Chaos swept through the colosseum like a storm.
People surged to their feet, craning their necks, shouting questions that vanished into the roar. Where was the Trickster God? Where had the puppeteer of this blood-stained theater gone?
None of them knew that far from their sight, V'Zaleth, the Trickster God, was locked in the crushing grip of Kratos—the God of War, dragged away like a child caught stealing bread from the baking pan. The one who had controlled life and death inside this arena was gone, and in his absence, the fragile illusion of order shattered.
Seeing the opportunity, it was time to act, "Move! Hurry, before that mad god returns!" Lola barked, her voice slicing through the confusion like steel.
The over 2,500 subordinates of Josh Aratat surged forward, rallying to her command. They spilled across the ruined stage and down into the arena floor, their sheer numbers blotting out the extensive layout of the massive battleground.
Naze gave a silent nod, his blind eyes as calm as still water. Beside him, Conrad Stan and Ralia Amia tightened their grips on their weapons. The three exchanged no words—none were needed. Then they turned and ran, a single streak of motion cutting through the chaos, heading for the open corridor that led to freedom.
But freedom rarely comes so easily. While others watched with a bit of entertaining glee, someone couldn't bear the activities unfolding before his eyes.
From his gilded throne, Emperor Groa Aratat rose like a storm unchained, his face a mask of fury. "Stop them!" he bellowed, his voice booming like a war drum across the colosseum.
No one moved.
The silence that followed was deafening. His soldiers, his nobles, his loyal dogs—all frozen, their eyes darting between the fleeing captives and the emperor who ruled them with an iron fist. Rage ignited in Groa's eyes, and with a single flick of his wrist, his spiritual blade leapt from its sheath.
The sword screamed through the air in a silver arc, severing heads of some of his soldiers who didn't obey, in a manner which occured just as easily as grass bends to the wind. Blood fountained across the marble floor before the blade returned to his waiting hand like a hawk to its master.
Gasps erupted, terror surged. And in that moment, everyone understood—the emperor cared nothing for their lives.
Before the fear could settle, the earth began to tremble.
The sound came first—a low, relentless thunder of boots against earth, rolling closer with every heartbeat. The colosseum quaked beneath their feet as the banner of the Scorpion Empire broke through the horizon, its blood-red silk adorned with the stinger and the skull.
Emperor Groa's gaze snapped toward the advancing army, and his blood ran cold. The Scorpion Empire was here. And if they managed to conquer the capital unchecked, which is the heart of the Empire, then, undoubtedly, it is as good as the fall of the entire Nazare Blade Empire—and with it, the entire inhabitants becoming slaves to a new rule.
"We are under attack!" Groa's voice ripped through the chaos like a blade of thunder. His lungs burned as he bellowed, desperation bleeding into every syllable. Deep down, he prayed—no, begged—that his people would come to their senses, would cast aside their rebellious pride and join him in defense of their homeland.
"If the enemy takes this city," he roared, his words rolling like war drums, "they will take everything—your homes, your families, your freedom! Do you want to live in chains?! Then fight with me!"
The colosseum held its breath, his words hanging heavy like storm clouds. Groa expected the thunderous cry of loyalty, the surge of warriors pledging their blades for the empire.
Instead, what came was a dagger made of words, thrown from the faceless crowd.
"Aren't we already slaves under your rule?!" The voice rang clear, laced with venom and bitter truth. "Maybe their chains will weigh less than yours!"
The words cracked across the air like lightning. A ripple of gasps followed, some shocked, others stifling laughter, and for a fleeting second, even the enemy's distant drums seemed to pause. Groa's face darkened, a mask of fury brewing behind his regal composure.
The words hit harder than any blade. Fury exploded across Groa's face as his spiritual sword danced again—three more heads rolled before the echo of his rage died. Blood pooled like spilled wine at his feet, and fear seized the hearts of all who looked upon him.
*************
While that chaos thundered near the emperor's dais, in another corner of the colosseum, Lola and the others skidded to a halt as a new sound rolled in—the rhythmic pounding of boots. At first, it was a distant murmur. Then it grew louder, like a storm crawling over the horizon. The approaching army was close. Too close.
And yet—
Lola stopped. Her chest heaved as if a chain had yanked her mid-stride. So did the others. Freedom—real freedom—dangled in front of them like a ripe fruit, sweet and within reach. Vengeance whispered in their veins, urging them to run, to disappear, to never look back.
But then came the thought—the unbearable image of thousands of innocent faces crushed beneath an enemy's heel. The thought of screams filling the streets they once called home. The blood that would soak the stones if they turned away now.
Her fists clenched until her knuckles burned. She turned sharply toward Naze and Conrad, her voice tight, trembling between resolve and despair.
"What do we do? We can't just leave them to die."
Naze stood silent, his blind eyes like calm storms, unreadable yet piercing. Beside him, Conrad's jaw flexed, his expression carved from stone
Conrad's spoke with his eyes hard as steel. "If we stay, we fight on two fronts—the Scorpion Empire and the emperor himself. Stay, and we forfeit our freedom. Leave, and we live. So…" He planted his blade in the ground, his voice rising for all to hear.
"i put this to every single person here... Make your choice now. If you'll save the innocent, and forfeit your freedom stand to the right. If you'll save yourself, and rather go in hiding, go left."
The air was heavy, expectant. And then—
No one moved. Not one.
Instead, a single voice broke the silence, deep and resolute:
"We live together… and we die together."
Another joined. Then another. And then it spread like wildfire until over 2,500 voices roared as one, fists striking their chests in unison.
"We live together and die together!"
The ground seemed to quake beneath their cry.
Conrad's eyes blazed with fierce pride as he raised his blade. "Then hear me! We are not a mob—we are an army. We'll break into five battalions of five hundred, each guarding a sector of the colosseum. The remaining forces—our generals and elites—will strike where the fight is thickest. Protect the civilians. Kill without hesitation. If the man before you is an enemy—be he emperor or invader—strike him down!"
A roar answered him. This was no longer an escape. This was war.
And as the banners of the Scorpion Empire loomed on the horizon, the earth itself seemed to shudder beneath the weight of their march. Row upon row of soldiers advanced in perfect, ruthless synchrony—an unyielding tide clad in golden-brown armor that glinted like molten bronze under the sun. Each breastplate bore the sigil of death: skulls entwined with serrated stingers, gleaming white against the dark standard.
War drums thundered, their rhythm a grim heartbeat that rolled across the land, drowning the distant cries of the colosseum. The air thickened with the metallic tang of impending slaughter. Rank after rank, spearmen marched like pillars of an unending wall, followed by hulking shield-bearers, their formation unbreakable. Behind them came the war mages, cloaked in shadowed crimson, their staffs aglow with simmering arcane fire, ready to scorch the very earth.
Above it all, the banners snapped violently in the wind, each crack like the lash of a whip, announcing conquest. The Scorpion Empire had not come for a skirmish. They had come to erase, to carve their dominion into the bones of Nazare Blade Empire.
The stage was no longer a colosseum of spectacle—it had become the altar of war. And as the enemy drew nearer, the foundations of an empire trembled.