, then to wings that struck from behind.
I drew out my own Dark Mana and began to shape it. I couldn't create wings or complex armor like him. All I could manifest was a "long black sword," resembling a pitch-black odachi.
Why only a sword? I thought coldly as I parried (02)'s relentless barrage.
Because a creator gets lost in the details, but an 'Editor' looks for the 'Line' that ends it all. Too many words weaken the meaning; too many forms weaken the mana. A sword was the only thing I cared to imagine—I suppose I was always a fan of samurai novels.
Niko was growing livid, his attacks becoming erratic fueled by his ego. I seized the moment of distraction as he attempted to morph his hammer into a spear. I saw the "glitch" in his energy flow.
I slid beneath his spear, slammed the hilt of my sword into his wrist, and kicked his leg with enough force to shatter his balance. Before he could process what was happening, I grabbed the back of his head with my free hand and, with every ounce of my strength, driven him into the stone floor.
BAM!
Niko's face hit the ground with such violence that blood splattered across the cold stone. I ground his face into the dirt and gore, pinning his back with my knee to rob him of any chance to move. He wheezed, spitting blood, his dark wings evaporating like broken smoke.
Silence smothered the arena. I looked down at him coldly, without a shred of spite or triumph, as if I had merely completed a tedious chore.
Igor descended from his balcony, his thin hands clapping slowly. Some of the soldiers followed suit.
"Hmm... very good results," he said, looking from the prostrate Number (02) to me. "Number (02) possesses imagination and breadth, but he lacks focus and fails to analyze his opponent. He is, for lack of a better word, a fool. But you, (01)... you possess 'Analytical Focus.' You realized how to compress the Dark Mana into a single blade rather than scattering it. That is why your sword pierced through his myriad defenses."
Igor raised his hand, gesturing for me to release Number (02). I pulled my knee from his back and stood up calmly, sheathing the mana sword into my palm until it vanished. I brushed the dust off my black clothes without a single muscle twitching in my face. My breathing remained steady, as if I hadn't been in a fight just moments ago.
Igor drew close to me, the scent of death wafting from his ancient robes. He placed a pale hand under my chin and tilted my head up, forcing the void of my eyes to meet the deadness of his own. He fell silent for a moment, as if reading the lines written deep within my pupils, then spoke in a raspy voice carrying a tone I had never heard from him before.