Malik's head tumbled through the air, severed clean, blood fanning outward in a graceful, high arc. The droplets caught the arena lights like scattered rubies, shimmering as they curved through open space.
For a breathless moment, the world held its breath.
The silence, fractured the instant Alex's blade had struck, now stretched into something unnatural—time itself felt suspended, frozen around the grisly display. Malik's head turned end over end midair, like a grotesque coin caught in slow motion.
Then—everything changed.
It stopped.
The blood mid-flight didn't fall. It ignited.
Not like fire licking dry wood, but like will made manifest. Like the soul behind it refused to die.
Each crimson droplet recoiled, yanked backward in defiance of gravity, as if flame itself was calling its master home. The arc reversed, snapping inward like molten elastic rewinding.
