Previously…

The Champion’s Games erupted into chaos as the Ruinlords faced an unthinkable terror—the cursed arcanist Lorien Thalorin, transformed into a colossal titan that nearly destroyed the Arena of Aroden. Only Lorien’s desperate sacrifice prevented annihilation, leaving him broken on the bloodied sands. Saint Alduin mocked the Ruinlords with cryptic delight while Loris Raknian watched from above, fury simmering behind his composed façade.

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The Arena of Aroden had seen glory before, but never a nightmare like this. The echoes of screams and cheers still lingered in the air, blending into an uneasy hum—a melody composed of wonder, fear, and confusion. Moments ago, an eighty-foot monstrosity of pure annihilation had risen, towering above Tymon like a vision straight from the blackest depths of the Abyss. Lorien Thalorin, the cursed silver-haired arcanist whose veins ran thick with eldritch horror, had wrestled the beast back from oblivion’s brink at great cost. Now he lay trembling on the blood-soaked sand, skin pale as fresh grave dirt, lungs heaving, spent—but undeniably dangerous. 

Saint Alduin stood serenely over Lorien’s shaking form, wearing a maddening smile. His eyes glittered with quiet amusement, savoring the moment. “You cannot kill him,” Alduin murmured, almost lovingly. “But tell me…what will you do with him?” 

The Ruinlords faced an impossible choice, watched closely by thousands of eyes desperate for an ending—any ending—to the madness. Up in the stands, Loris Raknian stared down with barely concealed fury, his fingers gripping the stone balustrade as if he could crush it into dust. He’d orchestrated a spectacle unlike any before it, but even he hadn’t expected this kind of chaos. 

Talabir, the arena referee, finally descended from the VIP box, air-walking gracefully to the bloody sands below. Behind him came Ekalim Smallcask, the bard whose unreadable expression hinted at a thousand hidden calculations. Gasping and struggling, Lorien forced out a weak whisper amid the heavy silence: “Let me go.” 

Eventually, Talabir offered the arcanist a Scroll of Teleportation to remove himself from the arena – and the city – without further risk. The Ruinlords watched in tense silence as Ekalim guided Lorien away to an uncertain sanctuary, away from the arena’s glare. 

Victory, however strange and bitter, brought rewards. The Ruinlords were presented with golden trophies and coin—but no celebration seemed possible tonight, not after the horrors they’d witnessed. 

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Nightfall and Secrets

That night, the Coenoby lay nearly deserted, now occupied solely by the Ruinlords and their final opponents—Vixus the All-Mighty and his cunning mage, Khellek. Dinner was sumptuous but silent, punctuated only by the sharp clinks of fine silverware and the pour of expensive wine. Khellek drank greedily, eager perhaps to drown his own nerves. 

Cal broke the silence, his voice soft but relentless, asking Vixus about Lahana, Ekalim’s sister whose disappearance had haunted their every step through Tymon. Khellek tried drunkenly to divert the conversation, but Vaz’non’s sharp tongue repeatedly silenced him, allowing Cal to carefully pry open the old wound in Vixus’ pride. 

Vixus spoke hesitantly, eyes distant. He’d met Lahana last year, drawn to her beauty—and she, in turn, seemed enamored of him. When he’d won the Champion’s Games previously, Lahana herself had defiantly placed the champion’s belt around his waist, humiliating Loris Raknian publicly. Although there had been no overt threats, Vixus and Khellek felt they had barely escaped Tymon with their lives. Cal thanked Vixus quietly, watching as the champion left his table burdened by memory. The Ruinlords spent the remainder of the evening plotting and preparing, knowing now that their answers—and Lahana herself—would not be found beneath the arena but somewhere closer to Raknian’s heart. 

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Clash of Champions

Noon arrived, bright and merciless. The city had emptied itself into the Arena of Aroden, filling every seat, each spectator’s eyes wild with anticipation. The Ruinlords stepped onto the sand, met by thunderous roars. Waiting for them was Vixus, cold-eyed and confident, flanked by Khellek and their grotesque creations: the Leatherworks, three towering flesh golems stitched together from death and cruelty itself. 

The final battle erupted in savage fury. Vixus surged forward, fists crackling with power, landing devastating blows on Dunner. Khellek ascended quickly, weaving illusions of himself across the sky, directing his monstrous puppets below. But Alfie, ever sharp-eyed, unraveled Khellek’s flight with a precise spell, sending the wizard plummeting into the dirt. Vaz’non seized the opportunity, raining flames from above, igniting wizard and warrior alike, while Cal unleashed barrages of magic missiles, battering Khellek relentlessly. 

Tike moved swiftly, fists blurring with supernatural speed, battering the mighty Vixus with a force no mortal should withstand. Yet Vixus endured, a bloody smile crossing his lips—just before the earth itself rebelled against them all. 

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Blood of a Champion

The arena floor heaved violently, splitting apart in a thunderous eruption. A grotesque colossus, a bloated yellowish grub of unspeakable horror, burst from beneath the sands, scattering gladiators like ragdolls. Silence swallowed the audience for an instant, shock freezing every breath. 

Loris Raknian’s voice rose triumphant and terrible above the stunned hush. “Lo! The Apostle of Kyuss is among us!” He pointed at the crowd of gladiators surrounding the creature. “THERE! THERE ARE THE CHAMPIONS YOU SEEK!” 

All eyes turned to the Ruinlords, now caught between a fallen champion, Raknian’s madness, and a nightmare made flesh. The crowd erupted into frenzied panic, screams echoing endlessly as terror consumed Tymon for a second time in as many days. 

The final battle of the Champion’s Games had just begun—and victory now meant survival against the rising tide of darkness.