The Colosseum still echoed with the memory of fire. Hercules' defeat hung heavy in the air, the crowd abuzz with half-whispers, half-cheers. Sephiroth's shadow lingered long after he had walked away, the image of the meteor burning in every mind.
He moved now through the tunnel toward the waiting room, Masamune balanced casually in his hand. His steps were silent, his expression unreadable.
A figure blocked his path.
Achilles.
His spear rested across his shoulders, shield slung at his side, his chest heaving not from exertion but from fury barely contained.
"You won't beat me this time," Achilles said, voice low but trembling with intensity. "I'll win this Cup. I'll face you again. And when I do, I'll defeat you."
Sephiroth's green eyes drifted over him, cold and disinterested. He tilted his head faintly. "Who are you?"
Achilles stiffened as though struck. "You—! We fought before!"
Sephiroth's lips curved, faint as a knife-line smile. "Then it must not have been a memorable fight."
He stepped past.
Achilles' knuckles whitened around his spear. His jaw locked, fury simmering, but Sephiroth was already gone, swallowed by shadow.
The sound of Phil's voice cut the tension.
"Alright, ya bums! Next match in the Advanced Cup—Achilles, the man who was once boasted as undefeated versus Atalanta, the world's best huntress!"
The Colosseum roared anew.
Achilles strode into the light, spear gleaming, shield raised. His presence was thunder: raw strength, relentless determination, every step striking sparks off the repaired stone.
From the opposite tunnel, Atalanta emerged.
The crowd hushed. She walked with the grace of a huntress, every motion measured, her eyes sharp as a hawk's. A longbow was slung across her back, a quiver of silver-fletched arrows at her hip. In her right hand, she twirled a dagger, its blade curved like a crescent moon. Swift, confident, untouchable—she looked every inch the disciple of Artemis herself.
Phil threw his hands high. "Begin!"
Achilles lunged immediately, spear stabbing forward like a bolt of lightning.
Atalanta slipped aside, the tip grazing air where her heart had been. Her dagger flashed once, carving across Achilles' vambrace before she darted back, light on her feet.
The crowd gasped.
Achilles' grin was feral. "Fast. But speed won't save you."
He pressed forward, shield raised, spear striking again and again. Each thrust rang like thunder, the sheer force shaking the stone beneath their feet. Atalanta danced around them, her movements impossibly fluid, every step precise, every dodge a hair's breadth from death.
She leapt back, bow snapping into her hands in one fluid motion. An arrow flew, silver streaking the air. Achilles raised his shield; the arrow struck dead center with a sharp crack, embedding deep but failing to pierce.
Atalanta fired again—two, three, four arrows in rapid succession. Achilles deflected them all, charging through the barrage.
"Arrows won't break me!" he roared, slamming his shield forward.
She ducked under the blow, dagger slashing upward, sparks dancing as it scraped across his greave. She slid behind him, bow drawn in the same breath, and loosed an arrow into the back of his knee.
Achilles staggered, just for a moment.
The crowd erupted.
Atalanta's eyes narrowed. She pressed the advantage, arrows raining from impossible angles, dagger flashing when he drew too close. Each strike was a cut, a sting, a reminder: she was untouchable.
But Achilles was relentless. Every arrow he endured, every slash he ignored, driving forward. His spear lashed out in arcs, his shield slammed down like a hammer. A lesser opponent would have been crushed.
Still, Atalanta moved. She bent around his fury like a reed in the wind, her speed making mockery of his power.
"You're slowing," she said calmly, loosing another arrow.
Achilles snarled. "And you've been running the entire match."
He hurled his spear.
The weapon screamed through the air, faster than an arrow. Atalanta spun, dagger flashing, and deflected the shaft just wide. It buried itself in the arena floor with a thunderous crack, stone shattering on impact.
The crowd gasped again, half in awe, half in fear.
Achilles didn't stop. He surged forward with his shield alone, swinging it like a weapon. Atalanta ducked under the swing, rolled, and slashed her dagger across his side. Blood sprayed.
Achilles bellowed, but his grin widened.
Atalanta's bow snapped up. An arrow whistled point-blank, striking his shoulder and staggering him.
He caught her wrist with his free hand. For a moment, strength overcame speed. He shoved her back, shield slamming against her ribs. The air left her lungs.
The crowd screamed. Achilles raised his shield high, ready to crush her.
Atalanta twisted. Her dagger carved a deep line across his arm, forcing him to drop his shield. She flipped backward, bow in hand, and loosed three arrows in a blink. One struck his thigh, one his forearm, the third grazing his cheek.
Achilles roared in frustration, staggering as blood dripped down his leg.
Atalanta straightened, calm and sharp-eyed. "Your rage makes you as predictable as a Minotaur."
Her dagger flashed once more. She darted in, slicing his side, then rolled away before his counterblow could land. Another arrow followed, pinning his shield hand to the ground.
Achilles wrenched it free with brute force, but the delay was fatal. Atalanta's dagger pressed against his throat, her bowstring drawn taut, an arrow nocked and ready.
The Colosseum thundered with cheers.
Achilles froze, chest heaving. His teeth ground together, fury blazing in his eyes—but he knew. He had lost.
Phil's whistle shrieked. "Match over! Winner—Atalanta!"
The crowd roared her name, chanting, stomping, the arena alive with her triumph. Atalanta lowered her weapons, stepping back with composed grace, as though victory had been inevitable.
Achilles dropped to one knee, spear retrieved, eyes locked not on her but on the tunnel. On Sephiroth.
'Next time. Next time you'll remember me.'
Above, in the shadows of the stands, Sephiroth watched. His green eyes flickered faintly as he regarded the scene. His lips curved into the faintest smile.
"A fight not worth remembering."
Then he turned and walked back into the waiting room.