The arena shook under the weight of clashing Laws.
Flames roared, bending the air itself, as Valerius stepped forward. His crimson armor gleamed like molten steel, and every movement radiated the confidence of a man who believed his victory had already been written.
Ragnar stood across from him, body aching, his shadow coiling around his feet like a restless beast. Each breath burned in his chest, each heartbeat echoed with the weight of every soul who had died in battles like this one.
The whispers pressed harder in his mind.
"He is fire. You are void. Devour him."
Ragnar clenched his fists, his claws flickering with black fire. "Not yet," he muttered. "If I give you everything, I lose myself."
Valerius raised his blade, and flame blossomed across the arena floor, spreading in a wave that melted stone and scorched the ground black. The disciples watching from the edges gasped, shielding their faces from the heat.
"Trash," Valerius said coldly. "You should never have climbed this stage. The difference between us is fate itself."
The firestorm surged toward Ragnar.
He didn't retreat. His shadow surged forward, forming a barrier of writhing tendrils. Flame collided with abyss, and the air screamed as the two Laws ground against each other. For a moment, neither side gave way—then cracks split Ragnar's shield, shadows splintering under the weight of Valerius's fire.
The impact hurled Ragnar back. He slammed into the arena wall, blood spraying from his lips.
"Ragnar!" Dax shouted from the stands, gripping the railing so hard his knuckles whitened. Selene's silver eyes burned with a quiet fury, though her body trembled with weakness. Kael said nothing, but his gaze sharpened, measuring, calculating.
Ragnar pushed himself up slowly. His ribs screamed. His vision blurred. But his shadow pulsed stronger, hungrier.
"Give me more," it whispered. "Fuse me with his fire. Let me devour him."
Ragnar's jaw tightened. He couldn't ignore it—not anymore. If he fought only as himself, he would lose.
He spread his hand, and abyssal blackfire erupted around him, twisting like serpents in the night. The crowd gasped.
Valerius's smirk faltered. "You think corrupting fire with shadow will save you? Pathetic."
He raised his sword high. Symbols blazed along its blade—runes of the Flame Sect's secret art.
"Witness the Sun-Slayer's Judgment!" Valerius roared.
A torrent of fire descended, not like a wave but like the wrath of a star falling from the heavens. Heat scorched skin, and the disciples near the edge screamed as the barrier protecting them cracked.
Ragnar's eyes widened.
For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the world ending.
The shadow within him laughed.
"Yes. Perfect. Take it. Consume everything."
Ragnar thrust both hands forward. Blackfire roared out, spiraling upward to meet the descending flame. Shadow and fire collided again, but this time Ragnar didn't resist the pull.
He embraced it.
The Laws twisted, fused—devouring each other in silence. The flames turned darker, the shadows burned brighter, until the entire arena was swallowed in a storm of Abyssal Blackfire, heatless yet searing, hungry yet endless.
The ground cracked. The walls trembled. Even the elders watching from the sky leaned forward, their calm masks breaking.
"This… this is impossible," one whispered.
Valerius staggered back, his blade trembling against the storm. For the first time, arrogance left his face. He looked not at a rival, but at something unnatural, something that should not exist.
Ragnar stepped forward through the abyssal storm, his crimson-black eyes burning like twin embers in the dark.
"You said fate put me beneath you," Ragnar said, his voice low, steady. "But tell me, Valerius… what happens when fate itself is devoured?"
The crowd went silent.
Even Valerius faltered, his flame flickering.
For the briefest moment, Ragnar had the upper hand. His monster inside laughed louder, chains breaking in his mind.
But Valerius's eyes snapped back with fury.
"No. I am chosen. I am flame. You are nothing but rot in the dark!"
He slashed downward with all his strength. His Law flared, no longer elegant, no longer controlled—it was raw, desperate, and overwhelming.
The blackfire cracked. Shadows screamed. Ragnar felt his strength drain, his body reaching its limits. His knees threatened to buckle, his bones creaked like breaking wood.
Valerius roared, stepping through the black flames, his sword raised high for the killing blow.
Ragnar's vision blurred. His shadow begged him to let go, to surrender everything, to become the abyss fully.
He almost did.
Then he saw Selene's silver eyes—watching him, unwavering. Not with fear, but with trust.
The world slowed.
Ragnar's hand tightened around the abyss. He didn't surrender. He didn't let the shadow consume him. Instead, he forced it to bend, forced it to obey.
A scream tore from his throat—not of pain, but defiance.
The arena floor shattered as Ragnar met Valerius's strike head-on.
Light and darkness clashed, flames devouring shadows, shadows consuming flames. The shockwave hurled spectators back, shattered the barrier, and split the arena wall open.
When the dust cleared, two figures remained—both standing, both bloodied, both burning with power.
The duel was far from over.
And then—Valerius smiled. Not with confidence, but with something darker.
"You think this is my limit? Fool."
His aura exploded, brighter and hotter than before. Behind him, a flaming phantom took shape—an ancient beast of fire, roaring into the night.
The disciples screamed. Elders rose to their feet.
Even Ragnar froze, breath ragged.
Because what stood before him was not a man anymore.
It was a calamity.