Anonymous Quote: "The downfall of a man is not in his weakness, but in his decisions."
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The Trickster God reappeared in the Imperial Colosseum like a blade through silk—light shattering into a million shards as his presence tore through reality. The air crackled when he landed, and the ground hummed under his feet.
By now, the arena was alive. The stands overflowed with bodies and feverish whispers; the sound of thousands rolled like thunder around the massive amphitheater. All of them waited for blood. All of them wanted one thing: to witness the next impossible slaughter.
Because today, Naze was fighting again.
The blind swordsman. The living storm. The man who had turned death into an art form.
Every fighter who had dared step into that circle—beasts, assassins, warlords—had fallen the same way: obliterated, erased, as though they had never existed. Their names were expunged from the list of greatness leaving behind his legacy.
His most recent victim, Cain Zuli—the empire's deadliest assassin—had only elevated his legend to divine heights. Now the whole empire was drunk on his myth.
They wanted to see who would die next.
They also knew the Trickster God had returned with fresh meat. New challengers. Maybe even the one destined to end Naze's reign.
The Imperial Colosseum pulsed like a living heart. Stone walls shook under the roar of thousands, and the air shimmered with the heat of bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, drunk on the promise of blood.
Every conversation was a spark in a storm. Voices clashed, laughter broke like waves, and bets changed hands faster than cards in a rigged game.
"Naze is going to obliterate anything that stands in his way," a broad-shouldered man bellowed over the din, slamming his fist on the railing hard enough to rattle the iron. "By now, you fools should've learned to stop doubting him! The Cain Zuli debacle should have taught you some manners… Never doubt my Naze!"
His words drew a chorus of nods, grins splitting faces wide, though others smirked with a gambler's arrogance.
"Honestly," a woman purred from the next tier, her fingers curling around the stem of a jeweled goblet, "those last scenes? Unreal. I thought Naze was dead for sure… But then—" she shivered, biting her lip, "he came swinging with a swagger that made me scream so loud the guards thought I was being murdered." Her eyes gleamed like molten gold as she added, "If only I could spend a night with him…"
"Dream smaller, sweetheart," a lean man beside her sneered, though his grin couldn't mask the hunger in his tone. "Naze doesn't share his time with mortals. He owns time."
"He stands at the apex of perfection," another voice chimed in, reverent as a priest at an altar. "His blade arts… they're beyond magical. Naze isn't just a swordsman—he's a living deity."
The words sent a ripple of agreement through the circle. A few even bowed their heads briefly, as though paying homage to a god of war.
"Any news on the challenger today?" someone asked, eyes alight with morbid curiosity. "I'd like to get a glimpse of the menu—the next set of corpses—if you know what I mean."
The question drew laughter sharp as breaking glass.
"Nobody cares who it is," came the reply, dry and merciless. "If you're stupid enough to face Naze, you're already dead. The only question is how fast your ghost leaves your body."
The crowd roared at that, pounding fists against stone, the vibration crawling through the bones of the arena like an ancient drumbeat.
Above, banners depicting the blind swordsman whipped in the wind, his image carved in strokes of black and silver—head tilted slightly, eyes veiled behind a strip of crimson silk, and that sword… gods, that sword, drawn like a line of moonlight across the fabric.
All around the Colosseum, chants rose in waves, a single name splitting the sky:
"NAZE! NAZE! NAZE!"
It wasn't just a fight they were here for.
It was worship.
The god appeared before his fifteen new recruits, eyes glinting like molten gold. He scanned them lazily, as though choosing which lamb would be the first to the slaughter.
The recruits, however, were not fools. Whispers of the blind swordsman had already seeped into their ears like smoke. The name Naze carried weight—a weight that crushed hope. The crowd's feverish chants, the painted murals of the swordsman on banners, the very atmosphere screamed one truth: whoever faced him next would die.
Something didn't add up. The god had told them Naze was nothing more than a "blind challenger," a stepping stone on their path to glory. But if that were true, why did the entire empire quake at his name?
Two possibilities slithered into their minds:
Either the people lied and made things up… or the trickster god did.
The second possibility was the most terrifying yet believable.
But none dared speak it aloud. They knew what kind of creature stood before them.
The Trickster god didn't care if they suspected the truth. He didn't need their belief—he owned their freedom and even had their very lives had the palm of his hands. Just as Josh Aratat's subordinates had been bound by restraining confines of the tote dimension, these fifteen were shackled by their wrong choices. They had chosen him, and now they would bleed for that decision.
He clapped his hands once, the sound sharp as a guillotine.
"So," he purred, a grin curling across his face like a scar, "which of you wants to make history first? Agatha, perhaps? Or…" his eyes flicked across the line, "someone with more spine?"
Agatha's pulse throbbed against her throat. Before she could answer, a hand slid into hers. She turned to see Arkham—the young mage whose admiration for her had always burned too brightly—stepping forward.
"I'll go in her place." His voice was steady, but his grip on her hand trembled like a leaf in storm wind.
Agatha didn't protest. Not out of affection—but calculation. If he was foolish enough to volunteer, she wouldn't stop him.
The trickster god's smile deepened, slow and venomous. He moved toward Arkham, every step deliberate, like a predator circling prey. A shimmer of golden script unfurled in the air beside him—Arkham's life written out like a confession letter.
"Your name is Arkham," the god murmured, tasting the name. "Age, Twenty-one years old. You have a mother and two siblings clinging to life. Starvation gnawed at their bones until you gambled everything to join the mages as a trainee. Noble… pathetic. And then, when I came calling with promises of glory, you crawled at my feet like a starving dog."
His words cut deeper than any blade.
Arkham swallowed hard, his jaw locking, eyes fixed on the arena's gates ahead.
But behind the god's amusement simmered something darker. Frustration. Rage.
Because while he could peel open Arkham's life like an old wound, while he could strip every memory bare, there were things he could not touch.
Every thread leading back to her—Amber Nois—the great Archmage, was shrouded, bound by a force older and stronger than his curiosity. The Oradonian Base's origins, her true nature… sealed away as if the universe itself conspired to keep him blind.
And the Trickster god hated blindness.
His grin cracked wider, but his eyes burned like suns. Finding her would be like hunting a shadow through a storm. But he would find her.
Oh, he would.