The Trickster God let out a pleased hum as he snapped his fingers, and—just like that—a plush, velvet throne burst into existence behind him, complete with golden trim and a backrest that stretched far above his own head like the arch of a crown. He threw himself onto the chair with the giddy delight of a child settling in for a puppet show.
"Oh, this is going to be deliciously fun," he chuckled, kicking his feet up and conjuring a goblet filled with something that shimmered between fire and ice.
As if on cue, a deafening metallic groan echoed through the Colosseum. A massive iron gate at the far end creaked open, revealing darkness—until something emerged from within.
Agra the Giant.
He did not walk. He thudded. Each step landed like a siege weapon pounding against the earth. Towering over the tallest man by several heads, Agra's skin looked carved from stone, veins like snakes wrapping around bulging muscles. Chains crisscrossed his body, binding his arms, his neck, even his jaw with iron restraints. Yet even bound, he radiated danger—the kind that made the bravest warriors grip their weapons tighter without realizing it.
The guards escorting him forward looked like they were escorting a live volcano. One of them was visibly sobbing, while another had already pissed himself. They walked faster than they should have, eyes constantly flicking to the side to avoid Agra's wrathful, half-lidded glare.
And yet, the Trickster God was in heaven.
He clapped once. Twice. Then again, faster and louder. His eyes sparkled as if someone had just handed him the climax of a long-anticipated tragedy.
"Ahhh… Agra the Colossus, the man-mountain, the emperor's living sledgehammer. I always said you had terrible taste, Groa, but damn if it isn't entertaining!" He cackled, licking his lips. "Now this… this is proper theatre."
Suddenly, Naze felt something loosen. The invisible walls of the tote's magical barrier, which had held every one of the Black Dragon army members in place, no longer held sway over him.
He took a step forward.
Though blind, Naze didn't falter. His bare feet made no sound. He didn't need to see the battlefield to read it—he felt the heat of breath, the rhythm of footsteps, the rise and fall of tension in the air. His instincts sang like tuning forks as he walked forward, his twin swords sheathed at his back.
The people began to murmur. Then cheer. Then erupt.
"Naze! Naze!"
He wasn't just a warrior—he was a symbol. A folk hero. A ghost who hunted in silence. He had fought for the people when no one else would. He had stood beside Josh Aratat and bore the banner of the Black Dragon army without ever asking for fame.
Now, he stood alone. And yet, for many watching, he was all of them.
The Trickster God lazily flicked his wrist again, and a glowing circular platform rose from the earth at the center of the Colosseum. It hovered a few feet above the ground, crystalline and shimmering, surrounded by runes none could read.
"Welcome… to my arena," the Trickster God whispered gleefully. "No rules. No mercy. First to beg dies last."
Emperor Groa Aratat, now leaning forward in his own less-grand but still imperial seat, had a grin he hadn't worn in years. The thought of Naze—this rebel darling, this blind revolutionary—being flattened by Agra like a bug made his heart pound with anticipation.
His advisors exchanged glances of concern, but Groa waved them off.
"Let him taste what true power looks like," Groa murmured under his breath, eyes locked on Naze. "Let them all see what happens to those who dare defy the crown."
Naze reached the platform. He paused, tilted his head slightly… and smiled faintly.
Then Agra stepped up—shaking the platform with every step. His chains rattled. His mouth curled into something like a grin, though it looked more like a threat.
The crowd fell silent.
The Trickster God rose halfway from his throne—a lazy, half-interested motion laced with mischief—and whispered into the wind with an eerie resonance that seemed to bounce off the bones of the ancient colosseum.
"Let the games… begin."
A tremor passed through the gathered crowd. The atmosphere had grown thick, heavy with tension. Dust swirled unnaturally in the air, reacting almost like it, too, heard the command.
Two guards approached Agra the Giant with extreme hesitation, their hands visibly shaking as they reached for the chains. There was a silence so profound, even the birds that had circled overhead moments ago had fled.
Agra stood still, the chains coiled around him like sleeping snakes—one around his massive neck, another across his bulging wrists, one binding his waist, and the final looped tight around each ankle. His body, nearly twice the height of an average man, bore scars like cracks in stone. He was oddly still, his face impassive, yet something in the tension of his muscles warned of the storm coiled beneath the surface.
Clink. One chain fell.
Clink. Another.
Then came the third.
As the final chain clattered against the marble of the stage, Agra's hand darted forward with terrifying speed, faster than anyone would've expected for a creature his size. He grabbed one of the guards—a lean young man with no more than a decade of experience—and hoisted him effortlessly by the neck.
The boy's feet kicked in the air, his scream muffled by the sudden crush of fingers.
Crack.
The Trickster God laughed in glee as the guard's skull exploded like a melon beneath the pressure of Agra's casual squeeze. Blood sprayed across the floor in a ghastly arc, painting a red smile across the colosseum's platform.
The other guards didn't wait for permission or decorum. They scattered like spooked rodents, slipping and tripping over themselves as they darted off the stage, pushing each other in blind panic. One even dropped his spear as he ran. No one dared look back.
Agra stood there, arm still outstretched, dropping the lifeless body like it was nothing more than a broken toy. He turned his head slowly, sniffing the air as if searching for prey, then cracked his neck with a bone-jarring pop.
But across the stage, Naze didn't flinch.
The blind archer and swordsman stood perfectly still, staff in hand, eyes white and empty but face as calm as a monk's. The barrier had allowed him to walk through while the others remained trapped—perhaps a cruel joke from the Trickster God, or perhaps something else entirely.
He could feel the crowd holding their breath, thousands of people silently watching him. He could feel the rage of the emperor, the glee of the Trickster, and the raw bloodlust emanating from Agra like a furnace. But he didn't move. Didn't tremble.
Instead, he bowed his head slightly and murmured under his breath, "Even a mountain bleeds, if you know where to strike."
It was one of Josh Aratat's favorite lines—one of many philosophies he'd taught those who followed him. Naze remembered his voice vividly, as if the words had just left Josh's lips.
"Every man can achieve anything, no matter how insurmountable, if his courage is as big as his will."
He gripped the hilt of his blade, feeling the smooth, familiar grooves, and the subtle vibration of the arena under his feet. He could hear the distant whisper of the wind curling around Agra's fists. He could hear the heavy breaths of the colossus. Most importantly, he could hear the doubts—buried deep in the hearts of the spectators, in the emperor, even faintly in Agra himself.
Naze didn't need eyes to see his path. He needed only courage, instinct—and the silence between heartbeats.