Agra the Giant charged forward with thunderous force, his massive feet pounding the arena floor like war drums. Dust flared beneath each step as the earth groaned under his weight. His plan was simple: end the battle quickly, use the element of surprise, and crush Naze before the blind swordsman even sensed danger. He roared—a deep, guttural growl that rattled the bones of those in the stands—and launched his full weight forward like a wrecking ball let loose.
But Agra's assumption was fatally flawed.
Naze, despite the pale fog of blindness that had veiled his eyes for years, didn't need to see. He could hear the shift in the air pressure, the faint crunch of dust under a heel, and even the minute change in the scent of the colosseum as Agra's brute force displaced the very atmosphere. These were the senses he had trained since boyhood. These were the lessons passed down from the black dragon himself, Josh Aratat.
As Agra's titanic hand sliced forward, Naze tilted his head just slightly, then glided sideways with the elegance of a falling petal. Agra's blow sliced through nothing but air—his momentum carrying him forward, his confusion multiplying. Naze had moved so effortlessly it looked as though the wind itself had whispered him away.
The crowd gasped.
Agra stopped and blinked, genuinely confused. His wide shoulders heaved, chest rising with fury as he spun around, scanning wildly even though he knew his opponent couldn't see. And yet, here he was—dodging like a phantom. It was unsettling.
From the dignitary booth, Prince Balek sat with unshaken poise, his eyes vacant of emotion. Even the Trickster God's presence at his flank didn't ripple his calm. He leaned back slightly, wine untouched, watching the match unfold as if it were a puppet show with predictable strings.
Beside him stood Amiel Racta—his once celebrated general, now disgraced. Though he had tasted defeat at the hands of the black dragon's army, his hatred for them had not dulled one bit. If anything, it had grown sharper.
He leaned in toward Balek and whispered, "My Prince… who do you think will win this little skirmish?"
His voice held more bitterness than curiosity, a thinly veiled desire to see Naze's head cracked open.
Balek gave no answer. His eyes didn't move, nor did a muscle flinch on his marble-carved face. It was as though the fight held no meaning to him, or perhaps his mind wandered beyond the dust and show of the arena.
Amiel, though rebuked by fate and failure, remained close. Not because Balek trusted him, but because enemies kept close were easier to kill later. That was the prince's philosophy. It was a lesson he had learned from his father, Groa Aratat.
Meanwhile, in the commoners' stands, whispers began to stir, faint ripples among an ocean of indifference.
These weren't the loyalists of the Black Dragon—the ones who owed their healed limbs or fed children to his mercy. Nor were they agents of the Empire, who carried the blood of tyrants in their tongues. These were the neutral few. The unaligned. The ones who judged by outcome, not allegiance.
And now they were watching closely.
Because a blind man had just dodged death from a mountain—and made it look like dance.
For the first time, even they leaned forward.
They did not cheer—not yet. But their eyes, once half-lidded and bored, were now open with interest.
And above them all, high above in his floating throne, the Trickster God licked his lips and whispered again into the wind, "Now we're getting somewhere…"
"I think this blind guy has a chance against the 8-foot senseless pole…" said a blond man seated calmly among the neutral commoners, his voice cutting through the murmuring crowd like a well-sharpened blade.
Several heads turned, unsure if they heard correctly. Some raised brows. Others scoffed.
"A chance?" a woman with a sharp tongue and louder voice barked from two rows above. "Have you seen the muscle on that beast? He's called Agra the Giant for a reason! That blind bat is going to keep dodging until he's cornered and smashed like a grape under a drunken man's boot!"
Laughter rippled through a small section of her group.
The blond man, unfazed, tilted his head toward her voice. "You think muscle equals victory? No wonder you're saying gibberish. With the size of that head of yours, it's clearly filled with nothing but muscle."
Gasps and scattered laughter followed.
The woman stood abruptly, pointing down. "What did you just say to me, you rag-wearing blond mole?"
Before he could reply, another man, younger and broad-shouldered, leapt up beside her. "Dude, don't talk to a lady like that. You got a death wish or something?"
The blond man didn't flinch. He simply smiled. "Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you."
The rising tension caught the attention of a nearby constable who was already weary from calming the crowd since the Trickster God's arrival. He shook his head and signaled to two other guards, muttering under his breath, "Now they want to start a war in the stands?"
While Naze and Agra clashed in silence and deadly speed above, the spectators in the commoners' section were slowly descending into their own mini skirmish. A verbal war had sparked, and it was only one insult away from turning physical.
A boy seated nearby whispered to his father, "Is the fight up there or down here?"
His father replied without looking, eyes still fixed on the battle in the arena, "Both, son. One with fists. The other with wits. But only one of them will leave a legend."
Naze remained eerily still, his expression unreadable, his head slightly tilted like he was listening to a whisper only he could hear. Then came the whistling wind of a fist—fast, brutal, aimed straight for his face.
But just before impact, Naze twisted—not wildly, but with surgical precision. His torso rotated like a turning hinge, knees folding as he dipped and swerved beneath the blow. Agra's massive arm whooshed past like a runaway ox, hitting nothing but empty air.
The audience let out a collective gasp, as if they all dodged the punch with him.
Agra staggered a step forward, gritting his teeth, his breath loud and beastly. "You little... rat!" he bellowed, fury blazing through his red cheeks. He spun around, slamming his fists together with a thunderous clap that shook the stage beneath them, then stormed in again, this time with more speed, more anger, more... stupidity.
Naze didn't flinch. He couldn't see the fists, but he felt the disturbance in the air—the subtle changes in pressure like heat rising off a bonfire. Something was coming. Not just one punch. Two.
He sensed a pressure charging in from his right—like a wrecking ball—and then another wave sweeping in from the left, thick and heavy like a falling tree. Agra was pulling a trick, using misdirection: a fake-out to confuse his opponent and land a devastating finishing blow.
Clever… for someone with the brain of a boiled yam.
But Naze wasn't just fast—he was aware.
At the very last second, Naze launched himself into the air, flipping backwards with a graceful arc that would make a circus acrobat jealous. His robes fluttered like torn sails in the wind as he sailed clean over Agra's trap. The giant's fists slammed into each other with a meaty thwack and a shockwave that cracked the tiles under his feet.
Agra blinked. He looked up, his brain trying to load the event like a broken scroll reader. "W-What the—"
Naze landed lightly behind him, crouched like a panther, one hand pressed to the floor, the other raised for balance. The movement was so elegant, even the birds perched on the high poles of the arena paused, heads tilted in admiration.
The crowd went silent.
Then someone screamed, "HE FLEW!"
A child shouted, "No! He teleported!"
An elderly man with a monocle stood and declared, "That boy just insulted gravity!"
And among the empresses, Vashiti chuckled into her silk sleeves. "Oh, how deliciously humiliating," she whispered, watching Agra scratch his head like a lost ox in a library.
Agra turned slowly, veins popping on his forehead. Naze stood tall now, facing him. Calm. Balanced. Composed.
And worst of all—smiling.