He was secreted away, far from prying eyes. Locked in thought and reflection of the battles that have since taken place before his eyes and blade. Those battles were gone, and would never be repeated again, save for in calm recollection. Aronel knew that he had to use and apply the lessons learned from the previous battles. In his minds eye flashed each slash and stab. He recalled each memorable technique and spell. He replayed the melee fights and the mystic fights, considering new techniques that could have been applied, or an old one that could be modified. Aronel thought over each combination in the shadows. A sound cut through his reflection, a soothing hymnal that awakened his spirit. Like the sound of the waves at sunset, it brought rest to the warrior’s darting mind. Now was not the time to live in the past, now was the time to fight for life in the future.

His eyes opened for the first time in hours, but were still as brilliant as they were then. What little light dwelled in the chamber came forth and submitted to his eyes. Two glimmers of false hope shined in the middle of the room.

The door opened. A voice beckoned, and Aronel responded. Without a word he took to his feet. Though immersed in the black void for hours, he walked without hesitation to the bright hall before him. With the door open, the waves of sound flooded in, as an unrelenting tide would rush unchecked through an open sluice. It was no longer the calming roar of the tide, but the roar of another beast altogether. It was far off, but still fierce. Aronel stepped out of the darkness with his second at his side. The Second was sort of his apprentice, a child that grew up around Aronel’s battles. Through maelstroms of blood, the child was conditioned into a tacit warrior. However skilled he was from Aronel’s firm hand, he was still far too young to participate. He was destined to be Aronel’s aide between battles, at least for this year.

The child timidly held out his hands, presenting the first of Aronel’s weapons, as well as his most cherished. He calmly took the sword and scabbard from the boy. In his hands, Aronel once again held the Chronium Aura, an ancient weapon that has passed from hand to hand in various ways through the ages. A weapon of physical and mystic strength, it served as one of the many pillars of strength Aronel built himself on. It seemed almost made personally for its master, a weapon of length just between a wakizashi and a katana. This mixture allowed Aronel full use of his power, as well as boosted speed. Though Aronel’s grip was fierce at times, he took great care with the sheathed weapon and the rosewood casing. He showed far more coordination and control than could be expected from his cold dull gray gloves. In a slight flourish, he withdrew his left hand and the blade from sight, but not from his mind. The weapon of moderate length was carefully set at his side, held fast but relaxed enough in a simple silk belt. Aronel’s second, and oft forgotten weapon was already in place, strapped close to his back. It did not favor Aronel’s combat style, it was far more barbaric in feel, but he kept it by his side regardless. This weapon was called the Black Soul, and for good reason. The obsidian used in its construction was pure black, to counteract the brittle nature of a solid crystalline sword; magics were used to infuse it the durability of steel. Another spell was hidden away in the broadsword. With the power to physically cleave through flesh and blood, and steel and bone, it was also found to be able to cleave through a weak soul. Wounds that were found to be non-fatal to the body would render the victim completely stone dead; only the death of the soul could explain them.

Aronel made a silent mental check of the situation, he noted both of his weapons present and in worthy condition for battle. He noted his dull gray body armor, the Sinner, to be in place. Aronel would be hard pressed not to notice such a thing, for the sheer weight of the trinitanium plates would be impossible to ignore. He checked the shoulders of his virgin white leather cloak, to make certain the runes placed on each were in tact. Aronel yielded ever slightly to his emotions, and let a slight smile pass his lips. He was satisfied with how things went in the first round, and was certain they would serve as a sign of things to come.

His eyes once again focused on Larvin, his Dueling Second, of sorts. Without sign of pride, or fear, or any other emotion, Aronel spoke to the boy. “Let us go,” with that, Aronel spun around on his heels, which left a modest sized divot in the stone, caused by the weight of both the man and armor that twisted on it. Even through the roar of the crowd, Aronel’s footfalls still rang loud through the hall. Silently by comparison, his cloak trailed ever so slightly behind him, and further back was Larvin. Aronel came to two great red double doors that towered over twice the height of the swordsman. He rested both hands on the black hardware, and forced the two open.

Once again he entered the arena. And once again the crowd welcomed him with their hearts… or at least their very large and powerful lungs. He tried his best to shut them out, and proceeded to the center of the dusty coliseum floor. There the man waited for the engagement, as his hair and cloak flowed with the wind in unison.