Anticipation hung thick in the air as the combatants for the first semifinal match took their places on the blood-stained sands below.
Champion Maximus strode through the crowd, garnering heads to turn and whispers to rise as he passed. He had a proud gait, as if the weight of his gold armor was meaningless to him. His head was held high above them all with eyes that blazed brighter than any other in their presence; those same eyes seemed ancient and wise - aged by years beyond reckoning yet still retaining a tinge of youthful exuberance.
He carried twin hammers looped over his shoulders which shone like stars against the sun-lit sky: metallic heads adorned by leather straps for further control of their devastating force when thrown from afar.
Opposite awaited wraith-like Jorath, the mystery exile who had become tournament sensation and bane to the honor of mighty Albion.
None could predict what spectacular drama may unfold, but all shared breathless certainty that this destined duel would imprint boldly across tournament annals for years hence. Keros gazed down, bitterness warring with grudging admiration for the apex warriors soon to clash. Would he someday stand so too before oceanic multitudes awaiting engraved fates?
Piercing horns sliced tension. Both surged forth heedless, twin hammer and blade and deadly scythe blade whistling in bloodthirsty swings. Yet blistering salvos found only air. Jorath flowed between punctuating blows with preternatural fluidity, poisoned short blades slicing shallow gashes in riposte whenever the titan overextended. Back and forth they traded blistering offense and artful evasion.
To the common spectator, the melee appeared evenly matched between towering brawn and quicksilver agility. But Keros noted how Maximus failed to fully press advantages presented, how the spray of wounds inflicting increasing toll on Jorath came spaced farther between. Veteran instincts warned that Maximus fought well below full capacity for reasons opaque. This contest was but rehearsal drama preceding true clash of will and mettle.
Jorath could not read the restraint of his opponent behind their inscrutable mask. He responded by intensifying his attacks, striking repeatedly in an attempt to break through their defences before their energy ran out. It was pure folly to continue standing there, trying to dig away the sand instead of give in and be washed away by the force of nature.
Keros gazed in awe at the majestic and deadly dance below. To watch such a feat, so close to being the greatest accomplishment, seemed like life had been distilled to its purest form. In that fleeting trial of wills, nothing else existed. Knowing the end results didn't take away from the majesty of the battle taking place before his eyes.
In a sudden blur of motion, the dance-like movements ended. Maximus quickly took advantage of an opening to hit Jorath's guard, taking a cut but not slowing down his dominant second strike. The blow reverberated through the arena as it sent Jorath's body crashing into the ground. Blood spilled out from where broken pieces of his clavicle had burst through his leather straps and armor padding.
Death was a mere breath away. But Maximus remained unmoved, ignoring standard protocol for broken birds that still flapped their useless wings in the dust. Some code of calculation, above battlefield conventions, governed the champion's mercy as he stepped back bowed and expectant for his overwhelmed foe to deliver the death blow with their own bloodied weapon. The howling crowd craved resolution so close at hand.
Jorath's knees held by sheer will, though broken and battered. He managed to grab his trusty scimitar from its resting place with nothing but a burning passion to accept his destiny and meet the same end with honor. Without hesitation he charged forward, an unleashed force of potential heading for either greatness or a welcome release in death. There was no longer any room for mediocrity on the wide expanse before them, as countless eyes were upon him.
Three unsteady steps later, Jorath's impressive charge was futilely stopped by the impenetrable Maximus. The blade flew away and the shatter of its hilt echoed in the gravel as Maximus pinned Jorath down, crushing him into the unyielding ground like an avalanche. Life wavered in his racked lungs that could no longer draw breath. His agonizing defeat taught him a lesson that etched itself into his quivering flesh: no heights could be reached without facing.
When the moment of truth came, the colosseum was deathly silent. Maximus engaged Jorath with mercy and dispatch, a far cry from the lengthy, public torture his defeat would have otherwise entailed. The end came swiftly and without much bloodshed; only a practiced headsman's swing was needed. As he passed on from this life, no one seemed to take note of it beyond some mumbled indifference - fame's rewards were fleeting and ever-changing in this capricious
Seconds of silence blanketed the arena before a thunderous roar of applause shook the very stones. Maximus rose, bloody yet unbowed, still towering and indomitable, unaware to all adulation. Keros watched as the champion's distant back receded through the tunnel's maw, already detached from such superficial praises. He was a breed apart hewn from different principles which Keros sensed but could not comprehend. All his childish ambitions to equal such greatness appeared foolish today; life.
When new challengers stepped up to compete, Keros watched indifferently. The only thing that made an impact on his disenchanted mind was the drastic differences between the two - one a towering horned demon bristling with jagged steel, and the other small in size but seemingly swimming in midnight robes, their hands and features concealed within sleeves that whispered of secrets from mysterious eastern mountains where deception and slyness were seen as high arts.
As the fights progressed towards their gruesome conclusions, there was no surprise at the outcomes anymore, just a resigned acknowledgement that Vladimir had been favored by fate this day as he always had. When Nero dropped to the ground, his body twitching and his clothes drenched in blood, it momentarily shocked everyone present before they realized what they already knew - that strength will prevail while those who are weak are forgotten like leaves blown away with the first gusts of a cold autumn wind.
Keros exited the arena before monsoon dam burst. Behind him, multitudes screamed desperate acclamation at Maximus' imminent dominion reestablished absolute. Their euphoria battered callous against fragile sprites once held dear now scattered careless before fate and fervor's pounding hammers. What shapes meaning took became oblique accelerating distant through hazed thought. Adrift outside the arena torrents, no currents existed to latch for purpose or principles bled out remnants. Strange loops cycled lackadaisical through increasing fog - a scrawny street waif's dirt-smudged urchin face momentarily recollected innocence tattered unsentimental by flash flood memories' cold indifference much like Ramonite guard...
Somewhere far removed, unseen gears churned unceasing. As Myrtana's distant icy warrior Ragon's calloused fist clenched triumphant hearing echoes fateful transferred eastwards, pretty Avita too glimpsed through silken veils extended possibilities outlaid requiring but deft plucks prompting ripened fruit to tumble decentralized....
The final act stood poised for overture's orchestration awaiting expert stick liftoff. Blind tragedy now marched on hurried timetable towards all held dear unwarned. Destiny ordained what always was meant to unfold waited.