The cracked, web-like fissures splintered across the arena floor, racing outward with a sinister elegance—each jagged line glowing faintly with searing blue glyphs, pulsing like veins of molten energy. They slithered from the epicenter of Arkham's spell, alive with a predatory will, surging toward Naze as if the earth itself had turned traitor.
Naze's chin lifted ever so slightly, his blindfolded face angled to the trembling ground, every fiber of his being screaming with heightened awareness. He stood motionless, like a prey creature frozen before the hiss of an unseen predator. Yet this prey was no ordinary quarry—beneath the calm stillness, his muscles coiled, senses sharpened to a razor's edge.
Every crack in the stone sang to him. Every grain of dust whispered of the impending strike. Arkham's magic was not a single attack but an encroaching storm, and Naze could feel the intent behind it—violent, hungry, desperate.
The shaking and tremors were felt not only by Naze but the entire Colosseum. It was a 4th level magical spell.
The ground convulsed like a living beast beneath their feet. From a hidden scroll in Arkham's sleeves, runes blazed like miniature suns, channeled through his hands, spiraling into a complex lattice of raw magic that clawed into the earth. Cracks erupted in violent chains, continuously racing outward like the arms of a hungry spider, splitting the arena floor with bone-snapping sounds.
KRACK-KRACK-KRACK!
Stone groaned. Dust geysered upward in choking clouds. The tremors rolled like a thunderclap, shuddering through the colosseum until the very walls seemed to weep sand. Even the imperial banners swayed as if acknowledging the wrath of this singular spell.
Ordinarily, Arkham would never have been able to conjure a spell of this magnitude. His natural affinity for magic was nowhere near this level. But he wasn't relying on skill—he had a crutch. A forbidden advantage in the form of a fourth-tier spell scroll, stolen from a fellow trainee back at the Oradonian Base. That was before his betrayal, before his reckless leap into the service of the trickster god, driven by two intoxicating illusions: the promise of fame and the delusion of winning Agatha's heart.
This 4th level spell was one of the many things in his possession that he based his confidence of winning on. This 4th-level spell was not just a weapon; it was the cornerstone of Arkham's arrogance, the very pillar propping up his reckless bravado. In his mind, it wasn't simply magic—it was an unshakable trump card, a divine assurance that no matter how fierce the storm, no matter how formidable the opponent, he would be the one laughing in the end. He clung to that belief like a drowning man clutching driftwood, blind to the truth that sometimes, even driftwood sinks.
The audience clutched their seats, their screams swallowed by the quake. Even the nobles flinched as goblets of wine toppled and spilled like blood across ivory balustrades.
This was no parlor trick. No illusion for the cheering masses. It was a Fourth-Level Earthrend—a spell so devastating that it was forbidden within populated sectors for fear of catastrophic collapse. The kind of power that split mountains.
And Arkham… Arkham was smiling.
His blue eyes blazed with manic confidence, his veins burning with stolen might. This is it, he told himself as the glyphs sizzled hotter, branding his skin like molten chains. This is what makes me different. What makes me her hero. With this, even a blind god will bow.
"By the gods—!" someone screamed from the upper rows, voice cracking in disbelief.
"He's insane! At this rate, the whole stage will collapse!" another shouted, clutching the rail as the ground itself seemed to writhe and fracture like a living serpent.
"Is Naze—? No, no, no… even HE can't dodge this!" gasped a trembling voice, and soon it wasn't just one—hundreds echoed the same fearful thought, a chorus of uncertainty spreading like wildfire.
"Nobody survives a fourth-tier quake spell…" murmured a grizzled veteran, his knuckles white as he gripped his seat.
"Is this the end of the Blind God?" a young woman whispered, tears pooling in her eyes—not for Arkham, but for the man she worshipped.
Even the nobles leaned forward, their jeweled fingers frozen mid-air, wine glasses trembling as the arena quaked under the raw pulse of magic.
And above them all, the Trickster God grinned—a predator savoring the chaos, his eyes gleaming with the sick delight of an unfolding gamble.
The once lively crowd, buzzing with chatter and laughter, began to wither into uneasy silence. Their carefree attitude drained away like water slipping through cracked earth, leaving behind stiff faces and clenched jaws. Fear crept in first—quiet, like a whisper in the dark—then anxiety followed, gripping their hearts with icy fingers. They stood rooted in place, shoulders tense, eyes darting nervously as though searching for an escape that didn't exist. The air, which had been light with cheer only moments ago, now hung heavy, thick with dread.
The trickster god had to act to keep the spell contained, otherwise the entire colosseum was going to explode with millions of people dying. It's not that the trickster god cared for the people, it's just that it won't be fun anymore with so many people dying, he won't have anyone to share the moment with so he rather would go through the bothersome act of saving them.
The trickster god flicked his fingers with casual grace, a grin stretching across his sharp face. Invisible wards screamed to life, domes of reality bending around the stands as the full force of Arkham's spell crashed downward like a god's hammer
So while the spell wrecked the entire fighting stage, the audience were fine. Many gasped as the breathtaking scenes.
The roar of destruction was deafening, yet the stands stood untouched—every crack, every flying shard that dared approach the spectators winked out of existence, stitched back into wholeness as if time itself recoiled in obedience. Where stone shattered, it instantly reformed; where chaos reigned, order asserted itself. All of it—his doing. The trickster god watched with idle amusement, letting the carnage rage while the crowd drowned in awe of the might of the trickster god.
Every single damage done to any portion of the colosseum was instantly mending itself, however, he didn't intervene in the fight between the two on the crumbling stage.
A question lingered in everyone's heart, was Naze going to survive this?
And Naze…
Naze simply stood there, blindfolded eyes tilted to the ground, his twin blades humming faintly like tuning forks before a great symphony. He could feel it all—the frantic pulse of the earth, the thunder in the mage's heartbeat, the lie vibrating in every arrogant breath.
The crowd? They couldn't feel his calm. All they saw was the arena fracturing into shards of death and the blind swordsman swallowed whole.