The warriors of the Magopo Clan stood at the underground river's edge, the glow from the waters below painting their darkened faces in ghostly shades. The water below hummed, alive with an energy that made even the most hardened beastmen uneasy. The air smelled faintly of brimstone and salt, as if the Underworld itself exhaled through the fissures beneath their feet.

Yet the warriors continued to stand watch because Rasta's commands echoed in their minds like a lingering spell. "Make sure that nothing that lives and breathes comes out from those waters."

Rasta and Adonis had given them orders, and the twins' word was law.

The twins had built their names on blood and victory, their ambition burning brighter than the fires of Khaitish itself. To serve them was to serve the future and to fail them was to invite death. And so, even as the warriors' nerves frayed beneath the heavy silence, they continued to stand watch.

Makhulu was no longer fit to lead for he chose to cling to peace like an old lion refusing to hunt. But peace would not bring them freedom against the Kingdom of Nozar and its influence over their people. Rasta and Adonis promised something greater. They had sworn to fight for what was good for their nation, to rip Khaitish from the grip of those who had enslaved it.

But these were no ordinary waters.

Even the bravest of them could not look too long into that shifting surface without feeling the world twist beneath their gaze. The river pulsed like a living heart, its currents spiraling downward into darkness. Each ripple glowed faintly, carrying within it the ghostly shimmer of lost souls—those dragged from the Land of the Living and forced into the endless descent below.

What could the twins possibly be worried about? To fall within those waters was to guarantee death. Could there possibly exist a being that could rise once more from those waters? One who could defy death itself?

The beastmen exchanged wary glances, claws resting on the hafts of their spears. Their bodies were broad and muscled, scarred from countless wars, yet here they felt something close to fear. They tried to mask it with grunts and idle mutterings, their tusks flashing under the light. Some glanced toward the entrance—a jagged tunnel framed by ancient stone, their only path back to the world above. And yet, as time went on, their attention began to slip. One yawned, another rolled his shoulders, staring into the luminous current that lulled the mind like a serpent's dance. The sound of the flowing waters filled their ears like a soft and ceaseless whisper.

None had noticed the shadow forming beneath the surface and the first to see it didn't even have time to shout.

With a hiss like stone cracking, a hand broke from the glowing water—not of flesh, not of blood, but of white marble streaked with gold and silver. It shot upward with impossible speed, closing around the throat of the nearest warrior. His feet left the ground in an instant. The beastman choked, kicking and clawing at the smooth arm that held him aloft. His comrades stumbled back, eyes wide, their minds refusing to believe what they were seeing.

From the depths, a figure began to rise—immense, terrible, and gleaming with the essence of the Underworld itself. Streams of light slid off his body as he pulled himself free, the river clinging to him like molten glass.

The warriors could only watch, transfixed between awe and terror, as the giant of a man lifted his head to meet their gaze.

The second warrior roared, his tusks glinting in the eerie blue light, and swung his axe down with a thunderous crack. The blade cleaved through the air toward the figure that had emerged from the river.

But before steel could find flesh, the blow turned against him.

A flash of energy rippled through the cavern and the warrior's own strike rebounded, slashing across his chest with merciless precision. The sound of tearing fur and the wet crack of bone filled the air as he stumbled back, eyes wide in shock, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground. A great gash split his torso from shoulder to rib, blood spilling down his fur in a stream of crimson. The beastman tried to draw breath, but all that came was a strangled gasp before his knees gave way.

Lukas stared at his own hand, still aglow with threads of silver and gold. The marble limb pulsed faintly, forged through the power of the Underworld and now pulsing with his own. He turned, lifting the first beastman he had caught by the throat, and flung him aside without a second thought. The warrior's body hit the stone with such force that a web of cracks splintered outward and the beastman crumpled into unconsciousness.

They would live, Lukas knew that much. But it would be a long time before they rose again.

For a moment, silence claimed the cavern once more. Only the slow pulse of the river's glow remained, casting shifting light across Lukas' face.

It was the face of a dragon reborn.

He flexed his fingers, watching gold and white light shimmer beneath the marble surface of his arm.

He felt whole again.

After so long wandering broken and lost, the feeling was intoxicating—an electrifying tide rushing through him. For one fleeting heartbeat, Lukas almost believed he could take on Oceanus himself right here and now.

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Then he saw him and all of that faded away in an instant.

Not far from the edge of the water, a shape lay sprawled among the rocks—broken, still, and drenched in blood. Lukas staggered forward, his newfound strength forgotten, before falling to his knees beside the wounded figure.

The Priest of Pan lay dying before him.

His once-strong shell was split open, jagged cracks running through it like fault lines. Deep claw marks raked across his body, each wound a testament to the ferocity of the battle that had taken place before Lukas had risen. The old priest's breathing came shallow and ragged, his eyelids fluttering as though fighting to remain in the realm of the living.

"No…" Lukas whispered, voice breaking. "Please, no…" He gathered the priest's body into his arms, cradling him gently as though afraid the slightest movement would shatter what life remained. "You just need to hold on, my friend. I'll get help—you're going to live through this. You have to live through this."

But the Priest of Pan only smiled faintly, a soft and weary expression that held neither fear nor pain. He lifted one clawed hand and rested it on Lukas's shoulder. "You know as well as I do," he murmured, his voice little more than a breath, "that my time has come to an end."

Lukas shook his head fiercely. "This isn't the end for you. It can't be."

A weak chuckle escaped the priest's throat. "Oh, but it is," he said. "This…is my punishment, Lukas."

Lukas frowned, confusion clouding his grief. "Punishment? For what?"

The priest's gaze turned distant, as though looking beyond the cavern, beyond life itself. "I swore an oath upon the River Styx…that I would never again teach another the Internal Arts." The beastman coughed, the sound wet and heavy. "And now, I am simply paying the price for breaking that vow. It is a price I am more than willing to pay. Because you live, Lukas Drakos. And for that I know that I will not have paid the price of breaking that oath for nothing."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lukas whispered.

The priest's eyes met his, soft and knowing. "You know why." And he did. Because if Lukas had known, the dragon would have refused to accept the beastman's training.

"This is the end of the line for me, Lukas." The words were faint, carried on a breath that trembled like the dying flicker of a candle. The Priest of Pan's voice, once filled with the rumble of wisdom and strength, had softened to something so fragile that Lukas could feel his heart begin to break. His shell, cracked and bloodied, reflected the dull shimmer of the river's glow.

Lukas' hands tightened around him, as if somehow his will alone could hold the Priest's life within his grasp.

"But your story," the old beastman continued, his eyes still managing a glint of warmth, "is far from over. Seek out the High Septon and fulfill your destiny."

Lukas shook his head again, refusing to accept this fate. "No. Not yet. Don't leave me with your riddles. Tell me the words of the Prophecy. Please. Help me understand what this all means." His voice echoed against the stone walls, breaking under the weight of fear.

If the Priest told him the words that had already decided the destiny of this world, if Lukas could learn the fate that had already been written, then perhaps he could change it. Perhaps he wouldn't need to fight in the Coliseum. Perhaps the world didn't have to demand so much blood for its salvation.

But the Priest only smiled, a weary and knowing smile that belonged to one who had seen too much. "I have already broken one oath," he said softly, a breath of laughter escaping his cracked lips. "I am not foolish enough to break another."

Lukas could feel the lump in his throat begin to form.

The Priest's voice grew faint, a whisper swallowed by the air. "Know this, Lukas Drakos. You will emerge as the Champion of the Coliseum. I do not doubt that for a second. You are the one who will change this world. This…I know to be true."

Lukas wanted to speak, to argue, perhaps even deny it but before he could form the words, the Priest's hand fell limp. His eyes lost their light and a serene smile lingered on his face as the final breath left his body.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Lukas sat there, motionless.

The glow of the Underworld's waters reflected across his marble arm and onto the lifeless shell of the Priest of Pan.

Slowly, Lukas reached up and gently closed the Priest's eyes.

"Rest now, my friend," he whispered. "You've done enough. Thank you for everything."

Lukas lowered the body to the stone floor and bowed his head, the weight of loss pressing heavy upon his chest. The air around him was thick with power and grief. His hand drifted to the ring that adorned his finger—the wedding band of Styx, the Goddess of Unbreakable Oaths. Its surface shimmered faintly as the dragon pressed it to his lips.

"Please," Lukas murmured, voice shaking. "Forgive him, my love. His life is already a great enough price to pay for breaking that oath."

He did not expect an answer. Yet, just as his words faded into the cavern, the ring pulsed against his skin. A single, gentle heartbeat of light—faint, but unmistakable.

Lukas exhaled, a tremor of relief breaking through the sorrow.

She had heard him.

Somewhere beyond the veil, Styx had heard his words and acknowledged it. Even though she had chosen not to appear before him, Lukas knew in that moment that her love had truly never faded.

Lukas wasn't able to save the Priest of Pan. But what he could do was give his soul peace in the afterlife.

The dragon rose slowly, the weight of grief giving way to resolve. The light from the river dimmed behind him as he turned toward the entrance of the cavern.

There, the iron bars of the prison gate creaked open with a heavy groan.

Standing beyond them was Makhulu, the eldest of the Magopo Brothers, his silhouette framed in shadow.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke a word.

Makhulu's gaze drifted to the body of the Priest of Pan, and his expression softened.

Lukas expected anger. He thought there would accusation or challenge. But instead, he saw only exhaustion—the hollow kind that came from a life spent fighting battles that no longer mattered.

When Makhulu finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.

"Come," he said, the word heavy with meaning. "It is time we had a talk."

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