This is a standalone chapter from Zyphar Chronicles I: The Becoming.
Carefully refined so it can be read without any prior knowledge of the storyline. You’re invited to read it here, freely.

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We traveled farther than I ever imagined—the furthest distance of my life. I saw that the city had bridges between life and luxury, though visitors were only allowed to roam the luxury sector. The rest was reserved for service staff.

We arrived in the morning. I expected to see natives bustling into their daily routines. But no—everyone was still asleep, tucked into their comfort.

“Luxury needs a dark background, brother. That’s why everything starts after dusk here,” said the seasoned wolf.

It felt strange to me, but I can adapt to systems built for reasons. We roamed the city first—just to get a grip on where things stood. Its streets were made for wandering. There were monuments built from pride, temples carved out of grief, and roller coasters designed for deception.

Anything a man could desire, if indulgence was the goal.

“The curves of lust,” said the seasoned wolf, “you’ll see those in the evening, brother.”

“I’ve guided a lot of tourists through here. And that’s always the first thing they ask. So I’m telling you now—before you even have to.”

I smiled at him.

Really? You think I need to bend…or blend…into those curves?

“Nope. I know you’re not that kind,” he said.

“But the curve must taste your blade, bro. We’re all curious to see the thing bleed that bled us for so long.”

They all laughed—the whole wolf gang.

And I understood.

Whatever it was they meant…it had cost them something.

And now, they were thrilled to have me. To strike back.

The city was divided into vivid regions—some with rivers, gardens, even jungles. But most of it was built for indulgence. Man-made luxury, polished temptation. Just as I’d seen earlier.

I had already formed a map of it in my mind. There wasn’t much left to explore.

So we headed back to the camp.

To the Predator’s Arena.

The seasoned wolf introduced me. Pride swelling in his chest.

“Finally, we came with our hero—Zyphar Animas, Slayer of the Six. We expect a grand victory this time.”

“You’re welcome to be spectators—if you’d like your names written on any corner of history.”

That felt too loud. But the wolf gang liked the sound of it. Their leader’s words fed something in them.

Some of the predators came forward—gripping my hand with force, faces lit with respect.

Others didn’t speak. They burned quietly in their jealousy.

As the sun began to set in the west, everyone seemed busy—readying their sharpest blades, dressing in costumes that matched their pride.

The wolves were shining like the full moon. Only then did I understand what the seasoned wolf meant about the power of a dark background.

With the light fading, the city began to glow in vivid colors—luxuries even the eye could barely believe. The seasoned wolf came to me and said:

“You need to get a costume, brother.”

“You are one of us by expertise and instinct—but still, you’re not a wolf by nature. So get a costume that matches your presence.”

He had every right to say that.

I wasn’t a wolf—neither in appearance nor in nature.

Before I was titled Zyphar, I was simply Animas.

A common man, with nothing to do in this world except suffer to fulfill the need. That was the past.

Now, as the Slayer of Six, the weapon I had earned were too heavy to carry—and maybe even too frightening for others to see. I nodded to the seasoned wolf and left to find a costume I liked. They would be waiting for me at the Arena—when I arrived prepared to fall into the Trap, for the first time.

I headed to the nearest costume store, found a piece I thought would suit me, and came back without wasting much time.

The Arena lit up mostly in yellowish red—the highest grade of color the city could offer. As the tone scaled down toward the competitors, the lighting shifted deeper into red. And when they began to lose, it turned back toward yellow again.

The seasoned wolf greeted me with his attack jaw wide open in joy as I stepped into the Arena. He said:

“You nailed it, bro. Costume of a king who decided to let the crown rest for a while — yet everyone still knows who he is.”

“A perfect match for our hero. And a perfect vibe for this Arena. Let me guide you to choose a Trap.”

The wolf gang walked beside us as we made our way through. They were showing me the Traps. Some of them were expensive—far beyond anything I was willing to spend.

Some were cheap. Used once in a while then forgotten.

The seasoned wolf leaned toward me and said:

“Just get a cheap Trap, bro. You don’t need glory. You only need the mark—to show that you’ve been here too.”

“You’re already the Slayer of the Six. No glory can match that title. So I say pick the simplest, most outdated Trap they’ve got.”

I knew what he meant. And I knew he was right.

I didn’t come to add another crown.

I came for the experience. So I agreed.

I chose the first Trap—the cheapest and most outdated one in the Arena. The wolves erupted in cheers, howling loud enough to rattle the pillars. The other predators only watched in silence, faces drawn in pity. They were certain we’d win. Even a novice, they believed, could escape that old Trap.

The rules were simple. You pick a Trap, pay its price, and step inside. From that moment, the Trap would do its part—try to hold you as long as it could.

Your part was to get out before the final bell rang. That’s it.

Escape in time, and the tattoo is yours—marked on the face. Any past glory is added to that mark, burned into its edges like a crown welded to a scar.

That’s what would certify me as a global elite.

That’s why the wolf gang was so loud.

So I let them cheer — and I stepped inside the Trap.

It was dark. Not hollow, but waiting.

By the rules, I had to enter naked. Inside that Trap, no God or devil could interfere. A man had to make it out on his own.

Inside, I saw the Trap sitting there in silence. Not even trying to tempt me. Not interested in tricks. Just waiting.

I walked toward it, observing every mask it wore—each one designed to lure and capture the unready.

So many of them. But none applied to me.

I could’ve slipped out of any of those without even blinking.

Then the Trap began to speak.

“There’s no point, Zyphar. No mask I have can hold your attention. I’m the most outdated one. Not even worth trying.”

“Why waste the effort? I’ve got nothing left to lose. So go—take the mark you need to prove your glory. I don’t want you to win, but I can’t stop you either.”

I listened. Then looked deeper—at all the other masks the Trap had set aside.

One of them, hidden in the farthest corner, stirred something I hadn’t felt in years.

It carried the face of a boy—innocent and helpless, left behind by his father, and raised by a mother who struggled alone beneath the weight of a world that never showed mercy.

I stared at it, wondering—how could this be deception?

What kind of trick was this supposed to be?

Masks are meant to be alluring—crafted to catch the eye, to tempt the lustful, to seduce the weak.

But this one had nothing. Just the quiet, defeated face of someone who had already lost everything.

So I asked the Trap about it. It smiled and whispered to me —

“I could tell you, Zyphar. But I’m the cheapest mask, remember? My time’s almost up. Please leave now.”

“The bell could ring any second.”

Not yet. Not until I understand what I came here to find.

Tell me about that boy. Don’t worry about the time.

The Trap was just about to speak—when the bell rang.

Game over. I lost. I was pulled from the trap in an instant.

The wolf gang stood in silence.

The arena froze. Then the ruler declared—“Zyphar Animas, Slayer of the Six, Friend of One—has failed his first attempt.”

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If it speaks to you, and you wish to continue, the next chapter is waiting. You can read it by clicking here.

And if the story leaves a mark on you, please feel free to leave a comment and share what it stirred in you.

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~ From Zyphar Chronicles I: The Becoming
This chapter is offered as a standalone reading experience from the upcoming literary saga, Zyphar Chronicles I: The Becoming. It speaks of no ordinary conflict — but of a man cast into a world ruled by unseen laws, faceless power, and systems that feed on silence.

Here, Zyphar walks into the nameless, into a city that demands worth before offering shelter. What follows is a confrontation not with enemies, but with the structure itself — a mirror of our world, sharpened by metaphor and truth.

This is only the beginning.
Follow this page to receive free chapter drops, unreleased insights, and behind-the-flame commentary as the story unfolds.
The fire remembers. And so must we.