Killmonger launched forward like a cannon shot, his feet barely touching the arena floor. In a single breath, he closed the gap between him and the still figure. With a roar that cracked through the rising chants of the crowd, he raised Dreadfang and brought it down like a bolt of lightning aimed straight for the skull of the Reaper.
But the strike didn't land.
Inches before contact, the blade was halted—frozen mid-air by an unseen force. A ripple burst outward, like a stone dropped into water, revealing a transparent dome surrounding the bandaged man. The impact sent dust spiraling and the ground beneath them cracked from the pressure. Dreadfang hummed—a deep, resonating sound, as if the blade itself was eager, pleased… excited by the resistance.
Killmonger's eyes widened for a second before twisting into a grin.
He pivoted, moving with fluid violence, bringing the sword around in a brutal arc aimed at the Reaper's side—an amputation attempt meant to slice clean through. But again, clang!—the blade was repelled. The shockwave threw Killmonger a step back, and for the first time in the arena, the crowd gasped.
Still, the Reaper did not move.
He stood there, fingers tracing the contours of his staff like it was whispering secrets only he could hear. His wrapped head didn't even tilt—no sign that he registered the attack, the crowd, or even Killmonger's presence.
Killmonger narrowed his eyes and took a step back, rolling his shoulder. Dreadfang shimmered with a faint crimson mist.
The crimson glow around Dreadfang intensified, the blade pulsing like a living thing hungry for a kill. Heat shimmered off it in waves, warping the air. Tiny cracks spiderwebbed through the space around it—space itself distorting, bending under the sheer force the sword exuded. Killmonger's grin stretched wider as the arena trembled beneath his feet.
He swung again—boom! The sound echoed like thunder. A crack split through the dome shielding the Reaper, a jagged fracture that shimmered with energy. Killmonger sneered.
"Since you won't speak," he said through clenched teeth, "let your silence follow you to the grave."
He launched into a frenzy. Blow after blow, each swing faster, angrier. The barrier surrounding the Reaper splintered further under the pressure. Each strike rang out across the arena, drowning the crowd into a stunned silence. The dome flickered now—fading between transparency and invisibility—as if the energy powering it had reached its limit.
Crack.
Another blow.
Boom.
Another.
The final swing came down like judgment itself—Killmonger poured every ounce of strength into it, roaring like a beast unchained. And just before it landed…
The Reaper moved.
Subtle. Precise. His head tilted slightly. One foot shifted, pressing against the ground. His fingers, which had lovingly caressed the staff, finally stilled. The eerie calm that surrounded him broke.
The staff moved.
No one saw the full motion—only the aftermath. One second Killmonger's blade was mid-strike, the next… clang!
His entire body was flung backwards by a single flick of the Reaper's staff. Not a full swing. Just a flick.
Killmonger landed hard, skidding across the floor. Dust exploded around him. Silence followed.
In his seat, the man with the scar leaned forward and whispered with a smirk, "He's finally paying attention."
----------------------------------
"Hello?" Hale's voice cracked through the silence as he pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello, can you hear me? I'm stuck. I don't know where I am—there's no one else here." His voice echoed slightly, swallowed by static.
The line hissed, popping with bursts of interference. Hale pressed the phone tighter against his ear, straining to catch anything intelligible. For a moment, he thought he'd lost the call entirely.
Then… faintly…
"Help me, Daddy."
The words were delicate, small and shaken.
His blood froze.
The line went dead.
He slowly lowered the receiver, pulse thudding in his ears.
And then—
In a cold, sterile hospital room miles away, a boy stood motionless beside a bed.
It was the same child—the one who had watched silently from the trees the day of the accident. A hospital gown clung to her small frame, and monitors nearby hummed softly.
She stared down at Officer Hale, who lay unconscious in the bed.