Forty minutes had crawled by, and still there was no response. The silence was heavier than lead, pressing down on every warrior's chest like an omen. Emperor Cailan Gravis sat motionless upon his black royal steed, but the cold glint in his eyes betrayed the storm brewing within. He had given them an hour—one full hour to comply. They had wasted forty minutes of it in arrogance or fear, perhaps both.
There was no need to wait for the remaining twenty. His patience, already stretched to the breaking point, finally snapped.
His eyes flared wide, molten gold glimmering in their depths as he uttered a single word, sharp enough to split the air:
"Attack."
The command rippled through the ranks like a tremor before an earthquake. His mages moved as one, cloaks whipping in the wind, staffs raised high toward the storm-gray sky. They began their chant—a guttural symphony of ancient syllables that shook the marrow of those who heard it. Then came the fury.
Spheres of crimson fire roared into existence, bolts of sapphire lightning cracked against the horizon, and streams of invisible waves spiraled like serpents toward the colosseum walls.The mages separated into various groups all controlling different magic, from wind, to flames, to lightening to telekinesis.
A kaleidoscope of high-tier magic slammed into the protective barrier, detonating with deafening force. The ground quivered. Dust leapt from the earth as shockwaves tore through the air.
The colosseum shuddered but did not yield. Its shimmering dome of energy rippled like disturbed water, absorbing the blows and glowing brighter under the punishment. The first barrage left fractures like spiderwebs across its surface, but it held firm—mocking their efforts.
A second wave followed. The air screamed under the sheer magical pressure, the explosions painting the sky with hues of destruction. The barrier cracked again—louder this time, a bone-breaking sound that sent chills down the spines of even the bravest soldiers.
Inside, terror spread like wildfire. Shadows danced on the marble walls as the ceiling trembled overhead. Men clutched their weapons with white-knuckled grips, eyes darting toward every falling speck of dust.
Prince Balek sat apart, slouched against an exalted chair, his blade resting lazily across his lap. Unlike the trembling soldiers before him, his expression was serene—almost bored.
"But he said one hour," a soldier stammered, voice cracking under the weight of panic. "It isn't even time yet! Why is he—why is he doing this?"
"Patience isn't a virtue for emperors," another spat bitterly. "No answer means war. He must believe we are testing him."
"The walls!" a third soldier cried, pointing to the barrier that now crawled with black fissures like veins of doom. "They're breaking! This won't hold!"
Balek didn't so much as twitch. His lids slid shut as he drifted into dreams far sweeter than the bitter reality that loomed outside. He imagined standing before his father, Emperor Groa Aratat—the living legend—offering him victory where the old lion had faltered. He pictured the crown, heavy and resplendent, placed upon his brow as the empire roared his name.
He didn't know.
He didn't know that this was no ordinary enemy. That whatever power had driven his father—the unshakable Groa Aratat—into the shadows was now at his gates. If he had understood, truly understood, he would have fled rather than fantasized.
Beyond his daydreams, the barrier groaned under another violent impact. Dust rained down like ash as the walls threatened to give way.
Far behind, toward the other end of the colosseum, Lola and her colleagues, subordinates of the black dragon, Josh Aratat, crouched in silence, concealed in the hidden spots of the colosseum.
Six units, five hundred warriors each, spread like hidden vipers across the structure. Every muscle was taut, every breath measured. They were the last blade in the empire's scabbard.
Meanwhile, the royals fled through a labyrinthine network of underground tunnels, their silks stained with sweat and grime. They whispered prayers as they vanished into darkness, seeking refuge in distant regions.
However, escape was nothing more than a fleeting illusion—a desperate gasp before drowning. Once this region fell, the heart of the empire would rot. And when the heart rots, the body follows.
One by one, the other sixty-eight regions of the Nazare Blade Empire would topple like dominos, each a sovereign land in its own right, vast and powerful as modern nations, yet powerless against the storm that had broken through their gates.
And the gates of doom were already splintering.
Suddenly, a thunderous detonation split the air like the wrath of a god.
"KABOOOOOM!"
The sound tore through the battlefield, a deafening roar that rattled bones and left ears ringing like war drums. The very ground convulsed under its fury, heaving as if some ancient beast had awakened beneath the earth. A shockwave rippled outward, hurling dust, grit, and shattered stone high into the air in a choking storm.
For a heartbeat, the world turned white with flying debris, then gray with a dense curtain of smoke and pulverized marble. The once-imposing gates of the colosseum, proud and unyielding for centuries, now collapsed in a cataclysm of splintering iron and screaming stone. Massive slabs, carved with the sigils of emperors past, broke loose and plunged like meteors, smashing into the ground with bone-crushing weight.
The walls followed next. With a sound like a thousand trees snapping in unison, they buckled inward, vomiting bricks and jagged marble in a relentless downpour. Each fragment was a dagger of ruin, crashing down on the bloodstained sands like hail from hell itself. Soldiers shielded their faces with their arms, their armor ringing under the brutal rain of debris.
The once-impenetrable sanctuary was no longer a fortress. It had become a graveyard in the making.
Through the swirling haze, the enemy banners emerged—dark phantoms cutting through the choking clouds of dust. Black and crimson standards, emblazoned with scorpion stingers and leering skulls, writhed like serpents in the wind, an endless tide of death cresting the breach. They did not merely wave—they loomed, a promise of carnage carried on a blood-red wind.
Then came the glint. A thousand shards of sunlight fractured across golden-brown armor as the Scorpion Legion surged forward in perfect formation. Their march was not chaos; it was precision, a storm choreographed to annihilate. The rhythmic pound of boots on earth grew louder, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out even the groans of the dying wall.
And at the vanguard, like the tip of a spear, rode Emperor Cailan Gravis. His warhorse—a towering beast plated in gilded steel—snorted plumes of white vapor into the smoky air, its hooves striking sparks as they crushed the fallen marble beneath. Cailan's cloak, woven from the pelts of beasts extinct for centuries, billowed like a crimson stormcloud behind him. His armor blazed like a sun dipped in blood, etched with runes that pulsed faintly with power.
His gaze burned through the chaos, unerring, merciless, until it found its mark: Prince Balek.
Balek, seated at the rear behind his trembling phalanx of soldiers, met that gaze—and for the first time, his fantasies faltered. Cailan's eyes were twin blades, honed on conquest, glinting with a cold that stripped away every illusion of safety. It was not a look—it was a verdict.
Around Balek, the defenders shuffled nervously, gripping their weapons like drowning men clinging to driftwood. The ground still shivered under the relentless march of Scorpion boots. Dust drifted down from the ceiling like pale ash, settling on polished helms that no longer gleamed with pride, but with sweat and fear.
In the distance, the war horns of Cailan's legion bellowed—a long, guttural note that seemed to peel the sky apart. And then the tide broke loose.