The collision came in silence.
For a heartbeat, the entire Grand Coliseum froze. Elyas's palm—wrapped in liquid blue light—met Orin's fist, a storm of black and lightning sparks. And then the world held its breath. No cheer. No sound. Only the deep, relentless beat of Orin's heart. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The silence shattered.
BOOOOOOM.
The sound tore the air apart like thunder in a cavern. A shockwave blasted outward, flinging sand in a perfect ring. The front rows of the audience reeled backward, clothes snapping like flags in the gale. Wooden benches creaked; banners ripped loose and went screaming into the air.
The ground of the arena rippled as if it were water. Sand turned into waves, rolling outwards, striking the coliseum walls with a force that rattled the very stone. Cracks crawled along the marble, tiny at first, then splitting wider. Dust rained from the upper arches as statues trembled on their pedestals.
Slow motion filled every eye: grains of sand floating, suspended, glowing with the light of clashing auras. Sparks of Orin's blue lightning arced across the cloud like falling stars, hissing where they met fragments of Elyas's shattered aura.
The serenity of water. The fury of storm. And the world caught in between.
Then silence again, so total it swallowed the crowd whole. Only the rustle of falling debris and the hiss of Orin's lingering sparks broke it.
Yullan clutched the railing until her knuckles blanched. Her chest rose and fell fast. She had never feared for him—not really—until now.
"Orin…" she whispered.
On the other side of the balcony, Code did not move. His eyes narrowed through the haze, his voice silent but his thoughts sharp. If you have truly caged the beast, boy… now is the moment to show me.
The dust began to thin. Two silhouettes stood in the storm.
At first, they looked equal. Two figures, shoulders square, unmoving. Then Elyas's aura shimmered one last time—clear ripples of blue trembling around him—before fracturing. The liquid glass that had cloaked his body cracked, splintered, and burst into shards of light that dissolved in the air.
He exhaled softly. A faint smile curved his lips. "Well fought," he murmured, voice hoarse but steady. "Chaos has rhythm after all."
His knees buckled. He dropped to one knee, then to both, before falling forward into the sand. His body lay still, not broken, but emptied.
The crowd gasped, a wave of shock racing through the tiers.
And in the haze beyond him—Orin still stood.
His chest heaved, his lip split, his cheek swollen, his arms trembling. But his grin was wide and stupid, stained with blood and joy. Sparks still ticked faintly across his knuckles, the last embers of his storm. He lifted his hand and shook it with a wince.
"Ouch," he announced cheerfully, his voice carrying somehow through the silence. "My knuckles are married to your face now, Elyas!"
The coliseum erupted.
Laughter. Cheers. Chants of his name. What began as disbelief turned into a roar of triumph. Orin raised his fists to the sky, wobbling on his feet, then tripped backward onto his butt in the sand, laughing all the way.
Above, the announcer regained his voice. "WINNER—ORIN OF RIVERBEND!"
The arena shook again, this time with human thunder.
On the balcony, Yullan pressed a hand to her chest, exhaling relief so heavy she had to cover it with a scowl. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath, her cheeks warm. "You almost died."
Code remained motionless, but his chin dipped in the faintest nod.
In the ring, Orin rolled onto his back, still laughing, hair spread like a halo in the sand. He waved at the crowd with both arms as though he'd already forgotten he could barely stand.
But the moment did not last.
The announcer's voice cut across the noise, sharp and excited. "AND NOW, THE SECOND SEMIFINAL!"
The coliseum stilled again, anticipation thrumming.
"DRAVEN, THE DEVIL FIGHTER—VERSUS SIR GALVEN IRONCREST, THE NORTHERN KNIGHT!"
The crowd exploded once more, but this time the cheers held an edge of fear. All eyes turned toward the next tunnel. A figure waited there, half in shadow.
Draven stepped forward, slow, deliberate. His frame was massive, his eyes catching the torchlight with a gleam too sharp, too cruel. A smile, cold and hungry, curved across his lips.
Orin, still lying in the sand, squinted at the distant figure. He lifted a hand and waved lazily. "Hey! Big guy! Don't worry, I'll beat you after I nap!"
Draven's grin widened.
The storm had survived the waters. But now the true devil waited at the gates.