Awakening of the Dead

He wore the Devil name

Chapter Three:

Elior’s boots thudded across the cold stone walkway, each step a dull echo of the dread clenching his stomach. His clothes were tattered, his hair wild, face streaked with old ash and fitful sleep. With every stride toward the academy gates, fear and shame curled tighter within him, but somewhere beneath the trembling—the faintest, defiant whisper: Don’t be afraid. You’re not the same boy anymore.

As he crossed the threshold, the courtyard froze. Every head turned. Eyes—hungry, cruel, glinting with remembered scorn—scanned him from ragged boots to bowed shoulders.

“Dustblood.”

“Weakling.”

“Powerless. Just hollow.”

The words lashed across him—sharper for their familiarity. Elior’s gaze dropped. Years of humiliation pressed each vertebra into stone. He passed through the hallways cloaked in silence, flinching at every bitter whisper—Still nothing… why does he bother?

Into the Arena

The training hall was alive with the scent of sweat, scorched wood, and ambition. Here, pain was law and magic currency. The teacher’s glare scythed through the crowd and landed on Elior. Without waiting for argument, she jabbed a finger at him, then at Olivia—the school’s fire-wielding tyrant. Olivia stepped forward, flames whispering along his knuckles, lips curled in a victorious sneer.

“Elior,” the teacher intoned, “with Olivia. First round. Show us what you’ve got.”

A hush fell as students formed a ragged ring. Olivia rolled his neck, flames flickering in his palms. “Ready to lose again, Dustblood?” His tone dripped with contempt.

Elior forced himself to breathe. Doubt rocked inside him, but his fists closed tight. Not this time.

The First Assault

Olivia struck first—a twisting arc of fire that sang through the air and seared the hairs on Elior’s arms. He leapt aside, heat grazing his ribs, the crowd’s laughter echoing against stone.

Again and again Olivia attacked, slashing at Elior with flame and fists. Elior ducked, side-stepped, letting instinct and anger guide him. He dodged another burning strike and drove his fist into Olivia’s side. The blow landed sharply. Olivia stumbled but masked pain with fury.

The other students jeered.

“No powers, no hope!”

“Look at him run—useless!”

Their knives bit deep, but Elior’s rage roared back. With every wound, every taunt, something grew inside him. He countered, jabbed, fought back harder—his fists carrying the weight of years.

With each exchange, Olivia grew more reckless, raging with the desire to crush this defiance. Blades of fire stabbed toward Elior’s chest and face. He dodged, spun, sweat burning beneath the furnace of Olivia’s magic.

The Tipping Point

Elior’s breath came sharp, limbs shaking. The voice—that cold, predatory whisper—emerged from the depths of his mind:

“Give me control, master. Just say the word. I will break him.”

Elior’s vision blurred between pain and fury. The temptation gnawed at him, sickly sweet—but he pushed it down with a trembling, desperate “No.”

Olivia sneered, real venom now. “That’s why your useless parents died early. No power. No strength. Just hollow blood. You’re nothing.”

The words shattered something deep and fragile within Elior. His eyes flared red—blood and shadow swirling at his feet. Wind howled through the hall, dust swirling about him in sudden, unnatural patterns. Every muscle fiber seemed to burn, pain and memory fusing as a terrible new energy began to flood his body.

He lifted off the ground, suspended as remnants of magic and hate collided.

“You shouldn’t have said that.”

His voice crawled with promise and threat, so cold the flames themselves seemed to recoil.

The Transformation—And the Deadly Blow

The fight turned apocalyptic. Shadows twisted from Elior’s fists; the temperature dropped, fog pooling on the floor. Olivia’s flames now looked thin, fragile—his confidence shattered as his attacks faltered against the eldritch power unfurling before him.

Elior surged forward, movements a blur—a storm of wrath and darkness. His blows landed with impossible force, each one thunderous, every strike making the room flinch.

Olivia tried in vain—fire lashing, rage howling. But Elior’s shadows coiled and devoured every ember, until the only thing left burning were Elior’s eyes.

The air cracked like thunder as Elior’s final punch landed—shadows trailing like serpents from his fist. Olivia was lifted off his feet, hurled backward through a scatter of desks, and crashed against the far wall with a sickening, bone-deep thud. He slumped to the floor, flames snuffed and spirit broken. He did not rise again.

A shocked silence strangled the room. Something ancient and awful pulsed in that air—a darkness that had not come simply from Elior, but through him.

Inside his mind, the entity’s voice rolled, velvet-soft and hungry:

“Good. Now break the rest.”

A chill rippled through Elior’s bones, the shadows at his feet thickening for a moment, as if the unseen thing inside him was watching—and savoring victory.

Repercussions

A classmate just outside the ring stumbled backwards, eyes huge, fear sharpening his features.

“That’s… that's not Elior…” he whispered.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The laughter and contempt that once dogged Elior turned to an uncertain, creeping awe—a new fear. The world was recalibrating, shifting on frightened axes, the boundaries between prey and predator rewritten in the space of a heartbeat.

Elior stood at the center of the ring, chest heaving, the storm inside both sated and ravenous. The acrid taste of burnt air filled his mouth, while shifting shadows whispered along the edge of his vision.

He gazed down at his hands—his body. Every muscle ached from the unleashing, every nerve alive with bitter victory and horror.

“He tasted fear. The others will too,” the entity added, its words an echo between Elior’s ears and heart.

Elior shuddered, alone now in the hush, even with the world staring at him. Part of him recoiled from what he’d unleashed. Another—darker—part felt the stirring pride, the call of vengeance not yet finished.

He walked away from Olivia’s broken form, classmates parting in fearful silence. As he passed, the whispers grew—no longer mocking, but trembling with awe and a new, nameless fear.

The boy they called powerless had finally become something else—and in that shadow, nothing and no one felt safe.