Rebirth System: Blood and Ash

Alan's grip tightened around Zarot's massive blade, his fingers curling with deliberate precision as though he were handling something other than a weapon meant to cleave him in two. His expression remained calm, eerily so.

His eyes, reflecting the harsh sunlight, bore into Zarot's in an unsettling way—like a trained soldier looking down at his enemy before he offers death, except it was Alan's hand around the sword, he was the one who stood before a murderous attack, not the other way around.

The crowd, who moments ago had cheered for blood, now fell into a hush.

Their eyes darted from Zarot's hulking figure, still frozen in disbelief, to the leaner form of Alan, whose hand held Zarot's monstrous sword still. The silence of the colosseum was unnerving, hanging like a cloud, they all anticipated the next move.

Zarot growled, wrenching his sword back with all the brute strength his body could muster, but Alan released the blade with a casual flick of his wrist. Zarot staggered back, the weight of his own weapon nearly throwing him off balance.

"A boy from the streets," Darius had once thought "An orphan with no lineage, no ki, no mana—he'll serve as a perfect guard for the fourth prince. A fitting joke."

How wrong Darius was.

Alan's life had been far from the velvet cushions of royal halls. The streets of the imperial city had been his home—cold, unforgiving, a place where a boy like him had two choices: starve or fight.

By the age of ten, Alan had already learned how to fend off the thieves and cutthroats that preyed on the helpless. His fists were his only defense, his resolve his only shield.

He was picked from the streets one day, not for his skill but because the city guard needed bodies—warm bodies to train and mold into foot soldiers, expendable pawns to stand in the background while real warriors claimed glory.

It didn't matter to Alan then. He had a place to sleep, food to eat.

He trained harder than anyone else, fought until his knuckles bled and his vision blurred. But no amount of effort could change the fact that he had no ki, no mana flowing through his veins. While the lucky ones with ki or mana were sent to the Imperial Guard Academy, Alan remained behind, discarded, forgotten in that shabby corner of the empire.

He would've remained there too, a nameless guard among many, if not for a twist of fate.

The day Alan was summoned to serve one of the princes felt like destiny pulling him from the gutter. He, among others called, thought to be assigned to one of the revered sons of Xavier—Prince Valen or even Darius. Instead, he was sent to the estate of Aric, the forgotten fourth prince, the one whispered about in court circles with derision and mockery.

The other guards grumbled and cursed their lot, but not Alan. He had sworn his loyalty to the fourth prince the moment he saw him, weak and bedridden though Aric had been.

And now, years later, Alan was no longer the street rat he once was. He stood before the royal audience, bearing the armor that Aric and Lerai had painstakingly developed for him. Armor that oozed faintly with hidden power, enhanced by the B-rank mana crystal embedded deep within its core.

A mana crystal so potent, its acquisition alone had cost millions in gold and the blood of few. But it was worth it. Every part of Alan's armor—his speed, his strength, his defense—had been incomprehensibly enhanced. He was more than just a guard now; he was something the world were not yet capable of understanding.

Zarot, towering before him, swung his great sword again.

The blade cleaved through the air with a thunderous roar, but Alan sidestepped effortlessly, his movements too quick for the eye to track. The crowd gasped. They could feel the immense ki radiating from Zarot, could see the brute force behind each swing, but Alan's evasion was unnerving—silent, fluid, and with a precision that made Zarot's attacks look clumsy in comparison.

The next moment, Alan struck.

He moved faster than Zarot could react, his fist connecting with the giant's side. The sound of the impact reverberated through the arena, sharp and unforgiving. Zarot grunted in pain, the flesh of his side tearing as blood sprayed out in a fine mist.

It looked as though Alan had not just punched him; his blow had sliced like a razor.

Alan stepped back, his eyes calculating, watching as Zarot struggled to maintain his footing. The crowd murmured in confusion. How could this be? Zarot was a man feared by many, his strength bolstered by ki, yet Alan—who exuded no such energy—was cutting him down as if he were nothing.

Above, in the royal box, Darius's face had darkened. His knuckles turned white as he clenched the arms of his chair, his earlier bravado evaporating in the heat of Alan's dominance.

His jaws clenched, anger burning in his narrowed eyes.

"You were always too hasty, brother," Valen said quietly, though his voice carried enough weight to make Darius flinch. His eyes, cold and emotionless, remained fixed on the arena below.

"Now look at the mess you've created."

Darius didn't reply, his gaze locked on the spectacle unfolding before him.

Zarot roared in frustration, raising his sword once more. He lunged at Alan with reckless fury, his ki flaring to dangerous levels, the force of his strike enough to shatter stone.

But Alan moved again, faster this time. He ducked beneath Zarot's swing, his body blurring with speed enhanced by the MPG armor. As Zarot's sword slammed into the ground, raising a cloud of dust, Alan shot forward.

His fist connected with Zarot's jaw, the impact sending a ripple of shock through the colosseum. Zarot's massive form wavered, his grip on the sword loosening as his body staggered. Blood spurted from his mouth, and he crumbled to one knee.

"Leave him half dead," Darius had said. But now, it was Zarot who was left broken and bleeding, while Alan stood over him like an inevitable loss.

Alan's voice cut through the heavy silence that followed.

"You're not done yet. Shall we continue?"

Zarot growled, blood dripping from his split lip as he clambered back to his feet, his sword dragging through the dust. His ki surged again, brighter, fiercer, like a wild flame barely contained within his massive frame.

His muscles bulged as the energy coursed through him, veins standing out across his arms and neck like cords of tension ready to snap. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with fury and desperation, but also a growing sense of dread.

He raised his sword and slammed it into the ground, sending a shockwave that rippled through the arena.

"Oh?" Alan muttered, intrigued.