The continuous impact of Vergil's blows against Athena makes the coliseum itself groan, but the scene that truly matters isn't in the center of the arena.
It's above.
On one of the oldest platforms, carved not for ostentation but for resistance, two figures observe in silence—not as judges, nor as ordinary spectators, but as forces that know the end of worlds when they see it approaching.
Shiva rests her elbow on her knee, her chin supported by her hand, her eyes half-closed as she watches Vergil multiply. Her blue hair ripples slightly, not from the wind, but from the conceptual tension building in the air. Beside her, Kali stands, arms crossed, four attentive eyes, each focused on a different detail of the fight.
"Hm…" Shiva murmurs, without taking her eyes off the projection. "Those clones."
Kali tilts her head slightly.
"They're identical," she says. "Not illusions. Not incomplete projections." Each carries intention, weight, and consequence.
She narrows her eyes.
