Still not ready to stop the onslaught, Zeck resumed the barrage with relentless fury. But the Reaper wasn't done yet. Stretching out his other hand, a second blade formed—also forged from shimmering ice—and in an instant, the shattered half of the first blade reformed in his grip. Now wielding twin blades, he met Zeck head-on.
No one had expected this. The crowd gasped—was this the same man who fought from a distance with elements? Who knew he could hold his own in a close-range duel? This was no longer just an elementalist. This was an all-rounder.
Just when everyone thought the Reaper had played his final card, he revealed another. He was pushing his abilities to their limit—and perhaps beyond. And strangely, the crowd began to expect more from him, drawn in by the sheer will behind his survival.
Zeck took another mighty swing with Dreadfang, its edge singing through the air with lethal promise. The Reaper raised one of the icy blades to parry, and though the sword cracked under the blow, it didn't matter—because as it broke, it began to reform.
The fragments melted and re-froze in the blink of an eye, mending themselves mid-fight.
The clash grew more intense by the second. Sparks danced with each impact, and yet—for all the frenzy—the Reaper had not landed a single decisive blow. That changed when his swings began to carry not just strength but the intent to kill.
Zeck was beginning to falter.
The weight of his own power, the speed of his footwork, the sheer toll of holding off this relentless assault—it all began to wear him down. His breaths grew heavier, his stance loosened, and in that one moment of fatigue, he slipped.
The Reaper didn't hesitate.
With a violent arc, the blade in his right hand tore through Zeck's abdomen—rising diagonally, from below his waist to the middle of his chest. A gruesome slash.
Blood erupted in a violent burst, painting the icy floor crimson.
Zeck dropped to his knees, like a warrior whose time had come—like a defeated champion awaiting the swing of judgment. His hand clutched at the wound in a desperate attempt to contain what couldn't be stopped. His weapon—Dreadfang—slipped from his grip and crashed to the ground beside him.
The entire arena froze in disbelief.
How had the Reaper turned the fight around?
He had been overwhelmed, outmatched and on the edge of defeat but yet again he walked toward Zeck with a calm, ritualistic steps, like a priest ready to perform the final rite.
The twin blades in the Reaper's hands shimmered briefly—then dissolved into mist, vanishing like phantoms. At that moment, the long, ancient staff that had been hovering in slow rotation behind him shot forward with sudden speed, landing in his grasp with a resonant thrum. Without hesitation, the Reaper plunged its base into the ground and began to chant in a language that clawed at the edges of comprehension, dark and resonant.
Above the staff, air began to swirl.
The chant deepened, and a small sphere began to form, suspended just above the Reaper's palm. It vibrated violently, pulling the wind into its growing core. Loose stones, bits of shattered weapons, even dust from the bloodstained floor were drawn toward it in a spiraling dance of chaos. The crowd watched in awe although they had seen the Reaper fight many times they had never seen this move.
The orb swelled and darkened. From deep violet to obsidian. Then… pitch black.
The surrounding air warped around it. It was as though reality itself recoiled. Cracks began to form in the space surrounding the orb, fractures in the very fabric of the arena. A low, humming vibration filled the coliseum—like the cry of a dying star.
The Scarred Man, narrowed his eyes. His lips pressed into a hard line. With a curt gesture of his hand, he signaled his mages to reinforce the barriers around the arena. Blue glyphs lit up around the dome instantly—new layers weaving themselves over the old like spiderwebs of light.
Zeck, still on his knees, grit his teeth as he tried to rise.
Blood still seeped from his torso, but the wound... it was closing. Slowly but surely, muscle and skin began to mend, knitting themselves together like time reversing. He placed a shaky hand on his thigh, his other arm across his abdomen, and managed to stand—albeit barely. His eyes, tired yet defiant, fixed themselves on the conjuring Reaper.
He smiled.
From the stands, Melissa watched the scene unfold, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and concern. She turned to the Scarred Man beside her, confusion written all over her face. "He's healing…? How?"
The Scarred Man met her gaze, calm and almost amused. "Healing was always his original ability," he said quietly, with a flicker of pride. "Seems he's unlocked something else now."
Below, no one noticed.
Dreadfang, the great blade Zeck had dropped, had not remained idle. Bit by bit, it sank into the sand as though swallowed whole.
And as the Reaper's chant reached its climax, and the black orb pulsed like a heart ready to burst, it became clear—this fight was far from over.