Anonymous Quote: "No one pays more attention to you than an enemy looking for an opportunity to strike!"
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Border of Region 1…
At the northern edge of the Nazare Blade Empire, beneath a blood-red dusk, stood a man whose presence alone could silence an army—Emperor Gravis Cailan of the Scorpion Empire.
Gravis had long hungered for this day. For years, his ambition to expand his territories to swallow the Nazare Blade Empire whole had been shackled by the unyielding might of Emperor Groa Aratat and the invisible fangs of his spy network. Every whisper of war had been strangled before it could even reach the throne.
Emperor Groa Aratat once ruled behind an unbreakable veil of secrets.
His dominion was not just forged by steel and blood, but by whispers. At the heart of this invisible empire stood Cain Zuli, a phantom among men—a master of shadows whose loyalty was unquestionable and whose reach seemed limitless.
Under Cain's command thrived a web of over two hundred elite operatives, spies sharpened by years of training in both arcane arts and the brutal rigor of cultivation. They were ghosts in plain sight, capable of toppling rebellions before a single sword left its sheath. Their work was so swift, so silent, that many of their victories never even reached the emperor's ears.
But now… that perfect machine of silence had broken with Cain Zuli and most of the spies dead during the course of the tournament.
One name—Naze—had become a curse upon the empire's unseen throat. In a mere three months, more than a hundred and twenty of Cain's finest including Cain himself, had perished at the blind swordsman's hands, their bodies buried beneath the spectacle of the Trickster God's tournament. Every duel Naze fought was a grave dug deeper for the Nazare Blade Empire's intelligence core.
From two hundred, they had fallen to fewer than eighty.
Once, Cain Zuli's word could topple kingdoms. Now, his whispers barely reached past his own dead body, let alone the borders.
The Nazare Blade Empire, once lauded for having the most impregnable defense network on the continent, now stood vulnerable. The web had frayed. The noose that once strangled threats in the crib had loosened, slipping from the empire's fingers.
And in that widening gap, serpents waited to strike.
Gravis had seen it all, keeping tabs on every weakness, every loss of important spy and every lacklustre attitude of the Nazare Blade Empire, and like a serpent sensing blood in the water, he had begun to coil.
For weeks and months, while the Nazare Blade Empire drowned in the euphoria of blood-sport, drunk on the spectacle of Naze's duels, Gravis was marshaling his legions. The clang of steel and hiss of venomous war-beasts echoed in secret chambers, far from the deafening cheers of the colosseum.
Now, the Scorpion Empire's war machine surged forward like a living plague. Rank upon rank of soldiers in glittering golden brown armor advanced beneath banners embroidered with stingers and skulls. Siege engines groaned on iron wheels. Above them, wyverns circled, their riders clutching spears tipped with venom.
And at the front of this apocalyptic tide rode Emperor Gravis, his crimson cloak trailing like a river of blood, his scorpion-shaped crown glinting with malice. His voice carried like thunder as he raised his spear:
"Today, we carve history into the bones of our enemies!"
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, the Trickster god watched the approaching army, planning to have so much fun—and he smiled.
This was chaos. Beautiful, blooming chaos. But even he, for all his audacity, on a normal note could not interfere. The divine laws were unyielding: a god must never intervene in the wars of men. He could manipulate mortals, yes. He could twist events. But if swords were drawn between empires, the gods were bound to spectate… and laugh.
Yet, his smile faltered when he felt another presence—one that burned hotter than any mortal war.
A shadow fell across the Trickster God's perch. The air thickened, vibrating with a primal force that made reality groan. From the void stepped a figure in armor of living flame, eyes like molten suns—Kratos, the God of War.
"V'Zaleth." Kratos' voice was a blade scraping against the marrow of existence. "You've crawled out of your prison. What are you doing here?"
The Trickster God's grin twitched, and for the first time in millennia, he felt something like… fear.
"Lord Kratos… surely, even I am allowed a few secrets? A little fun, perhaps?" His voice slithered like oil, even as he instinctively backed away. "Besides… you of all gods—are you not breaking the rules by even speaking to me? If you didn't see me, were you not about to meddle in this war?"
Kratos' aura flared, a sun erupting into the colosseum of the heavens. His hand moved—not fast, but inevitable—and closed around V'Zaleth's throat with the ease of a farmer plucking a weed.
The Trickster God dangled like a puppet, thrashing in the iron grip.
"Do you want to test me?" Kratos' voice rolled like avalanches, drowning the Trickster God's stammering wit. "When this war ends, I will drag you back to the Fifth Dimension. You will rot in chains until the end of all mortal suns."
The Trickster God trembled, his grin shattering into jagged pieces. He knew better than to fight. Against Kratos, resistance wasn't bravery—it was suicide.
And while gods traded threats above the clouds, the mortal world burned forward with ignorance. Emperor Gravis' forces pierced deeper into Nazare territory, their black tide unstoppable.
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Meanwhile, far away, the colosseum still roared with deafening cheers as Naze and Winston Carlos faced each other across the gleaming stage. The crowd, intoxicated with bloodlust, had no idea that their empire's borders trembled with impending doom brought by an advancing Emperor and his army.
But then… something changed.
Lola felt it first. A sudden lightness, as though invisible chains had snapped. Her breath hitched as she stumbled forward, blinking in disbelief.
"Wait—" she whispered. Then louder: "Wait! We're free! The confines… they're gone!"
The other 2,500 plus subordinates of Josh Aratat froze, their confusion painting the air thick. They glanced around the towering barriers that had once bound them in the Trickster God's dimensional prison—and saw nothing. The shimmering walls were gone. The air was open.
And above them? The Trickster God's throne—empty.
A wave of panic rippled through the stands. People craned their necks, searching, shouting.
"Where is he?"
"Where's the god?!"
"This isn't part of the show... Is it?!"
Lola didn't care for any of that. Her legs moved on instinct, pounding across the stone tiers, leaping barriers like a woman possessed. Gasps erupted as she vaulted onto the stage—straight into Naze's arms.
For a heartbeat, the Blind Swordsman stiffened, hand twitching toward his blade. But then her scent—familiar, warm, home—washed over him, and his grip eased. His face tilted toward her voice as she breathlessly spoke:
"I don't know how… but the prison—it's gone. And the Trickster God… he's nowhere."
Her words struck like thunder. The crowd fell into a stunned hush. Even Winston faltered, blinking in confusion.
Up in the royal box, Emperor Groa Aratat—so long a silent pawn of divine whim—rose from his gilded seat, fury and uncertainty warring in his eyes.
"What is happening here?" he muttered, his knuckles whitening on the armrest.
No one had the answer. But the world was about to find out.