There was initially silence—thick, suffocating silence—as those who had survived the Trickster God's reality-warping ability now stared at him with unmistakable terror in their eyes. To them, he was no longer a man.
He was a demon.
They had mocked him, scorned him, laughed at his appearance. And now, they watched in stunned disbelief as bodies without heads bled into the sands of the colosseum—proof of a power that defied all logic, all law, all cultivation.
They had never imagined that the seemingly ordinary man—no grand armour, no glowing aura, no celestial weapons—could possess such authority over life and sanity. His coat, dark and frayed, moved like it carried the whispers of another realm. His eyes—deep, bottomless voids—reflected nothing but themselves. Abyss upon abyss.
A father, who had earlier warned his eager son not to even come to this gathering in the first place let alone goad the newcomer, now stood frozen—as his gaze landed on the headless body of the boy, slumped awkwardly over the stone bench.
A strangled sound escaped his lips. He stumbled forward and fell to his knees, clutching the still-warm corpse of his child. His scream tore through the colosseum with the raw pain of a soul breaking in half.
Another cry followed—from a girl whose mother had thrown a jest at the Trickster earlier. She now held the collapsed body of her mother in her arms, her sobs choking her as she rocked the body, muttering apologies between breaths she could barely take.
And like a switch had been flipped, the pain began to spread—one cry after another as they discovered the bodies of their headless loved ones.
Wails of grief swept the colosseum in waves.
Men and women fell over their loved ones. Some cursed the trickster god but not openly. Others begged for forgiveness, or simply stared into nothing, lost in trauma too deep for tears.
They had thought they were safe under the stability of Emperor Groa Aratat. For years, Groa had ruled with a cold but measured hand. Even when he was at his worst, his madness had boundaries—walls they had learned to avoid.
So they assumed they could treat the newcomer the same way.
But now… they understood.
They had extended their disdain too far.
They had mocked something ancient. Something wrong. They had toyed with a storm wearing the skin of a man.
The Trickster God watched the spectacle with idle amusement, his fingers gently brushing the rim of his coat like he was straightening wrinkles in a play costume. Then he let out a light laugh—low and chilling.
"If you don't stop weeping like babies," he said, his voice laced with derision, "you'll join the dead…"
He paused, his eyes drifting lazily over the mass of the broken crowd.
"…Or perhaps," he added with a grin, "you don't mind if I send you on your way?"
Silence returned—immediate, crushing silence.
It fell over the colosseum like a lead curtain. The cries halted mid-breath. Even the wind dared not stir. Some covered their mouths to muffle sobs. Others simply shut their eyes tight and trembled, hoping not to draw attention.
And yet, amidst the horror, there was a strange flicker of relief among the upper echelon of the gathering.
The nobles.
The generals.
The princes and princesses.
The empresses.
The concubines draped in glittering robes.
The foreign dignitaries and heads of distant houses.
For once, they were all thankful for their arrogance. Thankful that their pride had kept them aloof, silent, refusing to mingle with the common rabble who had dared mock a stranger.
Because had they joined in the chorus of insults earlier...
They would now be corpses in elegant robes, their jewels soaked in blood.
A silent truth began to settle in each of their minds:
Sometimes, arrogance is not a flaw—it's a shield.
The Trickster God turned his attention to the central platform once more. His hands folded behind his back, and his expression settled into something unreadable—half-amused, half-bored, as if he was waiting for someone to step forward and make the next mistake.
But no one moved.
And then, he spoke again, voice calm and curious, as if none of the chaos had happened.
"So… now that the noise is gone, where were we?"
His voice was casual, almost warm. As though he were picking up a friendly conversation that had been rudely interrupted by an outbreak of mass death.
No one answered.
Even if the question hadn't been rhetorical, not a single soul in the colosseum dared open their mouth. Responding to a deranged lunatic who laughed while exploding heads was a gamble none were willing to take.
The Trickster God tilted his head with mock disappointment.
"Ah, yes…" he murmured, dragging his words like paint across an empty canvas. "I wanted to postpone mortal combat till later… give the occasion a proper stage, a bit of ceremony…"
He let out a sigh that was too theatrical to be sincere.
"But now," he continued, stretching his arms behind his back in a lazy yawn, "your actions have left me bored. I need something to stir up my excitement."
His grin returned, wider this time, and far more dangerous.
The crowd exchanged uneasy glances, their gazes shifting between each other and the unnervingly calm god before them. What did he mean by "mortal combat"? Who would fight? Who would survive?
Even Emperor Groa Aratat narrowed his eyes. Though seated on his elevated throne, flanked by his elite guards—none of whom looked eager to draw their weapons—he leaned forward with sharp, cautious interest. Whatever the Trickster was about to do, it would be important.
And then… the Trickster reached into the folds of his swirling coat.
A soft rustle.
Then a dull thump as he dropped a bag onto the stone floor.
The sound was not particularly loud, but it echoed unnaturally through the entire colosseum—like it had weight beyond its mass. Like it held echoes of suffering past, present, and yet to come.
From a distance, the bag looked almost unassuming in its shape—no larger than a market tote, with sagging sides that hinted at something inside.
But no one was fooled.
The moment it touched the ground, a wave of unease washed over the crowd.
Because the bag… was wrong.
It was made of a fabric none could name, a deep, shadowy purple that seemed to absorb light instead of reflecting it. Even more disturbing were the markings on its surface—arcane sigils, symbols from dead languages, celestial glyphs that weren't just etched, but alive. They slithered and shifted across the fabric like insects beneath translucent skin, rearranging themselves constantly as if responding to the ambient fear in the air.
It didn't belong to this world.
Not even to this realm.
Everyone stared—wide-eyed, breath held—at the bag.
They didn't know why they couldn't look away. It was just a bag, wasn't it?
And yet, something in their bones told them that what rested inside was not meant to exist here.
Not in their empire.
Not on their plane.
Not in the hands of any sane being.
Even the wind grew still.
A child whimpered.
And across the sea of trembling nobles, stunned generals, pale princesses, and sweating priests, only one question rippled in their minds:
What in the name of all realms is inside that bag?
Everyone watched, crying and silent, their eyes glued to the dark tote… waiting. Wondering.
Dreading.