Killmonger circled slowly, his breathing steady but shallow. His eyes darted from one flickering figure to the next, all of them moving in sync with him. At first, he thought they were solid illusions—but something felt off.
That's when he noticed the glint. A slight distortion around their weapons. The kind of shimmer you'd see when staring through heatwaves.
Then it hit him.
The illusions weren't real. But the blades were.
Ice—shaped and hardened into weapons—perfectly camouflaged using refracted light. What he thought were mere phantoms had been drawing real blood.
Killmonger's jaw clenched. This wasn't just water manipulation... This was something else.
The Reaper wasn't just commanding the elements—he was bending perception itself.
Light manipulation? The thought sank into Killmonger like a stone.
For the first time in a long while, unease trickled down his spine.
He couldn't afford to toy with this any longer.
Not with an opponent like this.
Killmonger straightened and raised his blade, eyes locked on the Reaper, who hadn't moved an inch since summoning the mirage of death that surrounded him.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's see if illusions bleed."
The veins on his arms darkened, and the red aura around Dreadfang pulsed violently. A low hum vibrated from the sword's core, almost like it had been waiting—begging—to be unleashed.
The veins on his arms darkened, and the red aura around Dreadfang pulsed violently. A low hum vibrated from the sword's core, almost like it had been waiting—begging—to be unleashed.
The flickering figures charged toward him, blades raised in perfect synchronization.
Killmonger didn't flinch.
He gritted his teeth and stabbed Dreadfang into the ground.
The instant the blade touched the arena floor, a surge of energy erupted outward like a ripple of molten lightning. The ground cracked in spirals beneath him. A crimson shockwave burst from the point of impact, flaring in all directions.
The first copy was vaporized mid-lunge—its icy weapon melting and shattering like glass. The others staggered, flickering erratically. A second, then a third burst apart in violent puffs of steam.
Then silence.
The red glow expanded from the blade and wrapped around Killmonger like a cloak of living flame. His eyes now glowed the same deep red as Dreadfang, and each breath he took left a trail of smoke.
Across the arena, the Reaper raised his staff once more. Slowly. Deliberately. His movements fluid, yet unreadable.
Black smoke began to seep from the bandages around his chest and arms—thick and heavy, like ink swirling through water. It coiled upward, spiraling around the staff, then slithering down toward the final rune etched into the arena floor.
Earth.
The rune cracked open with a low, rumbling groan as the smoke plunged into it, feeding something ancient. The ground around the Reaper began to tremble subtly, and bits of debris started levitating in a slow orbit around him.
Meanwhile, Killmonger gripped Dreadfang, still embedded in the earth. He placed both hands on the hilt, muscles taut, veins bulging, and pulled.
The sword resisted—groaning like metal under pressure—as red light leaked from its centerline. The hum intensified, rising to a scream, as if the weapon itself didn't want to be split… but Killmonger forced it.
With a thunderous boom that cracked the very ground beneath him, the blade split in two, bursting outward in a shower of sparks and red flame.
He now stood with a blade in each hand—mirror images of Dreadfang, each crackling with the stolen life of hundreds. The twin swords pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, glowing like magma.
The arena shook.
From the trembling cracks of the earth rune, hulking golems began to rise—stone grinding against stone, forming bodies built from raw terrain. One after the other, they took shape. Broad-shouldered sentinels with jagged swords. Slender, towering figures with long spears. Shorter, hunched ones with bows drawn and arrows of sharpened crystal.
They formed a perfect battle array, silent and disciplined.
On the other side, Killmonger exhaled slowly… and grinned.
Without warning, he vanished.
A blur of red light streaked through the front line as Killmonger moved—no, tore—through the stone soldiers at a speed five times faster than before. His twin blades moved like lightning. Every swing shattered stone, every step left scorched ground in its wake.
The archers fired—but missed. Again and again. Their arrows only pierced shadows, illusions left behind by his sheer speed. It was like trying to pin down the wind during a storm.
A roar went up from the crowd—shock, awe, disbelief.
"Are you seeing this?!" the commentator's voice cracked through the speaker system. "He's cutting through the Earthguard like paper! That's over two thousand pounds of enchanted stone per golem—gone in seconds!"
"I can't believe this," another voice chimed in. "This isn't combat. This is slaughter!"
Killmonger cut through the last spear-wielding golem with a twisting motion that sent its head spiraling into the air. He paused only long enough to glance up—
And there he saw it.
The Reaper… taking a step back.
His foot dragged once along the earth. It was subtle. Almost unnoticeable.
But Killmonger saw it.
Fear.
For the first time, the calm, silent figure radiated something that didn't match his aura—hesitation. Doubt.
Killmonger licked the blood and dust off his lips and smirked.
"I thought you were the one summoning death," he muttered under his breath. "Turns out… you were just inviting it."
The crowd screamed louder.
"This is the end," the scarred man said calmly as he rose from his seat beside Melissa, arms folded as he looked down into the arena. His voice carried a finality that made Melissa's breath catch.