Rebirth System: Blood and Ash

Aric rode into the Imperial City, his horse's hooves clacking steadily on the cobblestone streets. Behind him, his men and the court trailed at a distance, though they were scarcely visible.

He had chosen to ride alone, as was tradition for a prince returning from war. The wind tugged at his cloak, sending it billowing like a black flag behind him, but the city itself remained eerily still.

Not a single sound escaped from the towering walls of the grand city, not a single soul appeared on the streets. Only the rhythmic beat of his horse's hooves against the stone filled the silence.

Aric understood this silence—it was tradition.

He had seen it before, witnessed the empty streets that greeted warlords upon their return. It was not out of fear or indifference that the people stayed hidden. It was out of reverence. The victorious must walk alone before he is greeted by his people.

Alone, so that the weight of his victories and the blood of his enemies might settle upon him, and the city itself might acknowledge his triumph.

He rode further, and in the distance, the great Colosseum of Valeria rose like some titan above the rooftops. The towering structure, a masterpiece of imperial architecture, stood as proof to the strength of Valeria.

Its high walls were carved with the stories of past victories, its stones stained with the blood of gladiators, kings, and soldiers alike. As Aric drew closer, the immense doors of the Colosseum came into view.

When he reached the colosseum's towering entrance, two imperial guards guards stood on either side of the doors. As he dismounted, their fists struck their chests in perfect unison, saluting the returning prince.

Aric's boots hit the ground with a solid thud as he swept his cloak over his shoulder, the wind catching its edges and sending it fluttering. Without a word, he strode past the guards and through the massive doors, entering the heart of the colosseum.

Inside, it felt as though the entire city had been poured into the stands.

The arena was packed from wall to wall. On one side sat the emperor, Xavier Valerian, flanked by his sons and other members of the royal family, their faces masks of regal composure.

Across from them sat the nobles of Valeria, draped in rich silks and furs, their eyes gleaming with intrigue and ambition. The Senate had its own place, a solid block of power and politics, while the common folk, though separated, filled their own section, watching with the same intensity as the highest lords.

Yet there was no sound. Not a murmur, not a whisper.

Only silence as Aric entered the colosseum's vast arena, his steps slow and intentional, echoing in the oppressive quiet. With each stride, it felt as if the gaze of a thousand eyes pressed down upon him, and yet he held, his gaze steady.

His presence was commanding—like chaos gathering just before it broke.

In the center of the arena stood a golden bowl, mounted on a pillar. Flames danced within it, flickering in the faint breeze that swirled through the colosseum. To its side was a simple knife, gleaming in the midday sun.

Two armored men stood not far from the pillar, their faces hidden behind their helmets, watching Aric's every move.

Aric came to a stop before the bowl, pausing as he cast his gaze over the gathered masses. Thousands of eyes bore into him, but he remained still, absorbing the moment, his hand hovering just above the flame.

He knew what was required of him. This was not merely tradition—it was a rite, a ritual that bound Valerian blood to the flame of its empire.

Aric reached for the knife that lay beside the golden bowl. The cold steel gleamed in the light, its edge sharp enough to cleave flesh with ease. Without hesitation, Aric wrapped his hand around the blade and pulled.

The knife slid through his palm, cutting deep into his flesh. Blood, dark and crimson, flowed freely from his hand, dripping into the flame below. But the flame did not flicker, did not falter. It burned with the same intensity, as if daring the blood to quench it.

One of the armored men stepped forward, his movements mechanical, like a puppet following a well-practiced routine. He grasped Aric's hand, turning it over to examine the wound. The blood still flowed freely, but the flame remained untouched.

The second armored figure, the general of the Imperial Guard, stepped forward and bellowed with a voice that boomed across the Colosseum.

"Does he bleed?" he asked, his voice loud enough to shake the stones.

"Yes, General," the man inspecting Aric's hand replied.

"Does he bleed?" the general asked again, louder this time, his voice a thunderclap in the stillness.

"Yes, General!" came the reply, more urgent.

"DOES HE BLEED?" the general roared, his words tearing through the air like a war cry.

"YES, GENERAL!"

The general turned to the crowd, his voice rising to a fever pitch.

"Then why have his enemies failed to draw his blood?!"

The silence shattered. The crowd erupted in a roar, the sound deafening as thousands of voices screamed in unison. Feet stomped against the stone floor, creating a thunderous beat that echoed through the Colosseum like the drums of war. The air was burning with energy, the kind that precedes a storm, wild and uncontrollable.

Aric raised his hand, still dripping with blood, and at once, the noise ceased. The crowd fell silent again, anticipation gripping their throats as they awaited his words.

Aric's voice, calm but laced with power, cut through the quiet like a blade.

"I bleed," he began, his tone steady but filled with the significance of his return. "I bleed, just like any man. Just like the soldiers who fight on the frontlines, just like the commoners who toil in the fields, just like every soul within this empire."

He paused, letting the words sink in. His eyes scanned the crowd, meeting the gazes of nobles and commoners alike.

"But no enemy," he continued, his voice rising, "no foreign army, no pretender king, no godless rebel has ever drawn my blood. Not in Byzeth. Not on the battlefield. Not before, and not now."

The words struck like a hammer, each one landing with the force of a soldier's blade. The crowd was still, hanging on his every word.

"I am Valerian," Aric said, his voice growing louder, more fervent. "And the blood of Valeria runs through these veins—blood that has built empires, blood that has torn down kingdoms, blood that even the gods themselves fear to spill!"

The crowd stirred in their seats, the tension rising like the tide before storm came.

"Valeria stands," Aric shouted, his voice a roar now, filled with the fury of a thousand battles fought in a previous life.

"We stand unchallenged, undefeated! Not by men, not by armies, and not even by the gods above! The strength of Valeria is eternal, forged in the fires of war and bound by the blood of its people. It is a strength that no blade can pierce, no flame can burn, and no power in this world or the next can destroy!"

The crowd began to shake, chills gripping their skin, their energy rising with his words.

"We are Valerians!" Aric cried, his voice carrying through the air like a clarion call.

"We do not bow! We do not bleed for lesser! We are the conquerors of kingdoms, the masters of fate, and the rulers of this world! Our enemies fear us, our allies know better than otherwise, and the gods themselves tremble when they hear our name!"

He raised his bloody hand high, the crimson dripping down his arm and onto the stones beneath him.

"We are Valerians," he repeated, softer now, but no less powerful. "And no enemy, no matter how strong, can draw the blood of a pure Valerian."

The crowd erupted again, louder than before, their roars shaking the very foundations of the Colosseum. Feet stomped, hands clapped, and voices screamed his name.

"Aric! Aric! Aric!"

This was the ritual, performed for royalty who had returned from leading a successful war. It wasn't that Aric, or any who partook in this rite, had never bled in battle. Blood was the inevitable price of war. But this ritual was tradition.

It was a display, a powerful message not only to the citizens of Valeria but to any foreign eyes that might witness it. It declared that no matter the battles fought, no matter the wounds sustained, Valeria's strength remained unfazed, its rulers untouchable, their blood sacred and inviolable.

As the chant of his name echoed through the Colosseum, a horn blared, cutting through the noise. The sound of the Imperial horn was unmistakable, a clarion call that signified the beginning of the games.

A voice rang out above the din, clear and powerful.

"In celebration of the fourth prince's return, let the games begin!"

The Colosseum erupted into cheers once more, the energy now unleashed, wild and unstoppable.

Now, they would see blood and death…what better a celebration than that?