Agra the Giant was beyond pissed now. If looks could kill, Naze would've disintegrated, been reborn, and killed again in a loop. The veins on Agra's neck bulged like rebellious snakes, his fists clenched so hard it seemed the air itself was getting strangled. The man looked like a war drum about to burst from too much beating.
Naze, on the other hand, stood calmly—eerily calmly. His expression unreadable, like he was standing in a field of flowers and not in the ring with an 8ft angry slab of fury. But beneath that calm, his mind was on high alert. His senses, ever heightened since the day he lost his sight, began to dance in harmony with every vibration, every shift in the air, every muscle twitch from his opponent.
In fact, his perception had become so sharp over the years that even the generals under Josh Aratat—the fabled Black Dragon—often forgot Naze was blind. Sometimes, they'd even wave in front of him absentmindedly, only to get smacked by his cane for being idiots.
Meanwhile, far off from the ring, hidden in the odd pocket of the Trickster God's dimensional tote, Lola bit her lower lip so hard it might've started a civil war with her upper lip. Her brows were furrowed, her arms folded tight against her chest, and her left leg bouncing furiously like it was trying to run away from her body.
She had faith in Naze—plenty. But that didn't stop her heart from doing somersaults as she stared at Agra the Giant, whose body looked like it was sculpted from rock and angry poetry. His skin looked so thick, she doubted even an axe blessed by an elven priestess could pierce it.
Of course, that wasn't entirely true. But with the way he kept charging and roaring like an ogre with stubbed toes, anyone would be forgiven for thinking he was invincible.
Her thoughts drifted—memories tugging at her like mischievous children.
There was a time she too had doubted herself. She'd been trying to master a notoriously difficult sword technique—a move Joab, Eliphaz, and Naze had mastered so effortlessly that it made her want to dropkick gravity itself.
Frustrated, she had isolated herself in a training field far from the others, where even the birds signed non-disclosure agreements.
She swung again and again, failing with every attempt. Her sword clanged to the floor in defeat, and she sat down, the sting of failure hotter than the noon sun. She buried her face in her hands and whispered to herself, "Maybe I'm not meant to lead."
Then—like some blind ninja ghost—Naze appeared.
"A disturbed mind is like a stormy sea," he said from behind, startling her. "Nothing can glide smoothly on the surface."
Lola had snapped, "Who asked you for poetic advice, huh?!" But mid-outburst, she paused. Naze didn't mock her. He didn't call the others. He didn't laugh. He just stood there with his head tilted, as if waiting for her storm to pass.
"If you continue like this," he added gently, "you'll never master it. Let me help you."
Still wary, but silently thankful, she handed him the blade. His hands moved—measured, patient, graceful. He showed her not with brute force, but with balance and control. He repeated the move slowly, until it felt like music.
Within hours, she nailed it. And Naze? He never mentioned the incident again. Not to her. Not to the other generals. He buried it like a treasure meant for her alone.
It was from that day Lola realised Naze wasn't just blind—he was boundless.
Her memory ended, and reality returned with a thud. She could feel her fists clenching again. If only I could go up there… she thought. Take his place, block a punch, anything.
But no.
This was the Trickster God's show. There were no do-overs, no substitutes, no intermissions.
And all she could do was watch—and pray the blind man continued dancing circles around the senseless pole.
As the time ticked by, the tension in the arena grew thick. Agra the giant, veins bulging like knotted ropes beneath his ash-coloured skin, began to lose whatever patience he had left. His breathing grew heavier, nostrils flaring like a beast tasting blood. His movements became increasingly wild and aggressive, yet calculated in a brute's way—each strike carried the weight of a collapsing mountain.
But Naze… Naze remained a phantom in the storm.
Despite being blind, his body flowed with an unnatural ease. His movements were so crisp, so impossibly precise, that the audience often forgot the sheer handicap he bore. He ducked under fists, swayed past elbows, flipped off Agra's forearms and pirouetted between strikes with the elegance of a wind-dancer and the precision of a master swordsman.
He was reading Agra—not with his eyes, but with senses honed in the abyss of darkness. His ears picked up the faintest shift in Agra's footwork, the tightness of his breathing, even the tremor in the wind caused by his opponent's muscles contracting.
Lola, still within the confines of the Trickster God's dimensional tote, clenched her fists as she watched. Her legs jittered with nervous energy, her eyes darting over every movement. She had faith in Naze, yes. But Agra was a mountain of muscle, rage, and tenacity. And mountains, when they fell, crushed even the mighty beneath them.
Then, everything paused for a moment.
Agra suddenly stopped moving, standing still like a statue carved from rage and granite. His eyes narrowed. His breath was controlled now—not ragged like before. Something had shifted. Naze cocked his head ever so slightly, sensing the change too. The rhythm of Agra's heart had changed. A sinister calm had replaced the fury.
Then came the smile.
It was a wide, malevolent grin that stretched across Agra's face like a tear in the sky. He had a plan.
Naze's brows furrowed ever so slightly. He couldn't see the smile, but he could feel it—like poison leaking into the atmosphere.
Then, Agra struck.
He lifted his enormous left arm and swung it toward Naze in what appeared to be a lazy, almost half-hearted attack. To anyone else, it looked sloppy—a desperate, exhausted swipe. But Naze wasn't anyone else. He had fought long enough to know that obvious attacks were often bait.
Still, instincts took over.
With a sharp whisper of steel, Naze unsheathed one of his twin swords and slashed outward, aiming to intercept the lumbering arm. His blade cut deep—too deep. With a sickening sound of flesh tearing and bone cracking, Agra's arm was cleaved off at the elbow.
But Agra didn't scream.
He didn't falter. He had planned this.
Before Naze could recover from the shock of what he'd just done, Agra's remaining right fist came down like a meteor. It was a blur of motion—unreadable, even to Naze's heightened senses. It struck him square in the chest with a thunderous boom that echoed through the entire arena like an explosion.
Naze's body flew.
He was launched so far into the air that the onlookers in the highest tiers had to crane their necks to follow him. The wind howled around his limp frame as he tumbled skyward, then downward like a broken star. A collective gasp surged from the audience, mouths agape, hearts caught in their throats.
The Trickster God, of course, was absolutely thrilled.
Sitting on his gilded floating throne with his legs crossed and arms flailing excitedly, he clapped like a child at a puppet show, laughing with manic delight. His voice rang out through the arena like church bells in a madhouse.
"Ooooh! Did you see that?! What a punch! That's the kind of drama I live for! Bravo, Agra! Blood, bones and betrayal—I'm positively tingling!"
Meanwhile, Lola's knuckles turned white as she gripped the edge of the dimension she was trapped in, eyes wide and heart pounding. She had just watched the man who once saved her pride and mentored her in secret get smashed like a fly swatted by a titan.
And the worst part?
The match wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.