Chapter Text
The next tournament comes around in a blur of blood and exhaustion. He'd been given a break, two days before it, told to use it to recover so he could win.
He stands in line with his head held high, even as the cuts and bruises on his body itch and ache. He's really starting to rack them up, even though he does better in training now than he did at the beginning. He's not sure if he's gotten stronger or not, but his pain tolerance is definitely nothing to scoff at nowadays.
It doesn't matter. Royal guard or not, he'll win.
He readjusts his crown, and comes face to face with one of the tournament runners. He doesn't recognize them, but he's never really been good at faces.
They stare at each other, the air thickening with each passing second.
"You're not going to bar me," he says matter of factly, gripping his cape. "I'm the reigning champion."
They stare at him a couple moments longer before gesturing vaguely to the sign-in sheet. The teleportation star is draped around his neck as he writes his name happily. He doesn't even turn to look for her directions before he strolls into the lobby.
He makes a beeline for the armor and swords. The quicker he gets it on, the better. He's never felt safe cramped in this small room, surrounded by people itching to kill him. Especially not once the crown was placed on his head. Tournaments are an experience where he feels like it's him against the world, with the way people's eyes hungrily follow him.
It doesn't bother him. In fact, it fuels him. Their confidence and their hunger drive him, because he knows he can crush them all. He's done it multiple times before, and he'll do it again. And again and again and again.
Techno doesn't lose, and he doesn't die.
He hooks the armor on in silence.
Ten minutes later, he's standing in the arena once again. Something thrums in his veins, pounds in his pulse, aches in his bones. It's always there, but something about this arena fans that flame into a forest fire, burning underneath his skin. He craves.
His fingers twitch, and he grips his sword, feeling his hands sting from the blisters that coat his palms. It doesn't bother him.
He starts walking, hunting.
When a branch snaps, he immediately turns toward it. His shoulders almost tense, but he forces them to loosen, and rolls them once, twice. His eyes find a boy, probably just over 18, his arms shaky as he brandishes an axe.
Immediately, it's obvious that this is his first tournament. His limbs quiver and his eyes dart back and forth, too paranoid to focus on Techno watching through the bushes.
It's criminally easy, he thinks. It's so easy, the way his blade breaks the skin of the boy's neck in one fluid motion, and the first coat of blood covers his armor. He feels at home, as the boy falls to the ground. His body lingers only moments before it disappears altogether. He will respawn in moments, but those moments will feel like an eternity in that darkness.
Techno almost shudders.
Almost.
His fingers brush the blood on his blade, and he stares down at it, mesmerized.
He can't explain it; he can never explain it. Within him is something that calls for the blood, something that yearns for it. He doesn't know how to tell it no, not when he sets foot in this arena and his sword is in his hand. When it comes down to it, this lust controls him.
Sometimes he's okay with that. Others, he wonders where he went wrong.
Still, the urge coils around him, strangles him and pulls his arms and legs until he snaps with the force of it. He's thrown under once more, in an endless sea of red and black. He thrashes and churns, watches from far away as his body kills and kills. Again, he loses himself. Again, he is gone. Again, he does it again , because every part of him screams for it, so loud it can't be ignored, so powerful it overtakes him.
When he kills, it's like he's going through the motions, but it never becomes a chore. Every corpse flickering out of existence before him is one step closer to victory, to keeping the crown that rests on his head in its rightful place. The power that resides within him echoes, and he kills.
He kills like it's part of him, like he doesn't know how to do much else. He does nothing to silence the voices that whisper in his head, even if part of him locked deep inside him knows this isn't right.
Because it isn't right. He shouldn't kill for sport. Only bad people kill for sport, and he isn't a bad person. Is he?
But it makes him feel strong.
(Why?)
He loves the feeling of being feared.
(It's quite lonely. He's always been so alone.)
It's almost scary, the way his body takes over, muscle memory seizing him as he cuts through enemy after enemy. It's this, this feeling that constantly plagues him. Does he enjoy this, or does he despise it?
It depends. It depends, he thinks. It satisfies the whispers at the corners of his mind and satiates the ache deep in his bones. In so many ways, it just feels right.
Maybe that's why he never stops, he tells himself.
Anything but an admission that he truly enjoys this. Only bad people enjoy killing. He'll never be normal, but he's not a bad person.
(He's a bad person.)
The war rages on, background noise to the clanging of swords and the screams of others. He'd never fight his bloodlust. It makes him who he is, and that's okay.
(No…)
He's not doing anything wrong.
(But he is.)
He's powerful, and respected. No, not respected. But he's powerful nonetheless, and it's this fighting that makes him that way.
So he'll never give it up, not as long as he lives. He'll keep on fighting, and he'll keep on winning. It's all he has in this world, but there's nothing else he'd want more.
This is his destiny. This is who he is.
He doesn't hate it. Or so he tells himself.
The tournament ends in the same heavy way it always does, his sword hanging loosely in his hand as blood drips from the point. He takes a deep breath, and the feeling returns to his body slowly, until the aching and burning of his injuries make themselves known. His eyes open gradually, heart pounding steadily in his chest.
The blood soaks his clothes. A lot more of it is his this time around. He'd fumbled far too many times. But it doesn't matter; in the end, the golden crown remains propped upon his head, all his yet again. For some reason, it doesn't feel as great as it normally does.
Without looking, he knows Phil stands behind him. He turns around anyway, eyes locking with Phil's, daring him to say something.
Phil's brows furrow, wings twitching as he gazes at Techno with something like… disappointment. Techno can't look away. He feels cold, so, so cold, but he doesn't understand. This is what he's always done. What right does Phil have to be disappointed? He won. Shouldn't he be proud?
The look on Phil's face morphs into one of pleading. His words are unspoken, but still heard.
You can't keep doing this. Please, stop.
Techno scoffs, and pinches his brows together, eyes narrowed.
"Techno," Phil begs, eyes wide. "What am I going to do with you?"
He bumps into Phil as he walks past him. He doesn't bother apologizing. He's not even sorry in the first place.
Dinner is less of an event than he'd thought it would be. He shows up still blood-covered, too exhausted and hungry to clean himself. Tiredly, he cuts into his chicken, holding it still with his fork. The silver knife is cold in his hands. His grip tightens until his knuckles are white, and he places it down slowly.
The weight of his actions has finally settled in heavily upon his shoulders. The voices are quiet, but screams still echo loudly in his head. He quickly drops the knife, almost like it's scalded him, and twists his wrist, flexing his hand. He can't hold that right now, not when the blood still plagues the corners of his vision. He sees it everywhere: on his hands, on his utensils, on the others. He quivers like a leaf in the autumn wind, and he hopes no one noticed.
Everyone's eyes rest on him. No one is eating. Only the clang of his own utensils sounds throughout the dining hall. Their gazes burn, and he wonders what they're thinking.
Phil and Wilbur keep glancing back and forth at one another worriedly, like they care. They don't, Techno thinks. How could they? They practically just met him, and he's not exactly the most likeable kid.
Kid.
George, Sapnap, and Niki all stare at him with something like pity. He's stuck between accepting it and getting angry at it.
He can tell Dream has been staring at him wide-eyed, barely even blinking. Something about the boy's demeanor and body language makes it obvious he's in awe. The smiley mask doesn't hide it at all. Maybe it's the way his fingers dance, or his foot taps, like he's filled to the brim with questions and praises. His eyes haven't left Techno, not even once, Techno just knows. He wears the faintest of smiles, just the tiniest curl of his lips, visible just below his mask.
It makes Techno feel disgusting. He doesn't deserve that kind of admiration. He kills people. Dream isn't the type of person who kills people, Techno thinks. It hits him that the twisting of his stomach is jealousy.
He wishes he had the choice.
He thinks this, but if you asked him a couple hours earlier, he'd tell you the opposite. He'd tell you he loves this, relishes in the blood beneath his blade. The sad part is, he doesn't know which thought is true anymore.
Regardless, he eats his dinner in silence. He just pretends no one else is there, even if it doesn't work. The attention is blistering, suffocating . There's no way Techno couldn't notice it. Yet, no one speaks.
He feels like an animal at a zoo. It reminds him of old times. He squirms.
He tries not to rush his eating out of fear of looking too awkward, even though he is, and painfully so.
It's Phil that bothers him the most. His disappointment hurts so much that it's confusing. Techno has to wonder when he started caring so much about what Phil thinks.
With one last stab of his chicken, he finishes his dinner. He glances at Phil, who watches intently as he climbs to his feet. When he turns around and starts walking out of the room, he doesn't look back. In his wake he leaves a blood stained seat and distant, hushed whispers.
His room brings welcome solitude, the exhaustion of fighting sinking deep into his bones by the time he's made it upstairs and through his door.
He wonders if this room can really be called his. There's not a sign of him anywhere, not until he drops his cape on the floor.
He grips his crown, slowly lifting it from his head. It glitters golden in the dying sunlight, the jewels winking at him. His fingers tighten, and he furrows his brows, tossing it on the bed. Already he longs for the weight of it settled on his head.
When he sets foot in the shower, he makes a point to not look at the watered down blood washing down the drain. The water stings the slashes and cuts along his body. The pain is the only thing keeping him grounded.
Even then, he still drifts. Water runs in streams down his marked back, and he touches the lines along his arm. He aches deep in his gut, for what, he wishes he knew. His hand grips his wrist and squeezes, pulling him back to reality.
His head tilts to the ceiling.
What am I doing? He asks himself gently, arms wrapping around his body. His stomach twists, tying itself into knots. Why can't things just be easy?
He wishes for so much. He wishes he never came to this stupid castle, or this stupid city. He wishes he never met Wilbur, Dream, or Schlatt. He wishes he never met Phil . He wishes he wasn't a hybrid, he wishes he didn't have soulmates.
Sometimes, he just really wishes it would all stop.
It never does.