The road was bleak, ashen with despair. The line of refugees trudged onward in silence, their bodies battered, their spirits worn thin by relentless battles that had torn through the Isles. Some limped, others carried wounded companions on their backs. Many had the vacant stare of those who had seen too much.
Klaus walked among them in the guise of an old woman leaning on a gnarled stick, the illusion maintained effortlessly. His eyes, however, gleamed with a hidden sharpness, observing everything. These people—broken, tired, survivors of madness—were the best sources of truth. And he needed information.
He spotted a small girl, no older than ten, her face streaked with soot, eyes dull with exhaustion. With a warm smile, he knelt beside her and offered a small bottle.
"Here," he said gently, "this'll keep you awake… give you some strength."
The girl stared at the bottle in confusion, clutching it tightly but not drinking. Her wary eyes flicked to his face, silently questioning. Was he trying to poison her?
Klaus chuckled softly and popped the cap. He took a sip and handed it back to her. "See? Not poisoned."
Only then did she cautiously bring it to her lips. The moment the taste hit her tongue, her eyes widened. It was sweet, sharp, carbonated—utterly foreign in this realm. Understandable, Klaus thought. This was the past. A realm where even the most basic comforts of the modern era hadn't been conceived.
He watched her sip again, slower this time, as though savoring the strange, precious taste. He reached out and gently ruffled her hair, his voice low and kind.
"What's your name, child?"
She looked up at him, hesitant, then finally spoke. "Eka… I'm an orphan. From… the Coliseums."
Klaus froze.
For a moment, he forgot to breathe. His eyes widened just a fraction too much, and Eka flinched, already bracing for the reaction she'd seen countless times before. She looked down, ashamed. Like she was something dirty.
Klaus forced a soft sigh, adjusting the stick in his grip. His tone was gentle, the tone of a grandmother trying to soothe a crying child.
"You can keep the drink," he murmured. "It's rare liquor. My family wanted to make it… and my son finally did. As a mother, I couldn't be more proud. A pity he didn't live long enough to see how far his creation would reach..."
Eka blinked, stunned by the unexpected kindness. She stared at the bottle as if it had transformed into something sacred and nodded solemnly, sipping slower now, as if trying to make it last.
"Your birthplace doesn't define you," Klaus added, voice steady.
She scowled and took a step back, fists clenched. "Easy for you to say. My people are monsters. They forced me to—"
She bit her lip hard, cutting herself off.
Klaus's expression didn't change. He didn't pry. Instead, he simply turned and began walking again, the staff tapping gently against the cracked stone.
"Is our blood really what defines us?" he asked quietly. "Or is it our will? Can we not choose who we become? Are we so powerless, child, that we let the sins of others carve our names into stone?"
Eka stared after him, unsure. She didn't speak again. But she followed.
Days passed. As they walked, she opened up slowly—about the Coliseums, the cult, the madness of it all. About Solvane, the Chain Lord who ruled the Red Coliseum with blood-soaked hands. Klaus listened, silently filing away every piece of information, every whispered name.
He learned of the Warmongers: Awakened warriors who worshipped the god of war and slaughter. Merciless, battle-hardened zealots, they glorified death. In their twisted creed, to kill or be killed was divine. Struggle was the holiest of pursuits. Death was not a failure—it was glory. And those who fell under their blades were "saved."
To them, even enslaving children was not a crime. It was a gift. An opportunity. A blessing in brutality.
In the Kingdom of Hope, every child grew up hearing terrifying bedtime stories of the Red Coliseum. The name alone was enough to quiet even the most rebellious of boys and girls.
Klaus might've laughed at the absurdity if it weren't so devastatingly real. What were they? Boogeyman?
He wanted to joke—something dark, something sharp—but there was no audience. No one would laugh. Not here. Not now.
The Kingdom of Hope had no space left for laughter.
While Klaus had learned plenty about the deranged Warmongers, the most intriguing revelation came when Eka spoke about the Coliseum.
Apparently, the madmen weren't just capturing humans. No, they were gathering everything. Corrupted abominations, noble beasts, ancient monstrosities that had no place in civilized realms. Anything that could fight—or be forced to—was dragged into the blood-soaked pits of the arena.
Most would imagine a typical coliseum as a place where shackled slaves were pitted against each other while the crowd roared in excitement. But this place… this was something else entirely.
The Red Coliseum was a grotesque menagerie of violence.
Wooden fences zigzagged through the arena, forming jagged partitions like a labyrinth of killing pens. Rusted iron gates connected each segment, screeching open to release beasts into the next cage when it was their turn to fight. The outer edges were ringed by jagged stone walls, and the inner fences were reinforced with brutal iron spikes, as if daring anyone to even try escaping.
What disturbed Klaus most, though, were the ancient grooves carved into the arena floor. At first glance, they looked like old blood channels—an expected feature for a place built for slaughter. But no… these weren't for blood.
They were part of a runic circle. Ancient. Purposeful.
From what Eka had told him, Klaus began to piece things together. The white amphitheater wasn't just an arena—it was a ruin. A relic of the original Kingdom of Hope. He theorized that the structure had once been part of a quarry, the same one that provided the radiant white stone for the floating bridges and aqueducts that spanned the Isles.
At some point, it had been transformed into a majestic theater, perhaps a place of music and culture. But then came the Warmongers. They defiled it, corrupted it. The stones, once white and pure, had been stained red by centuries of slaughter.
Klaus had explored nearly every corner of the Isles, so it wasn't surprising that he figured this out. But the revelation still left him a little disappointed. Perhaps some part of him had hoped for something unknown. Some forbidden secret, some divine mystery hidden beneath centuries of blood and screams.
Instead, it was just another tragedy. Another monument to cruelty.
What chilled him more was the atmosphere. The people in the stands weren't silent. They weren't horrified. They were ecstatic—joyful, even solemn in their reverence for the battles. Like priests attending a holy rite.
Eka was raised there? No wonder that child is weird. She was raised by lunatics.
The crowd swayed like a living tide, their voices blending into a unified chant:
"Glory! Glory! Glory!"
It was madness dressed as ceremony.
Supposedly, if a fighter survived long enough—if they displayed enough valor or earned the crowd's favor—they'd be gifted a wooden sword, a symbolic prize that marked them as a free gladiator. A chance to fight for freedom.
But Klaus didn't care about any of that.
He wouldn't go there to watch mortals die for applause. He didn't give a damn about glory, or trials, or the so-called honor of bloodshed.
He was after the monsters.
If the Warmongers had captured a creature of darkness, then this was the place to find it. And if he could claim it… then his mission would be complete.
Another spirit will be created.
It was clear now. His path led to the Red Coliseum.
But before that… there was something he had to do.
Klaus stood at the threshold of the Sanctuary, watching Eka nibble quietly at her food. The little girl sat alone, cradled by the golden glow of the afternoon light, as if the sun itself sought to protect her for just a while longer.
He sighed and approached her.
"Hello, little one," he said softly, hands tucked behind his back. "I think I have to say goodbye."
Eka's eyes widened, her chewing halting as she looked up at him. His smile was calm, but she sensed the weight behind it.
"Can't you… uhmm, stay?" she asked, voice almost hopeful.
Klaus chuckled and shook his head gently.
"I wish I could. But I've got old friends to find… and older debts to settle."
Eka looked down at her plate. The bread sat untouched now, appetite gone. She wasn't a child in that moment. Not really. War had a way of aging people, even the smallest ones.
"Can I follow you?" she asked, quietly.
Again, Klaus shook his head. This time, slower.
"No. It'll be dangerous," he said, crouching down to meet her gaze. "You're still young. I want you to live… really live. Be happy here, okay?"
She shrugged. It was a gesture far too casual for someone her age. A kind of indifference children weren't supposed to learn so early.
But war didn't care for childhood.
Klaus knew that too well.
He hated war. Hated how it crushed the innocent, how it twisted ideals and turned people into weapons. The powerful would fight, basking in their might, but what of the powerless? What of those too weak to even run?
They were collateral. Forgotten. Crushed beneath the heel of gods and kings who once, long ago, had been powerless themselves.
But most forget that.
Klaus hadn't.
He would never forget what it felt like to be small and afraid, to have no voice and no protection. Weakness wasn't a sin. Some people simply weren't given a choice—no matter how hard they struggled. Fate shone only on the chosen… the rest were discarded.
Could you blame a five-year-old for being weak?
His mind drifted back to something Sunny once said:
"Weakness is the only sin. Power is the only virtue."
But was that really true?
Sunny didn't believe in forgiveness. Or in kindness. He spat on honor, saw selflessness as a delusion. He wrapped his nihilism in clever words and called it truth.
But Klaus… he couldn't accept that.
No. Sunny was wrong. Delusional. Pathetic.
Honor wasn't a collar. It wasn't a shackle.
It was a choice.
Choosing what's right over what's easy. Choosing duty when there's nothing to gain.
And kindness—it wasn't weakness either. It didn't belong to heroes or the powerful.
It was the quiet defiance of a soul that refused to rot.
Kindness was a hand reaching out in darkness, never asking for anything in return. It was a whisper that shaped lives, even if no one ever saw it.
Nephis. Mordret. They believed in revenge. In righteous fury.
But Klaus never craved vengeance. Not really.
What was revenge, anyway? A fleeting satisfaction. An illusion of justice.
Living for it… that was the real tragedy. That was turning yourself into a tool of bitterness. A weapon with no peace, no joy, no love.
Forgiveness—now that was something else. Forgiveness was rebellion against a world built on blood. It was healing. It was freedom.
He had done terrible things. Atrocities that turned him into something closer to a monster than a man. But he wanted to be better. He wanted to believe in the idea of redemption, no matter how distant it felt.
Maybe it was because of Aurora—her purity, her light, her unshakable belief in the good. Maybe she awakened that longing in him.
But no. That wasn't quite right.
Drawing wisdom from only one person made you rigid. Klaus admired those who were different from him, those who stood for things he feared he'd never deserve.
That's why he revered the warriors, the kings, the heroes of old. Men who lived before magic. Before gods. Before corruption.
They fought for freedom, for love, for their people. Some gave their lives for those they'd never even met. Their courage wasn't fueled by power—it was born from kindness and hope for better future.
Were they fools?
Were Sunny, Nephis, Mordret, Asterion, Ki Song, Anvil, and even his own father right… and those ancient dreamers wrong?
No. No, they weren't.
People had simply become disgusting. Twisted by power, pride, and pain. They wore their cynicism like armor and called it wisdom.
But Klaus saw through them. Saw the childishness in their supposed brilliance. Their endless brooding. Their obsession with strength. Acting like edgy teenagers desperate to matter.
Pathetic.
He sighed. Slowly, his form began to shift, reverting to his original body and Eka gasped.
His face was different now—sharper, more ethereal. A little terrifying. A little beautiful.
He winked.
"No worries, sweetheart," he said, turning away. "I'll see you again."
And with a flicker of essence, he vanished—leaving nothing behind but a half-finished plate and a silent girl staring at where he'd been.