The Threads writhed.
From their lattice mask, strands spilled outward like a spider's web, weaving across the arena floor. Each line pulsed faintly, alive, and wherever they touched the sand, the world itself began to fracture.
Kairo staggered back as the air split into shards of glass. Each shard reflected a world not his own.
In one, he was seated on a throne of corpses, a crown of flame burning into his skull. In another, he was chained at the feet of giants, a dog dragged by his throat. In another still, he lay in a pool of blood that seemed endless, his own face staring back at him, pale and lifeless.
The voices inside him fed on the visions.
"This is what you are."
"This is what you will be again."
"This is why you cannot escape."
Kairo clenched his fists, but his chains felt heavier than ever. His breath came ragged, his eyes darting from one vision to another — there were too many, an endless chorus of fates that all ended in ruin.
The Threads did not strike him. They did not need to. They moved in slow, deliberate motions, forcing him to watch, forcing him to drown.
From above, Igron spoke, his voice carrying like a blade across the noise of the crowd.
"Cruel, isn't it? No beast, no blade. Just truth."
Hades said nothing. His expression did not change, but his gaze never left Kairo.
The reflections shifted. Now it was not thrones or crowns, but the past — the Remnant's chambers. The sound of iron dripping. The smell of burnt flesh. The voices of tormentors laughing as hooks tore skin from bone.
Kairo's breath hitched. His crimson eyes flickered, his composure slipping for the first time since he entered the arena.
The Threads pulsed, as though feeding on his weakness.
The crowd shrieked, their faceless maws splitting wider, savoring his breaking.
The whispers surged, louder than ever.
"Give in."
"We can stop this."
"We will punish them all — if you let us free."
Kairo dropped to one knee. The illusions pressed in tighter, shards of glass spinning around him, each one showing another torment, another failure, another death. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, out of rhythm, not entirely his own.
For a moment, he almost reached for the voices. Almost.
And then — a single word, spoken low, threading beneath the chaos.
Igron.
"Endure."
Kairo's eyes snapped open. His fists clenched. His body trembled, but his gaze steadied.
The Threads recoiled, as though sensing the resistance. The illusions did not vanish — they multiplied, doubling, tripling, burying him beneath endless mirrors.
The torment had only begun.
And Round Four was not finished with him yet.