Naze stood drenched in crimson, the blood soaking through his robes wasn't his—it was Agra the giant's, and it painted him like a warrior from a bygone age. His chest rose and fell with slow, rhythmic breath, like a man who had long since made peace with death but had chosen, this time, to let death take another.
He had done what many thought impossible—defeated Agra the giant, a behemoth of raw muscle and ruthless strength. And he had done it blind.
The crowd, once hesitant and subdued, erupted. What had started as murmurs swelled into waves of jubilant chaos. Shouts of "Naze!" rang from lips that had moments ago been sealed in terror. Even hardened guards and skeptical nobles could not suppress the tide of emotion that swept through the coliseum.
Among the upper tiers, the royals and dignitaries maintained a facade of decorum, their masks unshaken by the violence they had just witnessed. But beneath their polished exteriors, many were exhilarated. Hidden smirks tugged at princely lips; gloved hands clenched with suppressed excitement. Some empresses exchanged knowing glances, the thrill of the spectacle igniting a spark long buried beneath centuries of courtly boredom.
And Naze, unbothered by their politics, turned away from the broken, twitching corpse of Agra and made his way toward the northern side where the heavy magical tote stood—holding his companions, still trapped behind enchanted bars.
With each step, blood dripped from his blades. The blind swordsman, guided only by instinct and sound, stopped just in front of the prison and turned his face toward the highest seat in the arena. Though he could not see the trickster god, his chin lifted, unshaken.
He was waiting. For judgement.
After all, the trickster god had made a promise before the match. The victor would win their freedom. It had been spoken clearly—mocking in tone, but a promise nonetheless. And Naze, for all his cool composure, harbored a single fragile hope: that the insane deity would keep his word.
There was a moment of silence.
Then the trickster god rose, arms outstretched with exaggerated grace. "That was a fantastic match!" His voice rolled across the arena, silencing the crowd like the sweeping hand of night. "We'll prepare for the next round—5pm sharp! Until then, our champion should get some rest."
Cheers began again—but Naze didn't move.
He couldn't believe his ears. That wasn't the deal. The promise had been for freedom—now he was being told to rest for the next round?
Before he could speak, Lola's voice pierced the air.
"Is your word so worthless?" she spat, rage woven into every syllable. "Why bother giving it if it means as much as dirt?"
Gasps rose. Even the trickster god froze mid-laugh, his expression twisting into something dark and cruel. For a moment, he looked ready to kill her where she stood—eyes glowing like miniature suns.
But then, he stopped. Smiled. Tilted his head as if she'd just amused him in a way he hadn't expected.
"Death would be too easy an escape for you," he said softly, voice laced with venom and honey. "I will make you wish you never met me. That your tongue had rotted before it dared speak my name."
Lola didn't flinch. Instead, she growled, a feral sound that cut through the air like broken glass. "When my master returns," she snarled, "he'll kill you and feed what's left of your corpse to stray dogs."
There was a collective stillness across the arena. Many had heard tales of Josh Aratat—the Black Dragon. But few had ever heard anyone speak his name so brazenly before the Trickster God himself.
"You have such high opinion of him," the trickster god mused, almost pitying. "Unfortunately for your ignorant little mind and your pitiful daydreams, there is no way your master can escape the Fifth Dimension, let alone find his way back here to enact any kind of vengeance."
He walked closer to the edge of his throne dais, his voice turning bitter, personal.
"Trust me—I was once a prisoner there myself. I know the agony. The void. The madness."
He paused, eyes narrowing like daggers.
"The only reason you see me here," he hissed, "is because that toad of a conjurer was stupid enough to summon me. Otherwise, I'd still be rotting there."
The air shifted, heavy with tension and old secrets.
And somewhere in the thick of the crowd—wedged between fear and hope—a whisper rippled out like a dangerous wind carried by fate.
"The Black Dragon…"
The name, once obscure, esoteric, and known only to a few who cared, grew so famous that it even appeared in legends and battle songs, it ignited hope in weary bones and made the blood of the hopeless to boil, it now spilled from trembling lips, stirring memories long buried.
"Do you think the Black Dragon would return?" a small voice asked—innocent, unaware of the weight his words carried. It was a boy, clutching at the loose sleeve of his mother's gown, his eyes wide with untainted wonder.
The mother turned sharply and clamped her palm over his mouth, her eyes darting like a hunted deer's. She crouched beside him and whispered fiercely, "Do you want to get us killed? That man up there…"—she gestured subtly toward the Trickster God now lounging like a bored beast atop his spectral throne—"He's more deranged than your father ever was. And that bastard left me for dead with you in my belly."
Her voice softened, but it trembled with pain buried beneath years of silence. "I want the Black Dragon to return too, gods know I do… but blind hope doesn't shield you from madness."
Another voice—an older man this time, gaunt-faced with a scar running across his jaw—nodded quietly beside them. "I want him to return too," he muttered under his breath. "I want him to end this farce… this cursed circus of gods and blood. I want him to bring back reason. Justice."
Like dry leaves catching fire, murmurs began to spread from corner to corner. Soft at first. Reverent. Careful. But it was there.
Hope.
Hope was a dangerous thing. And in the Empire of Ash where the Trickster God ruled unchecked, it could get you killed. Yet the whispers grew, an undercurrent of rebellion dressed in myth. The name of the Black Dragon—the saviour, the monster, the legend—slipped past the lips of old men and women, of young guards pretending not to listen, of merchants, of soldiers who had once marched under his shadow.
And through it all, the Trickster God remained still. His eyes were closed. His fingers tapped in rhythm to a tune no one could hear. But then… he vanished. No dramatic flourish. No fire or lightning. Just gone, as though the air had swallowed him whole.
Naze, still blind but sharp in every other sense, was transported back to the cold confines where the other generals and warriors once loyal to Josh Aratat were kept. His body ached with fatigue, but his heart was even heavier.
He did not speak. There was nothing to say. Victory had been snatched with bloodied hands, yet freedom remained a dangling lie.
He leaned against the confining wall of the tote's dimension, hearing the shallow breaths and rustling movements of his comrades. Each breath was a reminder: they were still alive. But for how long?
Across the confines of the tote's dimension, Lola paced like a caged lioness. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Her teeth sank into her lower lip now and again, drawing blood she barely noticed. Rage simmered inside her—molten and dangerous.
Every time she recalled the Trickster God's smirk, his voice, his mockery, her hands twitched, longing for a blade.
But she held it in. Barely. Only barely.
The whispers of the Black Dragon continued to erupt as everyone started to share the stories they knew and heard. It seems no one wanted to go home just yet.