The trickster god disappeared with Arkham and appeared at the underground tunnel. The Trickster God materialized in the underground tunnel with a soundless snap, shadows bending around his presence like frightened servants.
Arkham staggered a little as reality stitched itself back together, the smell of steel and old blood hitting his nostrils. The tunnel was long and dark, lit only by the sickly glow of glyphs carved into the walls—a place that had swallowed thousands before him.
Arkham stood at the entrance, his boots scraping on the sand-dusted stone floor. He was young, 21 at most, with sharp cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and the kind of earnestness that could either move mountains or get a man killed. His hands balled into fists, and his jaw clenched as his thoughts flickered back to her—Agatha.
He turned to the Trickster God, who was already adjusting his coat with lazy arrogance, getting ready to leave, and snapped at him in a voice full of stubborn fire:
"You mustn't touch my Agatha. If you lay a hand on her—once I'm done with that blind man, I'll come for you."
The Trickster God froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned his head, and for a heartbeat there was silence—then laughter bubbled up from his chest, low and dangerous, like a blade unsheathed in the dark.
"Hmmm… your Agatha?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting like molten silver. "That's interesting. Tell me, boy, are you sure she shares that little fantasy of yours? Or…" His grin widened, teeth white as ivory. "…are you just here, all alone in your head, weaving dreams and getting ahead of yourself while she leaves you here to die?"
Arkham's breath hitched, but he said nothing. The Trickster God stepped closer, voice dropping into something almost intimate, almost cruel:
"Do you even know why she didn't speak up? Why she didn't try to stop you? Because she only cares as much as you sacrifice for her. You're a pawn, and she's watching you walk into the grinder with a smile."
Arkham flinched. For a flicker of a moment, the light in his eyes dimmed. Then his chin lifted stubbornly, pride stiffening his spine.
"It doesn't matter. She's a queen. And she's my Agatha. I'll kill that blind bat and win her heart." His voice burned with a desperation that almost sounded noble—if you didn't know better.
The Trickster God's laughter filled the tunnel like a storm breaking the sky. He clutched his stomach, eyes watering with mirth.
"Oh… oh, this is going to be delicious. Please, keep that fire alive for me. I've not seen such rich drama in a few centuries." His grin curved sharp and wicked. "Oh.... and Once your name is called, step out in style, boy, especially with that valiant swagger. Don't keep your lover waiting."
And with that, he vanished in a ripple of light and malice, reappearing in the commentator's booth high above the Colosseum. Peter Reitch—a man whose voice had turned deaths into poetry and massacres into festivals—jumped as the Trickster God whispered something into his ear.
Peter's eyes went wide. Then a grin spread across his face like ink in water. Mischief danced in his gaze as he grabbed the crystal magic ball, capable of amplifying his voice, by multiple decibels, across the length and breath of the colosseum. His voice boomed a heartbeat later, carried by spellcraft to every corner of the roaring arena.
---
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! BOYS AND GIRLS!" His words cut through the crowd like a blade, commanding instant silence. "Honor to His Excellency, the Trickster God! Glory to the Eternal Emperor, Groa Aratat—may his reign be forever! Salutations to the royals, the nobles, and the honored guests!"
The crowd thundered back their respect, fists pounding the rails, voices shaking the sky.
Peter waited, savoring the hush that followed. Then, with a sly curl of his lips, he dropped the spark that would ignite the frenzy.
"Today… oh, today, we have a challenger. And not just any challenger." He leaned forward, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that carried like thunder. "He is a mage… a seasoned mage… who dares to challenge the undefeated, the untouchable, the unstoppable—blindswordsman, NAZE!"
The name detonated like a bomb. The stands erupted in chaos.
"A mage? He dares... He's dead already!"
"Another fool with a death wish!"
"Naze, honey, leave him in one piece when you're done! At least the top half!"
Peter raised a hand, and the crowd obeyed like an opposition party politician at a rally. His grin widened, and his next words poured oil on the fire.
"But that's not all… oh no, no, no, far from it... This mage—this brave, starry-eyed hero—is not fighting for fame. Not for fortune. He fights… for love."
The arena roared like an awakened beast.
"For the hand of a woman so beautiful, so divine, that men would crawl on broken glass just to kiss her heel…"
And then—the Trickster God moved his hand slightly. With a flick of his fingers, a sphere of pure light exploded above the stands, casting an unnatural glow on the section where the remaining Oradonian defectors sat. Faces turned upward as the light narrowed, sharpening like a blade, and then—Agatha's image filled the sky.
The crowd gasped. Whistles and howls followed like wolves to a scent of blood.
Agatha froze under the sudden weight of a thousand stares. Her hands rose instinctively to shield her face, but it was too late. The image magnified her every curve, every quiver of unease, her full lips pressed tight in something between shame and irritation. The flush of her cheeks betrayed her. She was proud in herself, but she was not in love, not in a million years.
And everyone saw it.
"A typical case of knight in shining armor!" a man laughed so hard he spilled his ale.
"Someone call an anti-simp warrior and get this guy out of here..."
"She doesn't even look interested!"
"Doesn't matter! If he dies quick, maybe I'll have a shot!"
"Someone should tell him—the only thing she's in love with is herself!"
The Trickster God stood unseen, drinking it all in like fine wine, his grin stretching wider with every cruel cheer. This was theater, and the tragedy had only just begun.