Aden moved through the darkened corridor, his breaths shallow. The temple pulsed around him, reacting to his presence like a living thing. The sigils along the walls flickered, shifting between gold and crimson, their glow sickly and unnatural. The mask burned against his skin, whispering wordless urges into his mind.
Then, the walls trembled.
A deep, resonant chime rang out, vibrating through the temple's stonework. The ground beneath him shifted slightly. Something had changed.
Aden stopped, muscles tensed. His instincts screamed at him to move, but before he could react, the air around him grew heavier. A deep, guttural voice echoed through the chamber.
"He arrives."
The torches flared. The walls pulled apart, revealing a vast arena-like space. The shifting architecture had trapped him inside. And at the center of it all, standing tall in the flickering light, was a warrior unlike any Aden had ever faced before.
A man clad in obsidian armor, etched with ancient runes, stepped forward. He carried a broad, curved shield, its surface scarred with past battles, and in his other hand, two short swords glinted under the crimson glow. Daggers were strapped to his boots, each blade polished to a cruel edge. His presence alone sent a wave of pressure through the chamber.
Aden clenched his fists. The temple wasn't just reacting to him—it was trying to break him. It had sent a warrior who looked like he had never lost a fight.
The Executioner didn't waste time.
He surged forward, impossibly fast for his size. Aden barely had time to twist away as one of the short swords slashed through the air where his throat had been moments before. The second blade followed immediately, forcing Aden to dive backward.
The Executioner didn't let up. He pressed forward, using his shield to control the space, forcing Aden to the edges of the arena where the shifting architecture was most unstable.
Aden landed hard, rolling into a crouch. His heart pounded. He had faced killers before, but this one was different. Calculated. Precise. Every movement was designed to corner him, to force him into an unwinnable situation.
He had to adapt.
The mask whispered again.
Aden's vision sharpened. His body felt lighter. He ducked under another sword strike and moved in close, aiming to strike before the Executioner could recover.
But the Executioner had anticipated it. The shield swung in a brutal arc, slamming into Aden's ribs and sending him skidding across the stone floor.
Pain exploded through his side. He gasped for air, barely managing to roll away before a dagger embedded itself in the ground where he had been moments ago.
The temple itself seemed to react to his struggle. The floor shifted beneath him, trying to pull him toward a pit of writhing shadows. He scrambled to his feet, barely avoiding the trap. The walls moved, creating sudden barriers, cutting off his escape routes one by one.
It wasn't just the Executioner trying to kill him.
The temple was an active participant.
The Overseer was watching.
Somewhere beyond this fight, hidden within the temple's depths, the cultists murmured. They had expected Aden to fall by now. And yet, he persisted.
The Executioner hesitated for a fraction of a second, reading Aden's stance. He adjusted his grip, shifting into a more aggressive posture.
They were both adapting.
Aden exhaled sharply. The mask pulsed against his skin. He could feel something within it, something just beyond his understanding. It had connected him to the past warriors who had once worn it. And they hadn't just been survivors.
They had been hunters.
Aden's Counterattack
The Executioner lunged again, but this time, Aden didn't retreat.
He twisted to the side, barely dodging the first blade, and for the first time, he pushed forward. His fist slammed into the Executioner's helmet, a strike backed by everything the mask had granted him.
The warrior staggered.
Aden didn't let up. He spun, using the temple's shifting ground to his advantage, and struck again—this time aiming for the gaps in the Executioner's armor. His movements felt almost guided, as if the mask itself was showing him the way.
A blade flashed. Aden narrowly dodged, feeling the air shift as the dagger passed inches from his face. But the Executioner was no longer the immovable force he had been moments ago.
He had been pushed back.
Aden felt his breath steady. The temple wasn't just trying to crush him—it was testing him. The mask wasn't a curse.
It was a weapon.
The fight wasn't over. The Executioner still loomed before him, his stance shifting into something more dangerous. But for the first time since this battle had begun, Aden no longer felt like prey.
He was the hunter.
And the temple was about to learn why that was a mistake.