In the pit, Killmonger burst forward in a blur of red light, his twin blades tearing the ground beneath his feet as he charged directly at the Reaper. The last of the summoned golems were already in pieces, and nothing stood between him and his target.
The Reaper moved back—one step. Two. Then he stopped, eyes locked with Killmonger's as the distance closed.
Killmonger's foot hit the edge of the rune circle drawn earlier.
That's when it happened.
The Reaper slammed his staff into the ground.
A loud pulse of energy burst out. A dome of pale grey light sprang up around the circle—and Killmonger was sealed inside it.
"What—?" Killmonger skidded to a stop, turning sharply. He struck at the barrier with one blade, then the other. "Shit!"
Nothing. No cracks. No resistance. Just solid, unyielding silence.
The ground beneath him began to tremble.
He looked down—sand. But it wasn't just shifting. It was pulling.
Killmonger stabbed one blade into the ground for support, but the more he struggled, the faster he sank. His arms began to dry and crack, the blood vessels visible through paper-thin skin. His breath came ragged. His lips withered.
He looked up—eyes wide, furious—but his voice never made it out.
His body collapsed inward, folding into itself like a dried husk… and then dissolved into dust.
The red glow of Dreadfang flickered once, then vanished.
From the far end of the arena, the Reaper had already turned. Without a word, without a look back, he walked out through the gates, leaving only the silence of the crowd and the slow drifting of red sand where a warrior once stood.
Melissa gripped the edge of her seat, heart pounding.
The scarred man smiled faintly.
"Now you understand," he murmured.
And with that, the lights in the arena dimmed, and the battle… was over.
The commentator, who had been silent for the last moments—stunned like the rest—finally found his voice. It was quieter this time, less performative, more reverent.
"Ladies and gentlemen… we have just witnessed the fall of a legend. Dreadfang has fallen silent. Killmonger, the man who carved fear into the bones of his enemies… is no more."
He paused, exhaling slowly, as if to honor the silence in the arena.
He looked down at the trail of red sand where Killmonger once stood.
"Tonight, the arena didn't just claim a warrior—it revealed a new nightmare. And his name… is Reaper."
The roar came back to life.
He walked beside her in silence, the echo of their steps fading as they approached the massive entrance of the arena. As the doors creaked open, the blinding light of the morning sun flooded in. Melissa instinctively raised a hand to shield her eyes, squinting. She hadn't realized how long she'd been inside. The warmth of the sun felt almost unfamiliar.
He stood at the threshold, arms crossed, letting the light hit his scarred face. "It's morning," he said flatly. "Time for you to go."
She blinked. "Wait… what?"
"I don't know how long you'll survive out there," he said casually, like he was talking about the weather.
Her breath caught. "My mother was kidnapped. I don't even know who's after me anymore. And if this place is what you say it is—a safe haven—why not let me stay?"
He turned to her slowly, the corner of his mouth curling into a dry smirk. "You think this is some kind of shelter? A rescue center?" He chuckled without humor. "I don't run a charity, sweetheart."
He gestured behind them toward the blood-stained arena. "You see that? That show you just watched cost money—real power, real deals. Fighters, protection, electricity, silence… it all comes with a price."
Melissa looked at him, desperate but defiant.
"This place survives because every organization out there—your pursuers included—have sworn never to interfere with it. It's the only reason you're still breathing," he said, turning back toward the light. "But you… you don't belong here. You haven't earned it."
He paused.
"You want to stay?" he asked. "Then prove you're worth the space you take."
He stepped aside and nodded toward the door. "Or walk out, and hope you're faster than the people hunting you."
She squeezed her fists, eyes burning with determination. "I'll stay," she said through gritted teeth. "I'll fight. I have to. For Liam… and to get my mother back."
The scarred man let out a slow smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes—but it said everything. Like he'd been waiting for her to say those exact words. "Good," he muttered, almost to himself. "Very good."
He turned away, leading her back down the corridor, past the now quiet arena.
Just before they reached a hallway that branched off from the main passage, he paused and pointed with the same hand that had once held the knife so casually. "Come up in an hour. I'll give you the details you need to know."
Then, he tilted his head toward a figure waiting a few steps away. "Go with him for now."
Melissa turned and saw the scrawny man from earlier—the same one who'd shuffled into the office with his back bent unnaturally, the one who'd brought news about the creed. He stood there watching her, his posture still crooked, fingers twitching slightly like they hadn't rested in years.
She glanced back at the scarred man. "What's he supposed to do?"
"Get you started," the man said, already walking away.