Chapter 3- She was shot
874 Words
The forest stilled for a heartbeat—then erupted.
Every living thing, human and animal alike, flinched at the sound that cut through the air: a deep, sonorous trumpet that did not belong to this wilderness.
The celebratory trumpet.
A sound reserved only for the Sect. For one moment, every beast raised its head, every bird startled from its perch, and every disciple froze mid-motion.
The Champion’s trumpet.
But—how?
The trial was far from over. Where was the explosion? Where were the death traps that always followed the claiming of the Golden Vexillum?
“Impossible!” someone gasped from the shadows. “Did Nine just pick it… just like that?!”
“If I’d known it was that easy, I would’ve taken it first!” another spat, face twisted with regret and disbelief.
But then the realization crept over them all, chilling and dangerous: the Elders and the Masters were not present in the clearing. None of them had seen the exact moment. And if none of them saw it… who could say who the real Champion was?
Dozens of eyes shifted at once, glimmering with hunger, toward the direction Easther had vanished.
Far away, in the darkened chamber, the trumpet’s blare silenced the elders as well.
Every one of them stood from their seats, alarm carved into their expressions.
“What is the meaning of this?!” one demanded.
“There’s no precedent for this,” another whispered. “The trumpet should only sound once all rivals are defeated—”
“But there are dozens still alive in the field!”
Confusion twisted into unease, then into dread. Their gazes turned, almost in unison, to the man seated at the head of the room.
Alphonso Koza.
On the great velvet throne, his figure was bathed in shadow, only the faint glow of the large screen illuminating his face. There, displayed in merciless clarity, was the girl herself — small, bloodied, wide-eyed as she held the Vexillum.
Alphonso’s lips curved. A cruel, devastating arc, beautiful in its menace. Smoke curled lazily from the cigar balanced between his fingers as if he had planned this all along.
In the clearing, Easther stared at the flag in her grasp. Her breath came ragged, her blood soaking into the red cloth until she could hardly tell where the flag ended and her wounds began.
She had braced herself for an explosion, for some grand final trap — not for the trumpet. Not for this bewildering end.
Her Master’s hand was in this. She could feel it. And the thought made irritation spike in her chest even through the exhaustion.
The unease spread like blood through water when the air shifted. Shadows gathered.
Figures emerged from the forest — disciples, filthy, bleeding, faces wild. One after another, they appeared, encircling her, weapons gleaming. Their eyes burned not just with hatred but hunger: if no elder had seen it, then perhaps the Champion was still undecided. Perhaps the flag in her hand could still be stolen.
The killing intent was suffocating.
Easther’s grip on the mast tightened.
The first attacker lunged. A clawed glove, obsidian black, slashed toward her throat, its curved tips glistening faintly with venom. Her instincts screamed. She twisted, dodging by a hair’s breadth, the poisonous air brushing her cheek.
Her counter came sharp as lightning: her foot lashed out, cracking against the girl’s chin. The clawed assailant flew back, shrieking, before crumpling into the dirt.
But there was no pause. Knives flashed from either side. Easther dropped low, spinning, one hand slashing her blade across the throat of one enemy while her other hand hurled the knife into the second’s jugular. Blood sprayed her face warm and metallic.
She wrenched her weapon free, rolling through the spurt, her body moving like a serpent through chaos. Attacks poured in — a storm of daggers, spears, and greedy hands clutching for the Vexillum. She answered with steel and blood, stabbing with her blade, thrusting the golden flag itself into a man’s chest, painting its cloth a deeper crimson.
The clearing became c*****e. Severed limbs and broken bodies painted the earth into a grotesque canvas. Screams clashed with steel.
Then—
BANG.
The shot cracked through the frenzy like thunder.
Everything stopped. For a fraction of a second, every combatant froze, eyes wide, faces contorted with disbelief.
“f**k—a gun?!”
“Who brought a gun?!”
“That’s forbidden!”
“It’s against the rules! Disqualified or not—who fired?!”
Anger roared through the clearing, an uproar of voices, but Easther did not hear them.
Her grip faltered. The Vexillum slipped from her blood-soaked hands and fell to the ground.
Slowly, she looked down.
The hole in her chest glared back at her, blood streaming in torrents down her torso. The world tilted. Her knees buckled, and she crashed to the ground, knife still clutched in her fingers even as it tore loose from a dying man’s throat. A final spray of blood drenched her face, painting her like some unholy demon birthed from slaughter.
Her body toppled among the corpses. Her eyes, clouded but burning with cold fury, fixed on the figure standing before her.
The Champion had fallen.
- Writer
