The arena trembled with anticipation as The Crescendo stepped fully into the fractured light. Her presence was a sharp contrast to the grotesque and battered forms that had arrived before her. She was almost beautiful in the way predators are beautiful—sleek, fluid, and deadly. Every inch of her radiated tension, as if the storm inside her had been held back for years, waiting for this exact moment to explode.
Kyon watched from the shadowed vantage point high above, his eyes narrowing. The tournament had begun with the first wave of contestants, each representing a facet of abandonment's cruel mosaic. Threadbare with his unraveling form; Shardkin, a walking arsenal of sharp edges; and now, The Crescendo, whose weapon was a violin that seemed as fragile as glass but promised devastation.
The crowd around the arena, a swirling mass of forgotten children and broken entities, fell silent as the first combatants took their places on the cracked mosaic floor. The air itself seemed to pulse, thickening with the scent of rust, decay, and an intangible electric charge.
The bell tolled, a sound like a glass vase shattering against stone, and the fight erupted.
Crescendo's first movement was a blur. She raised her violin to her chin, bow poised. With a sharp, slicing motion, the first note ripped through the air—high, piercing, almost unbearable. The sound wasn't just heard—it was felt, reverberating through the very bones of those present. The ground beneath Threadbare trembled, his fragile form flickering as if the melody threatened to undo his very existence.
Threadbare snarled, clutching his rusty scissors tighter. "Sound fades," he rasped, his voice like old paper scraping stone. "But fabric tears."
With a sudden, jagged lunge, Threadbare rushed forward, aiming to cut the bow from Crescendo's hands. His movements were erratic but sharp, like frayed threads snapping under tension. Crescendo leapt backward, the bow slicing the air as she barely evaded his attack.
Shardkin took advantage of the chaos. His jagged form shimmered as he stepped forward, shards floating around him like a deadly storm. With a roar that shattered the fragile silence, he hurled a flurry of razor-sharp glass shards at Threadbare. The boy barely dodged, the shards carving ragged gashes across his frayed skin.
The crowd gasped—the scent of blood mixing with the metallic tang of shattered glass.
Kyon's eyes gleamed. This was no longer just a tournament. This was a brutal symphony of survival. Every movement was a calculated risk; every strike carried the promise of death.
Crescendo's second note rang out—deeper now, a mournful wail that bent the very air. The shards suspended around Shardkin vibrated violently, each cutting edge vibrating in sync with the dark melody. With a scream that was both rage and pain, Shardkin slammed the shards into the mosaic floor, sending a jagged wave of glass crashing toward Threadbare.
Threadbare collapsed to his knees, blood seeping from cuts that looked like they might unravel his entire body. But even as he fell, his eyes burned with a stubborn light.
"I... will not... be forgotten," he gasped, claws scrabbling at the floor. With a sudden burst of desperate strength, he lunged for Crescendo's legs.
Crescendo barely managed to twist away, the edges of her dress tearing as Threadbare's claws grazed her. The violin slipped from her grasp, crashing against the broken mirror floor. For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Shardkin's shards danced in the air again, weaving a deadly lattice between the combatants. His voice, crystalline and cold, sliced through the tension. "Only the strongest survive in this place."
He advanced, shards spinning faster, reflecting the twisted arena in their cruel facets. Crescendo recovered her violin and raised it, eyes locked with his. Her fingers curled tightly around the bow, trembling but steady.
"I fight for the sound that no one hears. For the scream buried in silence."
She swung the bow like a blade, slashing a deadly arc through the shard lattice. The shards exploded outward, cutting through the air and spraying the crowd with fragments of glass.
Shardkin snarled in frustration but didn't retreat. Instead, he threw himself at Crescendo, the jagged edges of his form aiming to impale.
The fight devolved into brutal hand-to-hand combat — shards and strings clashing like steel on steel.
Crescendo's lithe form darted with unnatural speed, the bow and violin alternating between weapon and shield. Shardkin's glass shards tore at her skin, cutting deep wounds, but she answered with rapid strikes that sent splinters flying from his crystalline frame.
Threadbare struggled to his feet, blood dripping from every torn edge of his fabric-like body. Desperation filled his gaze as he lurched toward Kyon, who had descended to the arena floor now, his presence commanding silence.
Kyon's voice was low and cold: "Enough."
With a wave of his hand, the floor beneath the three combatants cracked violently, sending a jagged fissure slicing between them. The crowd recoiled as the fissure glowed with a sickly green light, pulsing with the energy of abandonment.
"Survive or perish, but only one leaves this arena alive."
The final confrontation began in earnest.
Crescendo darted forward, bow singing a deadly melody that shattered shards and sliced air alike. Threadbare's rusty scissors clattered against her weapon, sparks flying. Shardkin crashed through the fray, a tempest of sharp edges.
Blood sprayed, fabric tore, glass shattered.
Crescendo's bow snapped under Threadbare's ferocious attack. She gasped but didn't falter, plunging her fingers into Threadbare's chest—her nails like needles.
He screamed as his form began to unravel at the point of contact. The scissors dropped, forgotten.
Shardkin roared in rage, charging like a living avalanche. Crescendo turned, planting her violin like a spear through his chest.
Shardkin shattered with a scream that echoed across the arena—a violent explosion of glass shards raining down like deadly hail.
Threadbare collapsed fully, the final threads of his form dissolving into nothingness.
Crescendo staggered back, chest heaving, blood dripping from ragged wounds. She looked at Kyon, eyes blazing with exhaustion and fierce pride.
"This fight... was never about survival," she whispered. "It was about remembering."
Kyon nodded once, coldly.
"The tournament has only begun."