At the sound of "Begin!" the air inside the colosseum snapped taut like a bowstring.
No one wasted a heartbeat.
~zlcchhhhh!
~chnggggggg!
Steel met steel in a violent, ringing clash that made the front rows flinch. Sand kicked up under their feet as the two men launched into the fight without hesitation.
Cain Zuli was ruthless from the very first exchange—his katana a blur of cold silver under the arena lights. Each strike carried the weight of a man who had honed his killing intent into an art form. His eyes, sharp and unblinking underneath his black assassin mask, as he tracked every twitch of muscle, every shift of breath in his opponent.
Naze, blindfolded and calm, turned ever so slightly, his stance loose, as though waiting for the storm to reveal its pattern.
Cain didn't wait. He pressed forward with savage efficiency, targeting every fleeting gap in Naze's guard. His sword howled through the air, each swing sharper and more aggressive than the last.
And then—Cain unleashed a blistering three-hit combo.
First—whoosh!—a strike aimed toward Naze's left side, fast enough to make the sand beneath his feet spray outward.
Second—without pause—he struck again to the same side, as though to overwhelm the blind man's reactions.
But the third… the third was a trap.
Cain pivoted so fast it blurred the motion, switching his angle to Naze's right with a speed that would have caught even a sighted man off guard. His katana whistled through the air, aimed cleanly at Naze's neck—a killing blow if ever there was one.
For the spectators, it all happened in a blink.
Naze's body bent backward in a perfect, fluid arch, his head barely escaping the blade's kiss. The tip of the katana still found flesh, grazing his cheek and leaving a thin red line. The crowd gasped—many rising to their feet.
Naze touched the wound lightly, a faint trace of blood on his fingers. His lips curled in the faintest smile. This man… Cain Zuli… was not just strong. He was something else.
"This man is on another level," Naze thought, adjusting his footing.
Up in the royal box, Prince Aloysius—the seventh prince—leaned forward, seizing the opportunity to jab at his rival. His eyes sparkled with petty delight as he glanced at Prince Jaden, who sat with his usual air of icy indifference.
"I thought you said your Naze was a monster," Aloysius sneered. "But from where I'm sitting, it seems your so-called 'monster'—a blind man with no skill—is no match for the wrath of Cain."
Back on the stage, Cain Zuli smirked beneath the shadow of his assassin's hood and mask. His voice carried that slow, lethal amusement only killers who had never known defeat could possess.
"If you hadn't met me, your streak might have gone on a while longer. Unfortunately for you… it is your loss to have crossed my path."
Naze said nothing. The words hung in the air, but his silence was not one of fear—it was the silence of someone who measured every breath, every shift of weight, waiting. If he could see beneath Cain Zuli's mask, he would have noticed the assassin's stance: relaxed, loose, shoulders lowered as if the outcome had already been written in blood.
Cain Zuli trusted in his skill so absolutely that he didn't even consider Naze worthy of his full caution. In truth, this felt to him like using a war hammer to crack a quail's egg—messy, excessive, and beneath him.
The fight raged on, blades clashing in bursts of steel and shadow. Both men drew minor wounds—thin lines of red here, a shallow cut there—but for a long time, neither could claim victory. The crowd held its breath, sensing the tension sharpen with every strike.
Then, Cain Zuli halted, his breathing steady. Naze stood across from him, his clothes torn to shreds, skin striped with cuts, sweat matting his hair to his face. For forty relentless minutes, Cain Zuli had poured his skill into every strike, driving his opponent to the edge of collapse.
But Naze… did not fall.
Even in his battered state, he stood there, sword trembling in his hand, eyes locked forward with a defiance that gnawed at the assassin's composure. Cain Zuli found himself unsettled—though he would never admit it aloud. There was something in the way Naze clung to life, as if some unseen prize awaited him on the other side of survival.
"I am the greatest assassin in existence," Cain Zuli growled through his black mask, irritation seeping into his tone. "Why… do you even bother to hold on?"
Cain Zuli's posture spoke louder than his words. He stood like a man reading a story he had already memorised, his very stance was deliberate, every shift in concentration, measured. In his mind, there was no uncertainty, no question of who would win but something about Naze kept him uncertain.
He trusted his skill, his strength, his killing instinct so deeply that Naze barely registered as a threat. In truth, this fight felt absurd—like unleashing a warship against a fishing boat. He pressed forward again, his strikes a blur, each one carrying the weight of a man who had perfected the art of death.
Naze was a wreck. His clothes hung in tatters, and his skin was crisscrossed with fresh cuts, each stinging reminder of the assassin's precision. For thirty relentless minutes, Cain Zuli had attacked without pause, forcing him back, grinding him down. Any other fighter would have collapsed long ago under that storm of steel.
But Naze did not fall. He stood, breathing hard, eyes fixed, his grip on his twin swords unbroken. There was no sense to it—no logic to the way he endured.
Cain Zuli's voice cut through the clang of the arena. "It's time to end this…" His words were edged with exasperation, muffled beneath his black mask.
Naze didn't move. His body screamed with pain, but his spirit clung to a single promise—a memory that refused to fade.
My master, Josh Aratat, will return… but until then, I fight to keep you all alive.
The vow pulsed through him with every heartbeat, anchoring him in the storm. His stance tightened. His swords gleamed under the arena lights. No matter what Cain Zuli threw at him next, Naze would not bow.