Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 81: Shylo vs. Riven Kael

Chapter 81: Shylo vs. Riven Kael

The Silence Before the Storm

The battlefield was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that calmed the nerves—the kind that gnawed at them.

A suffocating, eerie silence.

There was no banter, no pre-fight taunts, no forced bravado.

Just two fighters staring each other down, both knowing that this battle wouldn’t be about raw strength—it would be about who controlled reality first.

The announcer’s voice sliced through the tension, carrying across the massive arena.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS MATCH IS A DUEL OF TACTICAL SUPREMACY!"

Massive screens lit up, the fighters’ names flashing in bold, commanding letters.

"ON ONE SIDE—THE MASTER OF THE BLADE! THE SURGEON OF MOTION! THE ONE WHO DICTATES THE FLOW OF BATTLE—RIVEN KAEL!"

The crowd roared, admiration thick in the air.

Riven wasn’t just a fighter—he was a system, a force operating on absolute precision, leaving nothing to chance.

"AND HIS OPPONENT—THE SHADOW BETWEEN THOUGHTS! THE UNSEEN HAND! THE WHISPER THAT TURNS WILL INTO DOUBT—SHYLO!"

Some cheered.

Some didn’t.

Shylo was different.

His fights were never explosive.

They were inevitable—like his opponents had lost long before they realized they were fighting.

Then—the bell rang.

And the battle began.

The First Exchange—Precision vs. Silence

Shylo moved first.

Not with the reckless aggression most fighters used in these tournaments.

Not even with deliberate strikes.

He simply stepped, sliding into the overhead shadows, blending so perfectly with the battlefield that—for a moment—he wasn’t even there.

He became the silence.

Riven didn’t move.

His blade rested in a loose yet deadly grip, completely anchored in control.

Not baiting.

Not tricking.

Just waiting, locked in perfect patience.

Then—Shylo lunged.

Fast. Silent. Precise.

No wasted steps.

No wasted force.

Like a phantom closing in for the kill.

But Riven was ready.

The second Shylo was within range—his blade swung.

Momentum Severance.

And just like that—

Shylo stopped.

Mid-motion. Mid-thought. Mid-action.

Like the world had suddenly denied his movement.

Like his strike had never even existed.

The crowd gasped, watching as the fighter who had always been untouchable was suddenly halted—as if reality itself had betrayed him.

Then—Riven struck.

A clean, effortless slash across Shylo’s torso.

Not too deep—but deep enough to send a message.

Riven was in control.

Shylo gritted his teeth, rolling back, pressing a hand to the wound, but his expression didn’t change.

He wasn’t panicked.

He wasn’t thrown.

Riven’s expression didn’t shift either.

This was a battle of control, and he was winning.

The Battle Intensifies—Influence vs. Precision

Shylo adjusted, breathing steady, eyes locked on Riven.

He had underestimated Threadcutter—how it didn’t just cut flesh, but disrupted everything.

His timing? Off.

His movement? Flawed.

The battle’s rhythm? Not his anymore.

But Shylo wasn’t done.

He vanished.

Not physically.

Not entirely.

But into Riven’s shadow.

Subsumed Presence.

For the first time—Riven felt it.

A shift in thought.

A hesitation that shouldn’t exist.

Shylo whispered into his mind.

Not words.

Not warnings.

Just doubt.

A seed of hesitation.

A fraction of indecision.

Riven swung his blade, instinctively trying to cut through it, sever the influence—

But Shylo wasn’t there.

Just an echo.

Just a lingering presence in his subconscious.

Riven’s grip tightened.

Shylo had cracked something.

The battle was no longer perfectly controlled.

Both Fighters Push to the Edge

Strike. Dodge. Manipulation. Disruption.

The fight escalated, their abilities clashing, neither letting the other fully dictate the outcome.

Shylo wove through Riven’s mind, creeping into the spaces between thoughts, forcing his reactions to falter.

Riven slashed through the hesitation, tearing through the doubts before they could take hold.

Neither stayed ahead for long.

Neither kept control for more than a few seconds.

Then—

Blood hit the ground.

Both were wounded.

Both were slower.

Neither stopped.

Neither backed down.

The crowd was silent, watching two masters of control push each other past their limits.

The Final Move—The Shadow Wins

Shylo was fading.

His energy? Spent.

His body? Failing.

Riven saw it.

His blade ready.

His next strike? The one that would end it.

Shylo smiled.

Not in confidence.

Not in arrogance.

In acceptance.

And then—

He stepped into Riven’s shadow one last time.

Not to manipulate.

Not to trick.

But to end the fight.

Deep.

Deeper than before.

His presence fractured, leaving only his influence behind—just an echo in Riven’s subconscious.

Riven swung his blade, aiming to sever the last illusion—

But his own hands hesitated.

A flicker.

A delay.

Just enough.

Just a fraction of a second.

And Shylo exploited it.

His attack landed, striking Riven clean across the chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

For a moment—no one moved.

Then—Riven didn’t get up.

The crowd exploded.

The announcer stammered, then shouted—

"SHYLO WINS!"

The stadium erupted, cheers and disbelief clashing violently.

Shylo exhaled, his body barely holding together.

Riven lay still.

A battle won in control, but lost in execution.

Shylo staggered, barely standing.

But he had won.

And he had proved—

That control wasn’t just about precision.

It was about influence.

Shylo moved through the hallway, his mind still buzzing from the fight, the lingering tension of the lounge not far behind him.

Without realizing it—he stepped into the wrong waiting room.

The moment he entered, something felt off.

This wasn’t the room he had been assigned.

It was different.

Not the usual, standard competitor’s lounge—but something else entirely.

Luxury.

The walls gleamed, the furniture immaculate, the air thick with privilege.

The kids inside—all dressed in finer fabrics, their postures relaxed, their conversations effortless—paused, eyes flickering toward him with sharp curiosity.

Silence settled over the room.

Shylo didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He simply looked at them, and they looked back.

Then—one of the staff rushed forward.

"Ahem," the waiter said hastily, his tone just polite enough to mask his irritation. "This isn’t your waiting room."

Shylo blinked, realizing his mistake.

He said nothing.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t acknowledge their expressions.

Just turned—and left.

Behind him, he could feel their stares, their murmurs, the weight of their judgment pressing into his back.

He went the way he came.

Trying to remember where his room may be.