The Grand Coliseum still shivered from the storm of the first semifinal, but the crowd's roar had not dulled. Workers rushed to smooth the sand, dragging fresh lines across the cracked ground. The announcer, voice ragged with excitement, bellowed into the noise:
"VELARIS, ARE YOU READY? THE SECOND SEMIFINAL—THE DEVIL FIGHTER DRAVEN… VERSUS… THE NORTHERN KNIGHT, SIR GALVEN IRONCREST!"
The audience erupted. Men raised banners, women screamed Galven's name, children shouted "Ironcrest!" with joy. The knight strode out from his tunnel first—towering in gleaming silver armor, cape a proud blue, sword drawn and blazing with golden ki. His aura shone so bright it painted the air in firelight. He lifted his blade and saluted. The crowd answered with thunder.
Then the opposite tunnel stirred.
The torches guttered, as if strangled by invisible hands. The cheering thinned, then faltered.
Draven walked out slowly, each step sinking deep into the sand. His frame was massive, his hair long and black, tangled around shoulders broad enough to bear a fortress. Eyes glimmered faintly red, catching torchlight like embers in ash. His smile was crooked, hungry.
The moment his aura spread, the coliseum changed.
It wasn't light. It wasn't flame. It was a haze—thick, black, suffused with faint veins of red. It rolled off him in coils, swallowing torchlight, dimming the world around him. Obors along the walls sputtered, then died as he passed. The sand at his feet cracked not from force, but from weight—like the earth itself wanted to flee.
By his third step, the noise had collapsed into silence. A baby began to cry. Guards gripped their spears tighter though they knew it would mean nothing. Mothers pulled children behind them.
And Draven smiled wider, as if savoring the fear.
Orin sat at the side bench, cheeks stuffed with bread. He blinked crumbs onto his shirt. "Whoa," he mumbled around a mouthful. "He made the torches die… That's kinda cool. Did he just… eat the light?"
Code stood behind him, arms folded. "Shut your mouth."
But Orin leaned forward eagerly, eyes sparkling. "No, but really—look at him! He's huge. He's… perfect!"
The gong struck.
Galven moved first, his aura blazing, sword rising high. With a roar of honor he swung, a golden arc splitting the air so bright it blinded half the crowd. The slash could have cut a statue clean in two.
Draven lifted one hand lazily. His palm caught the slash. The light vanished into the haze, snuffed like a candle in rain.
He yawned. "Is that all?"
The crowd gasped. Orin choked on his bread, coughing crumbs. "Did he just—did he just eat the shiny slash?!"
Galven snarled, charging again. Three slashes, swift as lightning, then a thrust straight for the heart. Each strike blazed with golden fire.
Draven tilted his head. The first cut whispered past his cheek. The second he tapped aside with one finger, a casual flick. The third slammed into his chest—blade biting deep.
No blood came. No wound opened. The sword simply stopped, buried in haze.
Draven looked down at the weapon lodged against his ribs. He chuckled. "Shiny toy."
Orin's eyes nearly burst from his skull. "Pffft—did you see that? He slapped the sword! Who slaps a sword?!" He laughed so hard he almost toppled off the bench. The crowd sat rigid, terrified. Only Orin laughed.
Code's glare could have split stone. "Idiot. Quiet."
But Orin whispered, reverent, "I wanna slap swords too…"
Galven roared, golden aura flaring hotter, light searing enough to burn shadows from the walls. He raised his sword in both hands and brought it down in a final, desperate arc, splitting the sand beneath him.
Draven finally moved with intent.
A single backhand slap.
The blade shrieked in protest. Sparks exploded as the metal cracked. Galven staggered, armor on his chest splitting down the middle, blood flecking his lips.
Draven's grin widened. "Oops."
Galven pressed forward, staggering but unyielding. He thrust again, screaming, "FOR VELARIS!"
The sword pierced Draven's chest. The crowd screamed—victory!
But Draven didn't even flinch. He looked down at the blade sticking from his ribs, tilting his head as though admiring jewelry. Then he pinched the metal between two fingers. CRACK. The weapon shattered, shards clattering uselessly onto the sand.
Gasps swept the coliseum. Silence drowned every voice.
Draven leaned in close to the broken knight, lips curling. "Boring."
Galven fell to one knee, panting blood, chest plate cracked wide. His aura flickered but refused to vanish. He stared up at Draven with defiance, lips whispering silent prayers.
Draven raised his hand casually, preparing to crush the knight.
Orin shot to his feet, crumbs flying everywhere. "WOOOOAHHH! Did you see that?! He broke the sword with his fingers! His FINGERS! I HAVE to fight him!"
The crowd was frozen in horror. Only Orin was clapping like a lunatic.
Code's hand closed on Orin's shoulder, grip iron. His eyes never left Draven. His voice was low, grave, colder than Orin had ever heard it. "He's not fighting, boy. He's playing."
The camera froze on Draven's crooked smile, his hand hanging above Galven's battered form.