Cain Zuli surged forward, this time with murder carved into every motion. He had entered the fabled instant kill state—where one clean strike ends a life without the need for a second. No hesitation, no mercy, no chance for the prey to recover.
The arena seemed to hold its breath. Cain Zuli moved like a predator in perfect synchrony with its kill—swift, focused, unrelenting. He was a black storm given flesh, his presence drowning the air.
From the smug grin of the Trickster God above, to the crushed expressions of Lola and her comrades, to the grim silence of the common folk, the crowd's faces reflected the weight of the match. Hope and despair clashed there just as fiercely as the duel below.
Cain Zuli struck—first from the left, the blow rattling through Naze's defenses, then instantly from the right, a seamless pivot of destruction. The speed was monstrous. Many in the stands flinched and shut their eyes, unwilling to watch the inevitable.
This was the killing blow. The sword sang as it carved its arc, closing in on Naze's neck. Even the wind seemed to pause.
But at the final heartbeat, the blade passed through a shimmering illusion. The figure of Naze splintered into fragments of light—gone.
Cain Zuli's eyes widened beneath his mask. Impossible—!
The real Naze was already behind him. There was no roar, no battle cry—only the cold whisper of steel sliding into flesh. Two blades, two perfect strikes: one plunged through the heart, the other pierced the back of the skull.
The execution was so precise, so surgical, that even the finest imperial physicians would have nodded in admiration if they were to check out the exact points of entry of the swords. Cain Zuli froze mid-breath, his body stiffening before gravity claimed it.
"How—" was Cain Zuli's last word before his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground like a heap of discarded armor.
Moments earlier, Naze had unleashed the one skill he had never managed to master until now—the Illusion Blade. A technique feared as much for its elegance as for its cost. The move required the wielder to remain real for only a heartbeat, then instantaneously switch places with a fading silhouette—an echo of himself—before that phantom body shattered into nothingness.
The beauty of the Illusion Blade lay in its deception. To the opponent, the switch was imperceptible, the real strike coming from an angle no human eye could track. But the price was steep.
The body, having moved at a speed that defied the limits of human flesh, became fragile—nearly useless—for the next ten minutes. Muscles tore, bones screamed, lungs burned for air. It was a skill for killing blows, not prolonged fights. And if the strike failed… the user was finished.
Naze knew all of this. And still—he gambled.
The crowd had expected to see Naze's severed head roll across the arena floor, Cain Zuli boasting over the corpse. Instead, silence gripped the colosseum like a hand over its mouth. Even the trickster god—watching with the gleam of mischief in his eyes—was caught off guard. He hated that.
The reason was simple: to execute the Illusion Blade, one needed absolute conviction. And conviction was the one truth the trickster god could never read, the one place his lies could not reach. In that moment, the god himself had been fooled.
A murmur rippled through the stands. Then the first gasp rang out. And another. And another.
Cain Zuli lay sprawled on the bloodstained stage, two blades buried deep between his heart and skull, their steel glistening like a grim crown of victory.
The silence shattered.
"Naze! Naze! Naze!" the crowd roared, voices surging like a wave. They didn't just cheer a man—they cheered their man. The battered warrior with no divine favor, no royal lineage, no tricks beyond grit and will. The one who fought as if each swing of his sword was for them.
And in that moment, Naze didn't just win a fight. He won the heart of the colosseum.
Lola was stunned—pleasantly so. Moments ago, she had been convinced Naze was finished. She had braced herself for the sickening sight of his head rolling on the blood-slicked floor.
Yet here he was, not only alive, but victorious… and in style. A tremor of relief passed through her chest, the tears welling up unbidden. She thought of the burden he had carried into that arena, of the silent promise he had made to ensure no one else would be forced to take his place. The emotion was almost too much.
The trickster god, however, wore a far different expression. For once, his grin faltered. His eyes narrowed, and without a word, he let out a low grunt.
Then, as if reality itself folded to his whim, he simply vanished. That was his habit whenever a match ended in a way he hadn't anticipated—a sulking retreat cloaked in divine nonchalance. It happened more often than he'd care to admit. Somewhere out there, another "worthy" opponent would soon feel his gaze.
For now, Naze simply exhaled, every muscle aching, his body heavy with the toll of battle. All he wanted was rest. He turned away from the crimson-stained stage, slipping back into the dimensional tote confines where Lola and his other comrades were held.
There, the scent of blood and sweat gave way to the faint aroma of herbal tonics. He found a place with bath water to wash the gore from his skin, the water running pink before swirling away. Recovery potions awaited him, their bitter taste offset by the relief they brought.
After which, His comrades gathered close—hands clasping his shoulders, voices thick with gratitude. He had fought for them, bled for them, and they knew it.
Up in the imperial box, Prince Aloysius sat frozen in disbelief. The seventh prince had been certain Cain Zuli's victory was inevitable. He had pictured the ending clearly: a clean, dominant triumph.
Instead, defying every expectation, Naze had snatched the win—just as Prince Jaden had predicted before the match had even begun. That thought gnawed at Aloysius, a seed of unease sprouting in his mind. How deep did the second prince's foresight truly run?
Jaden noticed. He saw the stiffness in Aloysius' stride as the prince turned and left without a word. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. This, too, he had foreseen.
At his side, Princess Jerusha gave him a look of mild amusement. "Brother," she said lightly, "I've long accepted that you're… unusual. I've stopped trying to figure out how you always know what's coming."
Jaden only smiled deeper, but said nothing.