Alan's grip tightened around Zarot's massive blade, his fingers curling with deliberate precision as though he were handling something other than a weapon meant to cleave him in two.
His expression remained calm—eerily so.
His eyes, reflecting the harsh sunlight, bored into Zarot's with an unsettling clarity. They were not the eyes of a desperate man clutching at survival, but those of a soldier measuring his enemy before striking the killing blow.
The roles had inverted: it was Alan's hand wrapped around the greatsword, Alan who stood unmoved before a murderous strike, while Zarot—hulking titan of the colosseum—was held still by disbelief.
The crowd, who moments earlier had howled for blood, now fell into silence.
The hush was heavier than any roar. Tens of thousands leaned forward, unable to comprehend what they were seeing.
