Killmonger froze for a split second, mid-swing, as something strange caught his eye.
The Reaper's bandaged mouth… shifted.
Not much—just the faintest quiver, like lips twitching beneath layers of cloth. It wasn't movement caused by breath or wind. It looked intentional.
Killmonger lowered his blade a few inches, narrowing his eyes. "What's this?" he asked, voice thick with taunt. "Finally ready for a battle, you forgotten dog?"
He circled slowly, sword still glowing with that angry red heat, tip dragging against the ground like it was hungry for more. The Reaper didn't respond. Just kept one hand on the staff, the other resting lightly on his side.
Killmonger laughed, cocking his head. "Or maybe you're one of those cursed types. Vow of silence and all that?" He raised the sword again, pointing its edge directly at the Reaper's throat. "How poetic. Let's see if you bleed verses."
Still, the Reaper made no move.
Only the bandages over his mouth twitched again—this time more clearly. Deliberately. Almost like they were whispering… not from the inside, but from the bandages themselves.
For the first time, Killmonger's grin wavered. His grip on the sword tightened.
The crowd, wild moments ago, had grown eerily quiet. Even the commentator held his breath. A low hum—subtle and unnatural—started to build around the edges of the Reaper's form, distorting the air like heat waves on pavement.
Killmonger scoffed. "Fine," he said. "Keep your secrets."
And then, with a wild roar, he charged again—this time going for the throat.The Reaper's head tilted slightly.
And that's when the dome... shattered.
Killmonger's blade came down with thunderous speed, and for the first time, it met flesh.
The edge of the sword grazed the bandage wrapped around the Reaper's neck—just a shallow cut. But it was enough. Blood sprayed from the wound in a quick arc.
Only... it never touched the ground.
The crimson droplets froze midair, suspended like tiny rubies under an invisible force. Then, one by one, they drifted toward the sword, drawn to it like metal to a magnet. The blade trembled in Killmonger's hand, drinking it in greedily. The red glow along its surface pulsed, growing brighter, hotter, more alive.
The sword... hummed. Not a metallic ring. Something deeper. Like it was purring. Satisfied.
From the commentator's booth, the voice rang out with a mixture of awe and disbelief:
"Ladies and gentlemen—do you see this? Do you see this? The soulsteel blade of Killmonger—Dreadfang—has tasted blood! And not just any blood... no, this one is different. It's resisting. It's alive! The blade... it's reacting like it's found something it wasn't meant to find!"
Gasps echoed through the crowd. A few spectators leaned forward, captivated. Others instinctively leaned back, as if the air itself had become heavier.
Killmonger's smile returned—but it wasn't triumphant.
It was cautious.
The blood was gone now—completely devoured—and the bandage over the Reaper's neck sizzled slightly as if the fabric had tried to stitch itself back together.
Killmonger took a slow step back. "You're not like the others," he muttered, gripping the hilt tighter. "You're... fun."
The Reaper still didn't move.
But the hand on his staff shifted ever so slightly.
The Reaper took a single step back. His fingers curled tighter around the staff—not in fear, but like someone preparing something long in the making.
Killmonger shifted slightly, blade raised, reading the tension. But the Reaper didn't charge. Didn't swing.
Instead, he dragged the end of his staff across the arena floor.
The tip left no ordinary mark.
Wherever it moved, glowing lines etched themselves into the ground, burning like molten silver. Runes. Complex and ancient. Patterns older than language. Each stroke was deliberate, each symbol carved with a practiced ease that didn't match his frail frame.
Then came the circles.
One. Two. Three. Four—each one sparking to life as the staff passed through their centers.
Two flared to his left. One glowed steady on his right. And a fourth floated above him—untouched, but clearly his.
Each rune began to pulse with its own hue.
Fire. Earth. Water. Air.
The elements awakened, bending unnaturally toward the Reaper's quiet call. The air around him thickened. A breeze kicked up, dry and sharp, laced with embers. A rumble rolled beneath the arena floor. Water shimmered at his feet, spiraling upward in thin strands before turning to steam. The dust in the ring began to swirl around him like something alive.
Killmonger narrowed his eyes, watching the runes spin slowly in place.
The blade of Dreadfang pulsed in response.
"You're a summoner," he muttered, more to himself.
But the Reaper didn't answer. He simply raised his staff—now alight with all four elements—and pointed it forward.