The coliseum was silent.
The announcer's voice shook as he forced the words out.
"W-winner… Draven."
No cheers came. No chants of triumph. Only a heavy stillness. Galven lay crumpled in the sand, his armor split, sword shattered, his breath shallow. And above him loomed Draven—smiling, crooked, cruel.
The Devil Fighter raised his hand once more, shadow rolling thicker, heavier, swallowing the last of the torchlight. This wasn't victory. It was execution.
Somewhere, a child screamed. Guards shouted, but none dared step forward.
One man did.
Code rose from the bench, cloak stirring. His aura rippled faintly around him, silver light gathering in his palms. Not here. Not like this. He readied to leap down.
But something small shot past him.
A blur.
Orin.
The boy's body streaked across the sand with impossible speed, his feet tracing the same single-step technique Elyas had used hours ago. A move that covered ten paces in less than a heartbeat. He had seen it once. Now, somehow, he was doing it.
Code froze mid-leap, eyes narrowing. He copied it…?
Draven's shadow fell over Galven. His massive fist came crashing down, haze wrapping it like a storm cloud. The sand cracked before the blow even landed.
And Orin appeared in front of the knight.
His hand shot upward.
The impact was thunder.
Lightning burst from Orin's body, arcs of blue tearing into the air, racing across the coliseum's pillars, snapping against the iron gates until sparks showered down. The haze around Draven's fist smothered the light, a suffocating dome of black and red closing over the two of them.
The ground beneath Orin split, fractures racing outward in a circle. Sand and rubble lifted, whirling into a cyclone around their bodies.
The clash wasn't a moment. It was a storm.
Draven's massive hand pressed down, veins glowing crimson, fingers curling like claws. Orin's smaller hand pushed back, skin torn, knuckles split, blood streaking his arm—but from his fingers lightning screamed, wild and unyielding.
Their auras collided, one devouring, one exploding. The haze pressed like a coffin, but the lightning tore back against it, filling every crack of shadow with sparks.
Orin's heels carved trenches in the sand as his body buckled. His shoulders shook, bones groaned. Blood trickled from his lip, yet his teeth flashed in a broken grin.
"Heh… not bad."
The arena seemed to hold its breath.
Yullan's eyes were squeezed shut, hands over her face. When the explosion came, shaking the stands, she gasped and forced herself to look. What she saw stole her breath away.
The boy. Standing.
Bruised, trembling, bloodied—but there, holding back the Devil Fighter's fist.
Her lips trembled. "Orin…"
Around her, the crowd gasped, staggered, some falling to their knees. They had braced for slaughter, and now they saw a child, no older than ten, standing between a broken knight and a devil.
The lightning still crackled, sizzling along Orin's arm, crawling across his shoulders.
And then he spoke.
"Hey, big guy!" His voice rang loud, foolish and proud. "You already won, right? So… leave the shiny knight alone. He's mine to fight next time!"
The silence shattered. Gasps rippled like waves. A hundred mouths dropped open.
Code stood frozen at the edge of the arena, his usual calm gone. His hands clenched, breath caught. He had nearly intervened, but the boy had stepped in first—and held. How…? How far can he still go?
Draven's fist remained locked against the boy's palm for a heartbeat longer. Then, slowly, he pulled back. His crimson eyes glowed, and for the first time, there was a glint of something that almost looked like amusement.
"…Interesting."
His voice was low, thick with promise. He turned, his shadow peeling away as he strode back to the tunnel. The torches sputtered back to life in his wake, light returning inch by inch.
The haze faded. The cyclone died. Only the scars in the sand remained, cracks spidering out from the spot where boy and devil had met.
Orin staggered back, swaying, hand still trembling. His chest heaved, his knuckles bled, but his grin never wavered.
Code rushed to him, kneeling at his side. His shadow fell heavy over the boy.
"You reckless fool." His voice was sharp, cold, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of awe. "Do you even realize what you've just done?"
Orin wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah. I stopped him." He chuckled, exhausted, idiotically proud. "Pretty cool, right?"
Code glared so hard it should have shattered stone. "Cool? You nearly shattered yourself."
"Eh. Worth it." Orin wobbled, then raised a thumb. "Besides, now he knows I'm next!"
From the stands, Yullan's voice cracked across the silence.
"You moron!" She was gripping the railing so hard her knuckles were white, tears still glittering in her eyes. "Do you want to die?!"
Orin turned, raising his free hand to wave like a fool, grin still bloody.
"Hey, sis! Don't worry. Tomorrow's my turn!"
Her jaw dropped. She nearly fainted from fury.
The crowd erupted at last, not in cheers but in chaos—gasps, whispers, frantic prayers. Some chanted Orin's name in disbelief, others cursed him as insane.
The announcer, voice breaking, screamed into the storm of noise:
"TOMORROW—THE GRAND FINAL! ORIN OF RIVERBEND… VERSUS… DRAVEN, THE DEVIL FIGHTER!"
The coliseum shook, a thousand voices rising, not in celebration, but in dread and madness.
And at the center of the ring, amid shattered earth and drifting sparks, stood a boy with lightning in his veins and a grin on his face—holding back the hand of a devil.