Anonymous Quote: "It is not the absence of eyes that truly blinds a man, but over-eagerness, lack of clarity, lack of foresight and out-right ignorance"
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"So, ladies and gentlemen… sit back, relax, and feast your eyes," Peter Reitch purred, his voice dripping with drama, "as we welcome—our first contender—Arkham!"
The sound that followed was an eruption. The Colosseum shook like a living beast, its thousand-throated roar bouncing off enchanted walls until the air itself trembled. Arkham emerged from the underground tunnel, boots crunching against the sand-dusted floor, his head high and his stride sharp with purpose. His blue eyes burned with a fire that spoke of pride, of desperation, of a love so blind it could only lead to ruin.
Jeers and cheers tangled in the air like clashing blades. Some voices spat venom, others raised hopeful cries, but beneath it all was the same unspoken truth: This boy is walking to his death. You could feel it in the murmurs.
"Poor bastard."
"Start digging his grave now."
"Brave? Maybe. Stupid? Absolutely."
And yet… a handful cheered for him. The idea of a mage breaking the champion's streak thrilled them like blood on snow.
Arkham didn't care. He walked like a knight out of legend, shoulders squared, the phantom image of Agatha shimmering in his mind like a holy flame. For her, he told himself. For love. For destiny.
Peter's voice rose again, each word a drumbeat:
"And now…" He let the pause stretch, feeding the hunger in the crowd until they were trembling for the name. "…the reigning champion. The undefeated. The unstoppable. The inevitable." The final word cracked like thunder. "The Blind Swordsman—NAZE!"
The world exploded. The ground quaked under the force of the cheers. The stands shook as fists pounded railings, as boots stomped, as thousands of voices fused into one primal scream: "NAZE! Naze! Naze!"
The vibration was so intense you could feel it in your teeth. If you tried to speak, your own voice would vanish beneath the avalanche of sound. It was not applause. It was worship.
And then—he came.
No fanfare. No flourish. No false grandeur.
Just a man, barefoot on the sand, moving with the calm weight of inevitability. Twin swords crossed on his back. A black blindfold tied across eyes that hadn't seen the sun in years. His face was unreadable, carved from the same quiet as tombstones.
He didn't wave. Didn't bow. Didn't acknowledge the thunderstorm of voices. He simply walked to his mark and stood still, his presence louder than any roar.
Naze had one thought in mind, that is to keep protecting the other members of the Josh Aratat legacy, trapped within the confines of the tote bags' dimensional prison. He wished to protect them till Josh Aratat returned, but the absence of his showmanship seemed to suggest that he was afraid.
Arkham saw this… and smiled.
Fear. That's what this is. The thought curled warm and victorious in his mind. The great champion hides behind silence because he knows. He knows his reign ends today. The mage's grin stretched wide, teeth glinting under the Colosseum lights. And I will be the one to carve the legend from his bones.
In the stands, bets flew like arrows. Voices tangled into frenzied debate.
"Did you see Naze? Calm as a corpse."
"Don't matter. A mage against a swordsman? Blind swordsman or not—Arkham has this."
"Are you insane? Naze doesn't fight. He ends wars."
On the stage, a referee blinked into existence in a shimmer of spell-light, robes trimmed in crimson, a scroll clutched in one gloved hand. He cleared his throat, though the crowd's thunder swallowed the sound, and raised his voice with magic until it rang through the air like a bell.
"The rules are simple. The last man standing wins. Death to the loser."
Naze inclined his head once, the gesture small but sharp. Arkham didn't even bother listening—his confidence had inflated into something monstrous. He stood loose, almost lazy, hands twitching with the promise of spellcraft, a smile tugging at his lips like he'd already tasted victory.
The referee's arm slashed downward. His voice cracked like a whip: "BEGIN!"
Arkham didn't hesitate. Not for a breath, not for a blink. His fingers blurred, shaping sigils in the air with the precision of a master craftsman. Sparks flared. The ground shook. And then—a boulder the size of a wagon tore itself from nothingness, a screaming mountain of stone that plummeted toward Naze like the wrath of angry gods.
Gasps sliced the air. For an instant, it seemed overdone. The crowd leaned forward, hungry for the kill.
Then—movement. A whisper of motion, so fast it barely existed. At the last heartbeat before death, Naze slipped aside with a turn so fluid it might have been a dream. The boulder slammed into the arena floor with an earth-splitting crack, stone shattering like glass. Dust geysered skyward in a choking cloud.
The Colosseum went feral.
"Did you SEE THAT?!"
"Arkham almost CRUSHED him!"
"The blind man BLEEDS like everyone else!"
"Maybe this is it—maybe Naze falls TODAY!"
Arkham's chest swelled. Perfect. Perfect. They see. They all see. The mage lifted his chin, lips curling into a grin that tasted like glory. Agatha will see too. Agatha will know.
But across the dust and ruin, Naze stood still as death, breathing slow and even. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his head tilted, just slightly, and he exhaled—soft, almost weary. To those watching, it might have seemed like resignation. Pity, even.
But inside, a thought rang through him like cold steel:
I wanted to hold back… to see if you'd come to your senses. But it's clear—you don't understand. It no longer matters. Your fate is sealed.
And then, the Blind Swordsman moved.
Naze exhaled slowly, his body flowing like water as he gripped the twin blades. In a blink, he was gone—a silver flash cutting through the air.
Arkham reacted on instinct, summoning a gust of wind to hurl himself backward. The force ripped through the ground, but not fast enough—his robe tore clean across the chest, a whisper away from skin.
Had he been a heartbeat slower, blood would have painted the sand.
A deafening scream tore through the stands, a tidal wave of voices crashing against the walls of the colosseum. Naze's loyalists were on their feet, fists pumping, throats raw with adoration and bloodlust. The legend still lived, and in a single motion, he had reminded them why fear and respect walked hand in hand with his name.
"He's still untouchable!" someone roared, their voice cracking with euphoria.
"Don't overestimate yourself, boy! Master Naze isn't someone you can just take a swing at!" another spat, their words dripping with scorn.
"The blind swordsman isn't for show—he's death in motion!"
"Put respect on the name, you excuse for a mage!"
The insults rained like poisoned arrows, each one striking deep into Arkham's pride. But the young mage clenched his jaw and steadied his breath, refusing to let the noise shake him. His blue eyes burned with misplaced resolve.
The crowd's rage was a living thing now—a beast hungry for blood, snarling, drooling, demanding a kill. But on the sand, two figures stood in stark contrast: one was a storm barely restrained, the other a quiet abyss that devoured all light and sound.
Arkham lifted his hands again, fingers trembling as he began weaving another seal, magical glyphs spinning like angry comets around his palms. The ground cracked under his feet as power surged.
Naze, calm as the still eye of a hurricane, tilted his head ever so slightly—listening, feeling, waiting. His swords did not rise in defense; they simply existed in his hands, an extension of his being.
The stage was far from over. The real storm was about to break.