A booming voice rang through the Coliseum.
A jester in a cap with copper bells twirled onto the high wall, his voice loud and theatrical.
"Ladies and lords! Blood-dealers and betrayal-lovers! You've seen champions fall! You've seen beasts roar! But now, the true test!"
He pointed with his crimson cane.
"Here are your finalists!"
From the western gate emerged the winners of each martial bracket. Kastor, broad-shouldered and cold-eyed. Serron, the scarred veteran. Five more followed, all silent and measured.
They were Dazhum agents. Warriors in disguise.
"And here are their opponents!"
The opposite gate opened.
Gasps echoed from every corner of the arena.
Sixty Dazhum prisoners marched into view. Zhong loyalist hoplites. Captured soldiers from the last war. Their weapons had been returned. Their armor restored. No chains. They stood ready.
Dazhum against Dazhum.
Some of the agents froze. They had fought Zhong loyalists without hesitation. But this was different. These were fellow countrymen. Veterans of the same banners.
The jester leaned forward.
"Why are you hesitant, men of the eastern realm? Are not your blades thirsty for Dazhum soldiers? You've killed fellow eastern realm contestants without mercy. Why not show your skills to those captured invaders!"
He paused, smiling wide.
"Or you're also Dazhum spies! That you want to enter uninvited?"
A flicker of realization passed among the agents. They had been baited. Played.
Serron stepped forward. Kastor followed. Then the others. One by one, they walked across the sand and stood beside the prisoners.
The jester spread his arms.
"So you choose an honorable death."
He turned to the crowd.
"People of the eastern realm! What will you do? What is your verdict?"
The answer came, loud and final.
"Kill!"
A door opened.
STORMGUARD — IRONWALL COHORT — ASHBREAKERS
Tempered from the warrior clans of Skarnulf in the northern frontier. Once berserkers, now bound by Altan's doctrine. Forged in the Crucible. Tested in the Chasm.
Their fury is no longer wild. It is contained, focused, and released with controlled brutality.
Flame-bearers. Breach units. Executioners.
Ten stormguard warriors marched into the arena.
Kastor moved like a man forged in past wars. Veteran instinct carved into every motion. When one of the Stormguard came at him with an Embershock Thrust, he side-stepped and countered with a rising elbow to the chin, cracking the jaw. He locked the warrior's spear arm under his own, snapped it at the joint, and used the broken limb to block another strike. He moved without flourish. Only purpose. He struck the next soldier in the throat. Another in the knee. Blood splashed from every impact.
Nearby, a Red Chain adept spun low beneath a burning blade. He grappled the attacker by the legs and wrenched, snapping bones in a twist. He caught a flaming gauntlet with bare hands, redirected it, then stabbed upward with a hidden knife into the armpit seam. The Ashbreaker didn't scream. He drew close to the Red Chain adept and plunged his own dagger forward. Both of them collapsed, dead on the sand.
Another agent shattered a spear haft with bare hands, locked it under his armpit, and headbutted the man until the helmet split. Blood sprayed over the sand.
Serron grunted as his dagger sank beneath another collarbone. His arm burned from a cut he couldn't recall receiving. Blood soaked his sleeve. He turned, dropped another Ashbreaker with a shoulder slam and a heart-punch, then turned again—
Bruga stood before him. The warden of the Ironwall Cohort. His twin axes glinted red.
The Stormguard moved in trios, three-man kill formations, drilled for containment and suppression. One struck high, one swept low, the third sealed movement. They closed in like trap jaws. Precision burned into every step.
But the Dazhum didn't die quietly.
One Red Chain adept severed a Stormguard's hamstrings before being cleaved from neck to hip. Another caught a spear mid-thrust and redirected it into the warrior beside him. Blood sprayed as both fell. The third Stormguard of their unit fought alone until he was disarmed and buried beneath three blades.
Three Stormguard lay dead. But the rest pressed on.
Bruga lunged, and their clash began.
Serron deflected the first axe swing, pivoted, and slashed toward the knees. Bruga stomped down, caught the blade under his boot, and lashed with his left axe. Serron caught it on his shoulder, teeth gritting. He rolled back, came up with a short blade drawn.
The clash was brutal. Serron cut deep into Bruga's thigh. Bruga headbutted him hard enough to crack bone. Serron dropped, swept the legs. Bruga fell, but only for a blink. He rose in one movement, caught Serron's blade with one axe and slammed him backward with the other.
As they fought, the others were dying.
The remaining Stormguard moved like a hammer. One by one, they cut down the Dazhum agents. Spears pierced throats. Flame engulfed torsos. Bodies burned and twitched across the arena.
Kastor fell to a spear through the spine. Another agent was crushed under a burning gauntlet. Two more were skewered and dragged back like game.
Bruga parried Serron's lunge, drove an axe into his ribs, but Serron didn't fall. He clawed forward, eyes bloodshot, and slashed across Bruga's shoulder.
Bruga grunted, twisted, and cracked his other axe against Serron's temple. The veteran staggered.
Serron blinked blood from his eyes. Around him, the arena was silent. The Dazhum were dead. Stormguard stood around them, forming a circle. Some were wounded. Some panted after the battle. Others stood like war golems that had finished their task.
Only he and Bruga remained.
Bruga tilted his head.
"Enough games."
He came forward with sudden fury, both axes swinging in a brutal cross. Serron ducked the first, stepped into the second, and locked Bruga's wrist with both hands. Blood poured from his side, but he roared through it, driving his knee up into Bruga's ribs. The warden grunted but did not yield.
Bruga slammed a headbutt that split Serron's brow. The older warrior reeled, half-blind. Still, he turned his blade into a gut-piercing stab. Bruga twisted just enough, the steel skimming his flank.
A short chop from the left axe clipped Serron's collarbone. Another came for the ribs. He blocked with his dagger but the force cracked bone. His arm drooped.
Serron collapsed to one knee, gasping, barely upright. Bruga crossed his twin axes.
The first slash hacked halfway through Serron's neck. His head drooped, half-severed. The final slash came down, clean and brutal, cutting it fully. The head rolled across the sand. His body slumped forward as blood fanned across the arena floor.
The arena held its breath for a beat.
Then the roar came.
It surged from the crowd like a wave of iron and fire. Voices screamed in triumph. Some in rage. Others just to taste blood in their mouths.
Fists pounded the wooden railings. Helmets were thrown into the air. Smoke from the burning corpses curled toward the sky.
And on the sand, among the wreckage of the Dazhum agents, the Stormguard stood unmoving.
A line of flame and order. Executioners of the realm.
It was victory, painted in ash and gore.
Author's Note: On Antistrophe (ἀντιστροφή)
In ancient Greek drama, the antistrophe follows the strophe as a formal response. If the strophe introduces a theme, the antistrophe answers it with reflection or escalation.
This chapter serves that role.
Altan was not simply hosting a contest. From the beginning, he was building a stage. The Seaborne Crown became more than an arena. It became theatre, designed to draw in enemies, confuse them, and give the people of the Eastern Realm something to believe in. Each duel and execution was part of a larger performance.
The Dazhum thought they were infiltrating. In reality, they were part of the script. Their agents entered the contest unaware that the real contest was already over. They were not observers. They were players.
Through public judgment and carefully timed spectacle, Altan stirred something deeper than loyalty. He transformed grief into direction. The people demanded action, and he gave them purpose.
This antistrophe is not just a reaction. It is a shift.
The trap has closed.
And the movement begins.