Planet Earth...
Nazare Blade Empire...
Region 1...
Imperial Colosseum...
Since the day the blind swordsman, Naze, beheaded Agra the Giant in a duel that shook the pillars of the Imperial Colosseum, many blood-drenched matches had taken place. Yet none managed to eclipse the fearsome spectacle that followed him into the arena each time his name was called.
Despite the victory that was supposed to earn him his freedom, Naze remained bound. The Trickster God—mad, unpredictable, and endlessly entertained—had broken his word. He had promised to free Naze and release Josh Aratat's trapped men from the dimensional tote if the blind swordsman could survive one match. But that promise turned to dust the moment Naze struck down Agra. The god simply laughed, and scheduled the next fight.
And then the next.
And then another.
Over time, the crowd no longer remembered how the mortal combats began—nor did they care. They only craved the blood and spectacle. They came in thousands, chanting Naze's name, treating him as a legend carved in steel and shadow.
Each time he stepped onto the crimson sands, cloaked in silence and blindfold, tension spiked. No one could predict how he would win, but they knew he would. His blindfold no longer seemed like a hindrance; many even claimed it gave him an edge. He didn't flinch at the sight of monstrous enemies. He didn't hesitate in front of towering beasts or flame-breathing constructs. He fought not with sight, but with something else—something primal and dangerous. Some whispered that he fought with the will of death itself guiding his hands.
One thing was certain: Naze's swordsmanship had evolved into something beyond mortal comprehension.
Through endless battles, forged in chaos, his blade had become an extension of himself. It moved with a mind of its own, precise and unrelenting. So much so that even veterans like Lola and Conrad Stan—once considered the finest under Josh Aratat's command—began to suspect that Naze had surpassed them. Neither could say for sure what rank he now held. He never boasted. He never spoke unless spoken to.
They didn't envy him. No—Naze was like a brother. But still... a flicker of unease settled in their hearts. How do you lead a man who might one day be too powerful to follow?
And now, yet again, the day of battle had arrived.
The Imperial Colosseum was gradually filling to capacity. Stone seats curved around the arena like the ribs of a giant beast, each row stacked above the last, giving everyone a clear view of the sands below. From every one of the Empire's sixty-eight regions, spectators flooded in. Some flew in through enchanted gates, others rode through the desert plains in caravans for weeks just to see the spectacle.
Trumpets blared. The smell of spiced meats and burning torches wafted through the air. The walls vibrated with chants—"Na-ze! Na-ze! Na-ze!"
Even the nobility had turned out for this one. Dignitaries in golden robes and jewel-studded armor reclined in the elevated viewing boxes. Some brought their wives, others their sons and daughters—future rulers who needed to witness what true power looked like.
And somewhere beneath all the noise, in the gladiator's hollow beneath the arena floor, Naze waited silently—still blindfolded, still bound by fate, still undefeated.
But today… something was different.
An opponent had been found.
And not just any opponent.
Whispers filled the air like smoke:
"He's not from this realm."
"They say he devours light."
"They say even the Trickster God had to sign a pact to summon him."
The time had come. The sands would once again drink blood.
But would it be Naze's?
Or would the streak of death he brought to the colosseum continue?
Only the clash of blades would tell.
Before Naze descended into the underground tunnel—the dark, echoing passage that led to the grand arena where the bloodthirsty crowd waited—Lola had cornered him. Her voice was tight, trembling with restrained fury and desperation.
"Naze…" she said, her eyes searching his, "do you still want to fight? Why don't we just rebel? Even if it means dying, let's die on our own terms. Why do we have to keep acting like puppets—like livestock waiting to be slaughtered? Why… why keep playing this game?"
Naze stared at her. His jaw clenched, eyes sharp and burning like coals stoked by conviction. There was no hesitation in his answer.
"My master, Lord Aratat, will return," he said, his voice calm but resolute—like a vow carved in stone. "He will bring balance to this crumbling Empire. He will end both the madness of the Trickster God and the blood-soaked reign of the Emperor. Until then, I fight. Not because I enjoy it. Not because I believe this system is just. I fight to keep all of you alive."
He stepped closer, grabbing her shoulder—not roughly, but with enough pressure to let her feel the weight of his promise.
"If I fall, someone must take my place. Promise me that, Lola. Promise me our people won't fall apart if I die. Someone must always remain standing. Can you swear that?"
But Lola didn't answer. She just turned her head away, lips pressed into a thin line, hiding her own storm. Naze could tell the silence wasn't defiance. It was pain. Anger. Maybe even guilt.
Now, seated in the gladiator's hollow, and surrounded by the cold stone walls that reeked of iron and death, Naze replayed that moment over and over in his mind. The hollow was filled with the distant roars of the audience above, their cheers and jeers muffled but unmistakable. Still, his thoughts drifted.
He knew Lola. Knew her too well. She was holding herself together with trembling thread. Rage was simmering beneath her skin, hot and volatile. Her hatred for the Trickster God had become a second heartbeat, constant and relentless. She wanted to end it all—right now. But she was impulsive. And impulse in this Empire was death.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall, the stone cool against his sweat-damp skin.
She didn't understand it. Not yet.
Being alive—just being alive—was a weapon. A breath was a rebellion. A heartbeat was a seed of hope. Dead men don't rebel. Dead men don't dream. But the living? The living still have the chance to shatter chains and tear down thrones.
Naze's hands clenched into fists.
He wasn't the only one who believed that. All of them—every last one of the 2,500 who had sworn their loyalty to Josh Aratat, who had followed him to the edges of death and back—they could still feel it. That unspoken bond. That ancient, burning certainty deep in their chests.
Josh Aratat wasn't dead.
Not yet.
And when he returned, the heavens would tremble, and the empire would bleed.
Until then, Naze would keep fighting.
Even if it meant being the last one standing.