The crowd murmured, leaning forward, unsure what to make of the approaching figure.
He was lean — almost emaciated — with a limp that suggested old injuries never allowed to heal. Bandages wrapped him from head to toe, browned with dust and time. His face was entirely covered, save for two faint slits where his eyes should be. With every shuffle, his feet barely left the ground, like he was dragging centuries behind him.
His only possession — a long, gnarled staff — looked as though it had been carved from bone and aged in shadow. He held it close to his chest, fingers trembling not from weakness, but from something else. Reverence built with crazy connection. His hand traced along its length slowly, almost lovingly, as though it whispered to him.
The spotlight followed him the whole way, but he never looked up. Never even acknowledged the crowd or Killmonger.
"I don't have much on this one," the commentator admitted, trying to play off the discomfort. "Records? None. Wins? Unknown. Some say he's a ghost… others say he talks to that staff more than to people. Frankly, I'm not sure he even knows he's in a fight."
The figure finally reached his corner and stopped. He didn't raise the staff. Didn't ready a stance.
He just stood there, fingertips still gliding along the staff like it held the only truth he cared about.
Killmonger tilted his head slightly, confused but amused.
The bell rang.
Killmonger raised his right hand slowly, fingers curling outward like he was summoning something from the air itself.
And then — with a low hum that sliced through the tense silence — it appeared.
A jagged, obsidian-black sword shimmered into existence, pulsing with a faint red glow along its edges. It wasn't just a blade. It was a presence — ancient, brutal, alive. The arena lights flickered the moment it formed.
The crowd gasped.
The commentator's voice cracked with excitement.
"Ohh! Ladies and gentlemen, he's brought it out — again! That's no ordinary blade, folks. That's Dreadfang — forged in the underground furnaces of the Iron Wastes and quenched in the blood of its first hundred victims!"
The audience roared in both awe and fear.
"They say Dreadfang has tasted the necks of rival warlords, crime lords, and at least three public officials who thought they could tame him," the commentator continued. "Once that sword appears, the Reaper of the Slums doesn't stop until someone's lying in pieces!"
Killmonger ran his tongue across his teeth, eyes locked on the bandaged opponent who hadn't even flinched.
He twirled the sword effortlessly, letting it sing as it cut the air.
Melissa felt a shiver ripple down her spine.
"That sword… it's cursed," the scarred man beside her muttered. "It doesn't just kill. It remembers."
Melissa turned sharply to him, brows furrowed. "What do you mean the sword remembers?"
The scarred man didn't take his eyes off the arena. His jaw flexed before he finally responded, voice low but steady.
"Dreadfang isn't just a blade. It feeds. Every soul it severs, every life it ends—it drinks it. Memories, essence, everything. And it gives it back… to the one who wields it."
He raised a finger slowly, pointing at Killmonger's sword. "That one… is estimated to have over 4,000 years left to live, based on the number of souls he's taken. Each one added years. Strength, skill and knowledge."
Melissa stared at him, skeptical. "That sounds like—"
"Insane?" he cut in. "I know. But after the last few days, does 'insane' really mean anything to you anymore?"
She looked away for a moment, lips parted but speechless. Her gaze flicked back to Killmonger—still calm, still waiting—then to the bandaged fighter who hadn't moved.
"How do you know all this?" she asked.
He smirked, tapping the deep scar that ran across his cheek. "Witch battle. Didn't win. Didn't lose either."
Melissa didn't know what to believe anymore, but the way he said it—deadpan, without bravado—made something inside her accept it.
She turned her eyes to the glowing blade again. "But he's… alive."
"Yes," the man nodded. "And that glow—" he gestured at the faint red aura pulsing from Dreadfang, "—that's how you know he hasn't just killed… he's fed."
He paused before adding, "And the stronger the opponent… the more potent the life force.