My Kings exchange loaded glances, something almost like an alarm passing between them. Even Warren, still kneeling nearby, straightens with evident concern at this development.
Am I missing something here? What’s the big deal.
Hannah frowns, her usual perfect composure slipping further as she processes my reaction. Her eyes meet Zander's briefly before she declares with careful neutrality,
"Maybe we'll need some coffee for this one, but first we need to return to Leighton."
I’m sure we all want to ask the primary question, but Hannah lifts a single poster that must have been in her grasp this whole while, the display showing ROYAL INVITATION ONLY: THE RING OF ASCENSION.
“This is where Matteo is, and if we don’t play along to the Blind One’s tune here and now, he won’t exist, so grab your things, head to the car, and ask questions later.”
Not like we have a choice.
8
RECKONING WITH THE INEVITABLE
~MATTEO~
I'm chained in an underground chamber, looking up at the ceiling while I wonder how long I'll remain in this captive space before being summoned to the ring.
The darkness here is nearly absolute, broken only by the faint yellow glow of a single light embedded in the stone wall opposite my position. The damp chill seeps through my skin, settling deep into my bones despite the controlled temperature. My wrists ache from the weight of the metal restraints, the skin beneath them already raw and tender.
I expected the possibilities of this happening, putting the pieces together methodically over the past weeks. But the fact the Blind One boldly managed to strike them like a triple threat was impressive.
I'd give him that much.
His timing was impeccable — waiting until Eva was vulnerable after her recovery, until our guard had lowered just enough to create an opening.
Sweet Opportunity.
A bitter laugh escapes me, echoing eerily off the stone walls. This is chess played at the grandmaster level, each move calculated fifty steps ahead.
The predictability is almost comforting.
I sigh and rise up, using the wall's support as the chains clink and scrape against the rough stone. My muscles protest the movement after hours—or days, it's difficult to tell in this timeless prison—of enforced stillness. Looking down at my attire, I'm not wearing much. Black shorts that are tight enough like boxers.
It's the only clothing clinging to my body as I know what's coming. The deliberate exposure is part of the psychological warfare—stripping away not just clothes but dignity, security, the armor of civilization.
I have to put myself in the mental state, knowing the moment I'm forced back into the ring, everything will start over again, and there'll be no going back. The arena awaits, with its bloodthirsty spectators and ancient rules.
I can already hear the phantom roars of the crowd, taste the metallic tang of fear and adrenaline that permeates that hallowed space where legacies are forged and destroyed in equal measure.
Then the real question emerges, cold and inescapable: whether I survive or not. It's not just about physical endurance now—though that will certainly be tested—but whether I can maintain enough of myself through whatever comes to still be Matteo on the other side.
I know that the final board of pawns are being prepared on the game board, every piece positioned with surgical precision. I'm well aware of what's at stake and how the Blind One is going to be playing this game.
He'll exploit every weakness, leverage every emotional connection, transform strength into vulnerability with devastating efficiency.
The ceiling drips somewhere in the corner of my cell—a rhythmic, maddening counterpoint to my racing thoughts.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Each drop another second closer to whatever comes next.
As if the solitude of this prison can read my thoughts, the tiny screen TV embedded in the sand-colored wall comes to life, sending dread through me because I know what that means. The electronic buzz fills the chamber with artificial life, the screen's blue glow casting ghostly shadows across my prison.
That the final stage of ascension is about to begin — the culmination of traditions older than the university itself, rituals passed down through generations of ruthless ambition and calculated sacrifice.
