"Some pray to gods. I feed on them." On the 999th day of rain in the burning world of Val Kora, Xyltharion was having tea. He was a smith by trade, forging ceremonial blades with etchings that whispered forbidden mantras. He was also a soul butcher—harvesting spirits with soft hands and gentle eyes. His town feared him, revered him, but no one dared speak against him. Then one afternoon, mid-sip, as lightning split the sky into a thousand glowing rivers—he vanished. One blink, and the teacup clattered to the floor. Fira, still in training and struggling with the death-to-soul transition protocols, accidentally marked his essence for "Immediate Retrieval"—a tag usually reserved for rogue demi-deities. When she realized what she’d pulled into the Death Arena, it was already too late. "Oh no… oh no no no—Arif, please don't notice—" But Arif did. And he laughed. Inside the Arena, Xyltharion said nothing. He fought with elegant precision, fists cloaked in cursed soulflame. Each blow shattered opponents from the inside out—limbs bending inward, jaws dislocating with a wet crunch, eyes imploding in silent terror. His Soul Strike was poetry carved in pain, a delicate gesture with apocalyptic results. But when blood rained too long and the cheers turned to silence, he transformed. The Real Art of Killing wasn’t a technique. It was a becoming. Blades burst from his wrists like serpents uncoiled, his eyes melting into pitch-black stars. He stood untouched, unfeeling, as three champions attacked him at once—only to fall in chunks, screaming. Fira, trembling, watched from the upper veil. She wanted to run. But Xyltharion looked up. And smiled. "Wrong name, little reaper... I’m not 'Devourer of Souls'... I’m the one they beg not to meet when they wake up." That night, Fira rewrote the retrieval protocols. But Xyltharion’s record remained... undefeated.