The arena was still roaring after the fight between Ken and Zirov, cheers echoing across the battleground. Ken, however, walked with calm, steady steps, ignoring the countless eyes fixed on him. As if victory hadn't changed him in the slightest, he sat back down on his stone chair.
Akio didn't hesitate—he rushed toward him, eyes wide like a child seeing his hero for the first time. Standing directly in front of him, he spoke with heartfelt excitement:
"Hey, you! That was incredible! I loved your last move when you finished him off!"
Ken didn't stop walking. He only cast a short, cold side glance at him and muttered in a low voice:
"Shut up… Who even are you?"
That single word froze Akio's enthusiasm for a moment, but his smile quickly returned as if nothing had happened. Ken sat on the stone chair, resting his elbows on his knees, raising his gaze slowly—only to find Akio still standing there with the same bright, unwavering smile. With a sharp tone, Ken said:
"Don't you get it yet? You're standing in front of a killer. You'd better step back… Are you really that much of a fool?"
But Akio didn't retreat. It wasn't naivety—it was a strange persistence. Inside, he felt something unseen pulling him toward this red-haired boy. Something he couldn't explain. He took a small step forward, eyes shining with stubborn light, and said clearly:
"I don't care if you're a killer or not… I won't judge you by words alone. What I want… is to see your true self."
Ken's eyes widened slightly. His voice dropped:
"And why would you say that?"
Akio held his ground, his wide smile softening into something heavier:
"Because I know how it feels to be judged before anyone truly sees you… In my city, they saw me as nothing but a strange orphan. They never understood me… and I could never understand them. That's why I came here—to find someone who does."
Ken stayed silent for a moment, then exhaled slowly:
"So you want to put me in the same box as you? A lonely orphan? Your first mistake is thinking we're alike."
He turned his head slightly, as if Akio's presence had become a burden to his ears, and continued with quiet sharpness:
"I've never once looked for someone to understand me. I don't need anyone to believe my story… not even you."
But inside, when Akio spoke, a faint flicker stirred in Ken's eyes—as though some piece of memory trembled against his will.
Akio's smile faded. He said suddenly:
"I don't know what you've been through… but life doesn't stop when someone you love dies. The future is still waiting for you."
Ken's body trembled—not from pain, but from the rage he couldn't contain. His eyes widened suddenly, glaring at Akio with blade-like sharpness as he answered coldly:
"You speak as if you understand something you've never faced. No one has the right to tell me how to deal with the death of those I lost. The future? It doesn't bring back bodies from their graves. It doesn't bring back a burned home… or a face erased forever."
He stepped closer slowly, his gaze pressing on Akio harder than any grip could:
"You say life doesn't stop?… For me, it stopped long ago. What I live now isn't life—it's an open account that hasn't been closed."
He turned his face aside, as if the conversation was finished, ending with icy finality:
"Don't lecture me… you're the last person I want to hear it from."
Akio froze, his words from moments ago stabbing back at him. The hand he'd raised hung awkwardly in the air, with nothing left to do. A faint look crossed his face—a blend of sadness and disappointment he didn't bother hiding.
Ken didn't look back. He rose from the chair and walked away, as if the conversation had been nothing but meaningless noise. Akio sank into heavy silence, staring at his retreating back, searching for an answer he couldn't find.
The drums kept rolling. Names were drawn and announced, the arena never quiet from the clash of swords and the screams of the fallen. Blood stained the stone floor and statues, while the audience split between cheers, laughter, and tense silence.
On one of the stone seats sat Mabushi, his arm resting on his knee as he idly toyed with the chain attached to his sword, like a man amusing himself with a cheap game.
Suddenly, he exhaled sharply and growled:
"Damn it… how much longer am I supposed to wait?"
He turned his head toward Ann beside him, speaking with mocking impatience:
"If my turn doesn't come soon, I'll storm into the arena and cut down the first fool in front of me—whether his name is drawn or not."
Ann pressed a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes.
"Calm down, idiot. Your chance will come soon enough… Just don't wreck the arena before your show starts."
He chuckled faintly, but his impatience was obvious. His eyes stayed locked on the overseer pulling names, like a hungry wolf eyeing prey it hadn't eaten in days.
After a long string of battles that left the spectators weary, the overseer reached into the box again, fingers searching until they gripped a slip. He unfolded it slowly, and his booming voice filled the arena:
"The next challenger… Mabushi… Mabushi the Rogue!"
Whispers rose instantly through the crowd. Some traded uneasy looks, while others smirked with eager curiosity.
Mabushi sat still for several seconds before a quiet laugh slipped from him:
"Heh…"
Then he rose slowly, hands clasped across his chest. He walked forward with the arrogance of someone who knew every eye was on him. Passing through the crowd, he moved as though the arena had been built for him, his taunting smile never leaving his face.
The overseer drew another slip, opened it, and announced in a resonant voice:
"Miss Silvara."
The audience turned toward the side rows, where a girl stepped forward. She had short, shining blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. But it was her eyes that drew every gaze—green, yet within them swirled unsettling spirals, as if staring too long would drown you with no return.
Her attire set her apart from the other contestants: a dark green blouse embroidered with leaf-like patterns, an uneven skirt that swayed with her steps, a wide leather belt around her waist, and over her shoulders a light green cloak stitched with golden threads shaped like branches. She advanced with a calm smile until she stood facing "Mabushi the Rogue."
Maboshi's focus never wavered. Slowly, he lowered his arms from their crossed stance, loosening his fists like a man ready for the inevitable. His fingers slid easily toward the twin hilts at his waist.
The overseer raised his arm, his voice thundering:
"Let the match begin!"
But before Maboshi could take his first step, Silvara advanced deliberately. Her green cloak swayed with each motion, her calm smile never fading. She lifted her hand slightly, as if asking him to wait, and spoke in a quiet voice tinged with something strange:
"Before you raise your swords… I want to ask you, Maboshi the Rogue… do you know why trees plant their roots deep, while everything above the ground is fleeting?"
The crowd buzzed, many exchanging puzzled looks. It wasn't a typical pre-battle taunt—it sounded like a riddle. Maboshi arched a brow, smirking at the girl without drawing his sword yet. Then he laughed, a short, unrestrained chuckle, shaking his head.
With open mockery, he said:
"Roots? Branches? What are you supposed to be… some kind of forest priestess?"
He tilted his sword forward, the glint of its chain catching the light, and smirked wider:
"I don't get your little philosophical nonsense… but don't worry. I'll make sure you taste the underworld yourself—maybe you'll find your roots there."
He laughed again, this time gripping his sword tightly, ready to strike.
Silvara didn't reply to his mockery. She only kept that mysterious smile, as though she hadn't heard a word. Her hands rose slowly, fingers moving like she was weaving invisible threads in the air.
At first, nothing happened. But then the ground beneath them began to tremble. From the stone floor burst twisting roots, surging upward like starving serpents hunting prey.
Mabushi's grin widened, though this time surprise flickered in his eyes.
"Heh… so I wasn't facing some ordinary girl. A Vakin user, huh?"
One root lashed toward his leg. Mabushi's body loosened for a moment, then he sprang sideways, evading with ease as the root shattered stone where he'd stood. He whistled as he twisted in midair, hand sliding deliberately onto his sword's hilt:
"Now this is going to be fun."
More predatory plants burst from the ground, their twisted branches and sharp thorns lunging toward Mabushi as if eager mouths meant to devour him. Yet his steps never lost their lightness. At times he cut through roots with a swift slash, other times he let them whip past as he leapt gracefully over them, landing on the edge before darting off again, as if dancing among them.
He laughed under his breath as he twisted between the tangled roots.
"Ha… this feels like jump rope. But if you trip… you get torn to pieces."
Every movement was a blend of mockery and skill. He slashed one branch, spun away from another, rolled beneath a third before rising to his feet again. To him, the arena of death was nothing but a playground.
In the middle of his reckless leaps and acrobatics, Mabushi lost focus for a fraction of a second. A thick root surged up from below, coiling around his leg like a snake. Surprise caught him for only an instant before his blade severed it cleanly, scattering fragments across the ground.
Mabushi landed steadily, grinning.
"Did you think that was enough?"
But his grin vanished. From the cut stump, dozens of thinner, longer heads sprouted, writhing like starving serpents. They lashed out at once, surrounding him as if the earth itself wanted to swallow him whole.