The Trickster God touched a symbol etched faintly at the side of the tote. It shimmered for a moment—then with a soft whoosh, the sides fell away like silk curtains dropping after a play, revealing the trapped figures inside.
There they stood—Josh Aratat's personal battalion. His elites. His shadow: the 2,500 warriors who had once laid siege to mountains and walked unscathed through fire. Generals, captains, mages, tacticians—every one of them handpicked and forged through hellish drills.
And now, they were prisoners.
None of it would have been possible, not even for a god like him, had Lola not faltered.
The Trickster God had always had a number of weaknesses—one of which was unyielding conviction.
And Lola had that in abundance. She had stood before him like an unmovable pillar, her will blazing with purpose, with faith in Josh, in their cause, in his love for her.
But all it took was a sliver of doubt.
Just one whisper.
One of his twisted riddles—so subtle, so sly—that it wrapped around her mind like a vine, tightening slowly until her certainty began to wither.
""You were always his number one, weren't you? Or so you believed. But what if you weren't? What if you were just… convenient?" His voice slithered into her ears, bypassing logic and drilling into the core of her convictions.
It broke her.
Her spirit trembled.
And with that one crack in her armour, the Trickster God slipped in—and shattered the rest. Not just her, but every other soldier within reach of her magical field. They all fell like dominoes.
Now, she stood at the front of the tote's magical barrier, inside a space folded away from reality, the others lined up behind her—silent, confused, some even wounded.
From her position, Lola could see the crowd, their faces twisted with curiosity and fear. She could see the Trickster God laughing like a drunk lunatic at a funeral. And she hated him for it.
But more than him, she hated herself.
One second. That was all it took. One second of weakness.
Her fists clenched, knuckles pale. The words she wanted to scream stuck in her throat. The guilt was louder than any insult.
"So…" the Trickster God purred, spreading his arms wide with theatrical glee, "do you like the gift I brought?"
The colosseum was quiet. Confused murmurs filled the space like rising mist. Most of the spectators didn't understand what they were looking at. To them, the figures inside the glowing barrier were just strangers, frozen in time.
Until one voice rang out.
"Wait a minute… isn't that—Lola? That's General Lola! From the Black Dragon base!"
Another voice joined almost instantly, more frantic now. "And that's Conrad Stan! That's Commander Stan! What is this—what's happening?!"
Realization spread like wildfire.
And with it, panic.
The trickster god laughed even louder as the crowd started to piece things together. The realization swept through the colosseum like a cold wind—these weren't just any prisoners. These were the elite. The very backbone of Josh Aratat's feared Black Dragon forces, now standing trapped like relics in a magical display case, courtesy of the most deranged god in existence.
He threw his arms wide, spinning slowly with a grin that could split the sky.
"So! From now on, we shall have combat games!" His voice boomed, laced with mischief, delight, and a sick sense of theatrical flair. He paused mid-turn, his gaze locking onto Lola, who clearly stood out as the symbol of the group's dignity and strength, especially with Josh Aratat missing.
"Choose your champion…" he said lightly, with the mocking cadence of someone announcing the rules of a twisted carnival game.
Then, like a child hopping from one toy to the next, he turned to the emperor seated on his trembling throne.
"Groa! You too… choose your champion."
The colosseum was dead silent. Lola clenched her fists tightly. Her breathing was even, but her rage was coiled like a spring inside her chest. She knew the trickster god—how quickly he could flip from jest to death, from 0 to 100 like flipping a coin. And with that many lives behind her, she couldn't risk a reckless move. She stepped forward, her voice about to rise.
But another voice beat her to it.
"I will go and represent the Black Dragon army."
Heads turned like falling dominoes. All eyes locked on the one who spoke—and gasps rippled through the spectators like thunder on still water. It was Naze. The blind shot. The sword dancer without sight. A living legend forged in darkness.
Though he'd lost his eyes, his other senses were so sharp, people swore he could hear your heartbeat—and kill you between its skips. Naze didn't need to see his opponents; he needed to hear their hesitation, to smell their fear.
"Naze…" Lola whispered, her voice thick with emotion and fear.
"Don't worry… I'll be fine, Cap," he said calmly. Confidently. As if the weight of what was coming didn't bother him in the slightest. He stepped toward the edge of the magical tote's barrier, his fingers trailing lightly along it like he could already feel the battlefield ahead.
The trickster god clapped again, his laughter now a wild crescendo. "Oooh! The blind guy has guts! I love this already!"
Then he pivoted like a dancer spinning into a new act and pointed toward Emperor Groa. "Hahahaha… Now, Groa! Your turn."
Emperor Groa's fingers twitched on the armrest of his throne. His jaw clenched. He looked at Lola—looked past her, really—and what he saw brought out something bitter.
Josh Aratat and his people had made him look weak. Their rebellion, their valour, the love the public had for them—it all gnawed at him. He hadn't stopped their rise. He hadn't squashed their fame. Now, here they were again, threatening to become the heroes of another chapter. But not this time.
This time, he would twist the knife.
"I choose… Agra the Giant," Groa said, his voice thick with venom and dark satisfaction.
Gasps swept the arena again.
Agra the Giant. The emperor's personal monster. A beast of a man, eight feet tall, with skin like bark and fists like iron anvils. Agra didn't fight to win—he fought to break.
Even the trickster god looked momentarily impressed. "Ohoho! Now that's interesting…"
The crowd braced. A blind legend against a walking mountain. This was no longer just a game. This was going to be a massacre—or a miracle.