Winston Carlos' sudden challenge was like a stone hurled into a calm but deadly river—it sent ripples through fate itself. That single act, reckless as it was, had done something no one expected: it stayed the hand of the Trickster God. For now, Naze had been spared the wrath that had been quietly gathering in the divine's cruel heart.
Of course, the Blind Swordsman knew none of this. He simply stood where he always did—in the eye of chaos, on the single untouched fragment of the stage, the only sanctuary left amid the ruin of Arkham's cataclysmic spell.
High above, the Trickster God gave a languid flick of his wrist. No fanfare, no booming voice—just a casual gesture, as if reality itself were his obedient servant. And then the impossible began.
The shattered earth trembled. Jagged fissures groaned and closed like wounds knitting themselves shut. Splintered tiles crawled back into alignment, cracks retreating as though time itself had been reversed. The air shimmered with a low hum, like the heartbeat of a god bending the fabric of existence.
Within moments, the battleground was reborn—pristine, flawless, a stage worthy of blood and legend. The crowd gasped as one, their voices swallowed by awe. Even Naze, stoic as stone, felt the shift. He could not see the miracle, but he sensed it—the vibrations of rebirth beneath his feet, the quiet hum of power lingering in the air like an unspoken threat.
The Blind Swordsman took a slow step forward, the weight of his twin swords steady at his back. He returned to the very center of the newly restored arena, his presence calm yet unyielding, as though inviting fate to come at him once more.
The Colosseum held its breath. Thousands of eyes fixed upon him. The chants of "Sword God!" still crackled faintly like sparks in dry grass. The hunger for the next fight burned hotter than ever.
Some distance away, in the dimensional pocket the Trickster God had so generously—so mockingly—prepared, Lola stood with her hands clenched tight. She was the interim leader of Josh Aratat's subordinates, but right now, that title felt meaningless. All she could think about was the lone warrior below, the man who had chosen to carry the weight of survival for all of them.
From the start, Naze had volunteered—not out of arrogance, but resolve. He had thrown himself into the maw of danger again and again, shielding them with his blade and his will. And yet, every battle brought him closer to death. Every clash shaved away another fraction of his life.
Lola's heart had been her prison long before this tote-bag hell, but now it raced like a beast in chains. Each time Naze faced an opponent, she felt her pulse hammering in her ears, louder than the roars of the crowd. Sometimes, she had to grip Conrad Stan's hand just to keep herself from breaking apart. Conrad never let go. He offered quiet strength, though his own eyes betrayed the same fear that haunted them all.
Ralia Amia stood close by, her usual sharp tongue muted for once. Even she, the one who sometimes joked through storms, could find no humor in this cruel theater.
The Trickster God had been "kind," if one could call it that. They had their comforts—constant food supply for the over 2500+ prisoners, water to bathe, clothes to change into, a place to ease themselves. But freedom? That was an illusion, a memory slipping further away with each passing day. Their world had shrunk to the size of a bag, and all they could do was watch as Naze fought to keep them alive.
At first, they cheered for him. Oh, how they roared, clinging to hope as if it were a rope dangling over an abyss. But hope withers when faced with endless trials. Now, after fight upon fight, their cheers had become whispers. They knew what the Trickster God wanted. They knew this wouldn't end until Naze was broken—or dead.
Lola swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust. How long can you keep this up, Naze? How many battles before the blade that saves us becomes the blade that buries you?
Down on the stage, Naze stood still as stone, his blindfold hiding eyes that never needed to see. For him, sight had always been a switched factor, turning from the seeing eye to other heightened senses. And yet, in this moment, Lola wished she could read what lay behind that silence. Resolve? Resignation? Or something even heavier?
From Agatha's side where the defectors from the Oradonian Base stood in one part of the stands, reality shimmered like rippling glass. The Trickster God, lounging with infuriating elegance, made the smallest flick of his wrist—a gesture so effortless, yet its power was absolute.
Winston Carlos vanished from his seat without so much as a whisper of sound, his body dissolving into air that spiraled away.
He reappeared deep within the underground tunnel on the opposite side of the colosseum—the sacred passage reserved for warriors about to step into legend or death.
The air down there was heavy with echoes, still trembling from the previous battle. The scent of dust and magic clung to the stone walls, and faint vibrations from the cheering crowd above rumbled through his boots.
Winston didn't wait for the ceremonial drums or the fanfare. He didn't even slow his pace. Love—foolish, burning, irrational love—propelled him forward. His stride was steady, each footstep striking the ground like a declaration of war.
He emerged into the blinding light of the arena, walking through the lifting gates like a man stepping out of the jaws of fate. Across the flawless, newly-restored stage stood Naze—the Blind Swordsman. A living myth. An executioner cloaked in calm.
The distance between them was not far, but the weight of it felt like a canyon.
Naze turned his head slightly, sensing the ripple in the air, the subtle shift of intent. He didn't need eyes to know someone had arrived—someone carrying the scent of resolve… and desperation.
Up in the announcer's box, Peter Reitch froze, words dying in his throat. He had never seen this before—two battles, back to back, without pause. His instincts told him to announce, to maintain the theater of this bloody show, but something inside screamed that silence might be wiser.
Then, his gaze locked with the Trickster God.
The deity didn't speak. He didn't need to. One look—those glowing, predatory eyes—said everything: Announce. Entertain me.
Peter Reitch swallowed hard and fumbled for his magic crystal ball. His voice cracked before he managed to smooth it out with a nervous laugh.
"L-Ladies and gentlemen… ah, citizens of the Nazare Blade Empire seated in this magnificent imperial colosseum! What you're witnessing is… unprecedented! Since the inception of this Mortal Combat Series, never—never—have we seen such boldness!"
The crowd hushed, then erupted in a roar of curiosity and madness.
Peter pressed on, feeling sweat run down his back. "Another battle… right on the heels of the last! Our next challenger—a man fighting for love, a man who seeks glory beyond reason—Winston Carlos of the Mage's Division!"
Winston didn't react. He stood firm, eyes locked on Naze, his jaw clenched tight with a mix of pride and longing.
"And facing him…" Peter's tone shifted, reverent now, almost trembling with awe. "…our reigning champion. The name that needs no introduction, yet demands every breath of reverence. The undefeated. The untouchable. The Blind Swordsman… NAZE!"
The colosseum detonated with sound. Screams. Chants. Thunderous stomps that made the restored stage quake like a living thing. But even through the chaos, one chant began to rise above all others—fierce, wild, unstoppable.
"SWORD GOD! SWORD GOD! SWORD GOD!"
At first it was a spark. A handful of voices. Then it spread like wildfire on dry hay, leaping across the stands until the entire colosseum roared the name as if it were gospel.
Peter blinked, his script forgotten, as the chant swallowed his own words. He stammered weakly into the magic crystal ball: "Ah—uh—it seems the… the audience has spoken!"
Naze stood still at the center, his head tilting slightly as the chant rolled over him like a tidal wave. He neither basked in the glory nor rejected it. He simply was—a blade waiting for purpose.
Above, the Trickster God leaned forward on his throne, his grin razor-sharp. This was exactly the chaos he adored—adoration for the one he wanted broken, and another fool stepping forward to die for something as laughable as love.
And down below, Winston Carlos clenched his fists, fire burning in his chest as he muttered under his breath:
Agatha… this time, you'll see me.