3307

The crimson sky of SFOTH IV hung low and heavy, like a wound that refused to heal. It bled its sickly glow over the floating islands, mirroring the molten ring of fire that churned far below. The usual chaos was in full swing—blades clashing, players scrambling across wobbling planks, the desperate shuffle of footsteps on platforms that could vanish at any second. Another day, another bloodbath on the Heights.

But for 3307, it was never just another day. It was a performance. A ritual. And he always had the best seat in the house.

From his perch atop a crumbling stone pillar near the edge of the map, he watched the main ring with the patience of a spider. His ashen-gray body was almost invisible against the muted stone—save for the dark red, spiked halo that pulsed faintly above his head, and the tattered black wings that drooped uselessly behind him. They couldn't carry him to the skies, but they gave him an aura of something fallen. Something that had once been divine and had chosen to crawl through the mud instead.

Below, the main platform was alive with violence. Two players—one in bright blue, one in crimson—were locked in a brutal dance. Their swords sang against each other, sparks flying with every parry. A small crowd of spectators gathered on adjacent islands, cheering and jeering, hungry for a finish. The red player was faster, more aggressive. He feinted left, then drove his blade through the blue player's chest. The body collapsed into a shower of gray blocks, and the victor raised his weapon high, roaring in triumph.

The crowd erupted.

And then, silence.

It wasn't the kind of silence that comes from peace. It was the silence of anticipation. The victorious player froze mid-cheer, his head swiveling nervously. He scanned the platforms above him, the empty bridges, the shadows between pillars. Something was wrong. The air itself felt heavier.

And then he saw it. A distortion in the air near the edge of the ring—a shimmer, like heat rising from stone. The unmistakable ripple of an invisibility cloak wearing off.

3307 materialized from nothing, landing silently on the stone floor just a few feet behind his prey. His movements were fluid, unnatural for a block-bodied being, as though gravity was merely a suggestion to him. He hadn't fallen—he had descended. Like a thought made flesh. Like a bad dream you didn't know you were having.

The victor spun around, panic flashing in his eyes. He raised his sword, but 3307 didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head, the spiked halo catching the red light, and smiled a crooked, almost affectionate smile.

— You fought well, he murmured, his voice low and smooth like grinding stone. It's a pity... I was rooting for the other one. He had better form. More fear in his eyes. That's what I look for.

The player lunged forward, desperate and wild. A last-ditch strike meant to cleave 3307 in two. It was fast—but not fast enough.

3307 sidestepped with a lazy grace, and in the same motion, his hand closed around the hilt of one of the two black swords at his waist. The blade came free with a whisper, dark and stained with old blood—blood that had long since dried into the metal like rusted poetry. He didn't block. He didn't parry. He simply moved through the attack, and the fight was over before the other player could even register the shift.

One clean stroke. Precise. Almost tender.

The victor's body froze mid-swing, then crumpled into pieces, scattering across the stone like broken pottery. His sword clattered to the ground beside him, still humming with the echo of his final blow.

3307 stood over the remains, his blade dripping fresh crimson onto the ancient stone. He sheathed it slowly, deliberately, savoring the sound of metal against leather. Then he glanced up—not at the crowd, not at the next opponent, but at the red sky above. As if offering a prayer to no one.

Later The fire ring flooded with players again. It was rather chaotic. 3307 was again standing on the floating platform, where below it was the ring. He simply watched, ready to jump off to kill.