The roar was a living thing.
Over a hundred thousand voices hammered against stone and air, a relentless tide of noise that threatened to swallow the world whole.
Above it all, the royal box stood high and cold—King Hadrian seated between Ramon and a circle of nobles whose eyes glinted with impatience and power. Their whispers were sharp, like knives pressing against the king's resolve. They wanted blood. They wanted fear. They wanted a spectacle.
The gates opened.
The dusty arena swallowed the sunlight, but the crowd's cheers blazed brighter than any flame.
I stepped forward, blindfolded and armored, feeling the pulse of the crowd's breath, the electricity of a hundred thousand sets of eyes burning into me.
The announcer's voice boomed, carving my name across the arena.
"Annabel. The blind space mage.
I focused on the ground beneath my boots, steadying my breath. The roar threatened to drown me, to tear apart the silence I needed.
Ahead, five men waited—each a shadow of menace and brutality, criminals who had gambled with death and lost. This fight was their last hope for freedom.
The circle closed.
And I knew there was no turning back.
I moved forward—calm, deliberate. Each step carved space between me and the noise, between the chaos above and the stillness I clung to. The blindfold dulled the world's outline, muting the roar of a hundred thousand mana signatures. Without it, their presence would have drowned me.
Now, there was only breath. Movement. Sand underfoot.
My bo staff was warm in my grip. Cleaned. Familiar. Mine.
And still… I sat.
The crowd faltered, murmurs rising in waves.
"Is she sitting?"
"She's blind, and she's sitting down?"
"She's not even flinching."
"Is this a trick?"
"Does she even care?"
"She doesn't have to," someone muttered. "That's Annabel. She doesn't lose. She a demon killer."
The five men across from me were silent, but not still.
I could feel their hesitation.
"She's blindfolded," one muttered. "She can't see."
"That's what they all say. And when we blink we lose our spines."
"It's five of us," another said, trying to sound confident. "We hit her at once. Fast."
"She's just sitting there."
"Yeah. Like she wants us to come."
They charged.
Not staggered, not sloppy—together, tight. Almost professional.
I touched the staff to the earth.
A single pulse.
The sand beneath them rippled—then buckled.
Five sets of feet lost purchase at once, legs tangling mid-stride. They fell like dominos.
Before they hit the ground, my mana surged—cold and precise.
Ice erupted, frost rushing from the staff in a silent burst. It kissed their limbs, spread over their backs, encased their throats. It climbed in an instant—shards of death locking them in place.
No cries. No last gasps.
Just five bodies frozen mid-fall. Sculptures of failure.
The entire fight had taken less than three seconds.
Silence took the arena like a slap.
Then—shocked murmurs.
"She didn't even move…"
"Gods—what was that?"
"She just… ended them."
"She didn't kill them. She deleted them."
And still I sat there, breath steady. Frost hissed at my feet, the last remnants of mana evaporating in the heat.
Up in the royal box, the nobles were shifting in their seats—whispers turning bitter.
"She's ruining the rhythm."
"That was too clean."
"Where's the blood? Where's the fight?"
"She's not fighting. She's demonstrating."
King Hadrian sat motionless, unreadable. Ramon said nothing—but his hand was clenched.
The nobles conferred. Snarled.
Then—new chains.
The gates groaned again, and ten more men emerged. Heavier. Scarred. Armed. These weren't just criminals.
These were monsters.
The nobles wanted chaos.
They would get silence.
They were already dead.
They just didn't know it yet.
The second gate groaned open again.
Ten more.
Their boots struck the arena floor with weight, careless confidence. I heard the grit grind beneath them, caught the way their steps fanned out—arrogant. Predatory. They thought numbers mattered.
They didn't speak.
Neither did I.
I rose slowly, letting the hush stretch thin over the pit. My staff spun once around my body, slicing air with practiced ease before settling in my grip like an extension of my breath.
"Would you prefer a quick death," I asked, voice quiet and still, "or a slow one?"
No answer.
Just a few scoffs. One mutter. I heard it in the way they gripped their blades tighter. They thought the blindfold made me vulnerable.
I moved.
One sweep—my staff crashed into the earth with purpose, shattering their balance.
They stumbled. I heard knees buckle, feet skid, breath catch.
The second motion was a blur—nine precise strikes. Crushed skulls. Shattered ribs. Torn ligaments. I didn't need magic.
Just me.
Only one man remained.
His breath was broken. He didn't run. Didn't fight. Just trembled, standing still as the warmth of blood and death soaked the sand.
"For what are you in the pits?"
The pause was long.
"Nothing i swear its all a misunderstanding."
I sighed "The king hand picked the worst of the worst don't lie to me. Before i make it slow"
Another pause.
Then: "Rape."
My hand flicked forward.
Flame ignited with a hiss, fast and surgical. He was ash before the scream could crawl up his throat.
And then—silence.
For a heartbeat, maybe two.
"She's real! Annabel's real!"
The dam broke.
Cheers like thunder. Screams of disbelief. People shouting over each other, reaching, crying, roaring my name. They had whispered about me for years. Now I was here—in their streets, in their pits, walking through death like it meant nothing.
And they loved it.
Their belief was a roar in my ears, shaking the stone beneath my feet. My name became rhythm, became breath.
"Annabel! Annabel! Annabel!"
Up in the royal box, the nobles didn't cheer.
They were stone-faced and pale.
Ramon leaned in toward the king. "They're cheering for her."
"They were supposed to fear her," one noble muttered.
"She's a weapon," another hissed. "She's not a symbol, why would they cheer for someone that doesn't even entertain them."
I didn't see their faces. I didn't need to.
I just listened.
The third gate groaned open.
And for the first time since I entered the pit, the crowd went still.
Not out of respect.
Out of hunger.
They were waiting for him.
I didn't see him, not in the way others did. But I heard the shift—the faint pressure of boot on sand, the subtle push of breath. Even without sight, I felt him approach.
Measured.
Confident.
No blade scraped. No armor clinked.
He didn't need noise to make an entrance.
His sound was different from the others. Controlled. Tight. No errant footsteps. No wasted breath.
The announcer didn't speak his name.
He didn't need one.
But I already knew it.
"So. This is the blind brat I've heard so much about."
His voice was rough silk. Unhurried. Amused.
I didn't answer.
I let the silence be my shield.
He stepped closer. I caught the pitch of his movement—low, wide, testing range. A striker's stance. He was watching me, waiting for a twitch. A breath. Something he could exploit.
And then he struck.
Fast. Sharp. Intentional.
But I was ready.
I turned with it—my staff met his limb in a clean crack, redirecting his momentum past me. The crowd gasped.
"Nice," he murmured. "She hears."
Another step.
Another feint.
I blocked again, tighter this time. Less elegant.
But I was keeping up.
Until the note changed.
It wasn't a spell. Not exactly. Just a shift in pitch—like a tuning fork struck beneath the skin of the world.
And suddenly—
Everything was wrong.
My footing blurred.
The space around me—collapsed.
No echo. No vibration. No shape.
I staggered back, heart pounding, pulse out of rhythm. My ears still worked, but they weren't mine anymore. Every breath I took came back twisted, filtered through distortion.
The air felt thick. My own movement—foreign.
Alcra circled me now, invisible. Untraceable.
Then—
Impact.
A boot to my side.
I gasped. My ribs screamed. I hit the sand.
I tried to roll. Adjust. Re-center.
But there was no center.
The ground didn't speak. The pit had gone deaf.
No—I had.
He'd cut me off.
"You're not used to silence, are you?" he said, voice above me. Around me. Inside me.
"Poor little prodigy. Blind, and now—deaf. They've sent you here to die dressed in praise."
Another kick.
My shoulder cracked against the arena wall.
The stone didn't echo. That, more than the pain, made me flinch.
He grabbed my arm—hauled me up.
"They came to be entertained," he hissed.
Then he slammed my head against the wall.
Once.
Twice.
Not hard enough to kill.
Just hard enough to make them watch.
I tasted blood. My legs trembled.
"You feel it, don't you?" he whispered. "The fear. The panic. You're not a god. You're just a girl who listens too well."
He leaned in close—too close—breath sour against my cheek.
"Gods, you're small," he muttered, voice curling with mock wonder. "You look so fragile up close. Pretty little prodigy. You think power keeps you safe?"
His hand skimmed my thigh as he ran a small blade over my clothes not to take anything, rather to show his control.
"I could break you in ways they'd cheer for," he whispered. "You think they'd look away?"
The crowd didn't gasp.
They leaned in.
Waiting.
Wanting.
I tried to move.
Disoriented. Wounded.
But not broken.
I let my staff fall—not to strike, but to touch the ground.
A ripple moved through the sand.
And there, in the moment between Alcra's tones—I heard him.
One breath of his excitement. One clean mistake.
I struck.
The end of my staff cracked across his hip—unexpected. Solid.
He reeled back.
And just like that—
The pit came alive again.
The silence lifted.
The echoes returned.
I felt the crowd's roar as a wave through the sand, and the shape of Alcra snapped into focus. Real. Present. Fallible.
"You're right," I said, voice hoarse. "I listen too well."
"And I heard your rhythm."
I moved before he could adjust.
One strike—leg.
He dropped.
Second—elbow.
He screamed.
Third—staff at his throat.
He didn't fall yet.
He swung his blade, still disoriented, still recovering "You are nothing without your hearing brat, i could have killed you already."
I kicked him across the chin as he tried getting up. "Unfortunately for you, you like to entertain rather than go all out. You're strong, maybe even stronger than me if you tried."
I paused
Tens of thousands holding their breath.
Waiting.
Watching.
My voice, barely above a whisper:
"You don't deserve the crowd's love."
A pause.
"So I won't kill you."
Alcra mana flickered—confused, bloodied.
"You're not going free," I said. "You'll fight. But not for sport."
I turned to the royal box.
My blindfold still on. My body broken.
My voice unshaken.
"Send him to the front lines. Let him entertain the devils."
Alcra stood back up, most likely ready to attack again.
He raised his voice.
"I'm not done with you yet, Annabel Valor."
"Maybe not, but i'm done with you…Alcra."
And then, I walked away—my staff leaving a clean trail in the sand.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a child.
But as a legend.