As the final lines of the incantation neared, the winds howled louder, pulling debris and magic alike into the swirling mass above the Reaper's head. The orb was monstrous pitch black, heavier than gravity itself, dense enough to bend the space around it. Cracks split the air like fractured glass, and the light seemed to dim around its edges. The Reaper stood at the center, both hands raised, the staff glowing violently in his grip.
Zeck shot forward without any hestitation or weapon. The crowd gasped, stunned by the madness of it. Charging headlong at such a condensed energy signature? It was suicide. Melissa stood halfway from her seat, her mouth parted in disbelief. "What is he doing?" she whispered.
But the scarred man only leaned forward, his gaze sharp as they were locked onto the unfolding clash. "Watch," he said softly.
Zeck had closed the distance.
Just as the Reaper prepared to release the spell, a shape stirred in the sand behind him—a blur of movement, fast, elegant and deadly. Dreadfang. The very sword that had once belonged to Zeck rose, guided by unseen will. It spiraled through the air with a whispering hum, slashing low and fast.
The blade carved cleanly through the Reaper's right forearm, the one that held the staff. A scream tore through the Reaper's bandaged mouth as his severed hand clattered to the ground. His spell collapsed instantly.
The orb, now unstable without the Reaper's command, began to vibrate violently—its once-controlled rotation spiraling into chaos. The ground beneath the arena quaked as magical tension thickened the air, and the crowd leaned forward in collective dread.
Then—
Boom!
A deafening explosion shattered the silence, and the orb detonated into a maelstrom of shadow and pressure. The shockwave ripped through the arena, cracking the barriers and sending stones trembling. A massive crater tore through the center, swallowing the very ground where Zeck had stood. The Reaper's body was hurled like a ragdoll into the far wall, smashing through it with a bone-jarring thud.
Zeck was caught in the heart of the blast.
The spectators froze with their eyes wide. No one cheered or made a sound. There was only the echo of destruction and the rising curtain of dust that swallowed the arena floor.
Some held their breath. Others clutched at their robes and seats, eyes scanning through the murk for any sign of movement.
Even the announcer, known for his flamboyance, stood frozen—his voice caught somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.
"What… what just happened?" someone whispered from the stands.
Melissa stood still, fists clenched at her sides. The scarred man beside her didn't speak, but his narrowed eyes watched the crater intently, waiting.
Everyone waited.
Not just to see who stood, but to understand what they had just witnessed.
As the dust finally began to settle, silence hung heavily over the arena. Eyes widened as the figure of the Reaper came into view—sprawled at the far edge of the battlefield. His legs were a mangled mess, twisted unnaturally, with thick trails of blood seeping from the broken flesh. Both arms were gone—severed cleanly during the brutal confrontation—while his once pristine bandages were now soaked, torn, and heavy with blood.
But something strange was happening.
The blood that dripped from the Reaper's shattered legs began to move—not spread, but pull. It flowed slowly, unnaturally, toward the center of the arena where Zeck's sword lay motionless in the dust.
Then, it began to glow.
A faint hum echoed as the sword rose gently into the air, surrounded by spiraling streams of crimson light. And before the crowd could blink, the blade morphed—shifting into a small child. The same baby they had seen once before. Innocent in form, yet clearly something far more sinister.
The child smiled, drifting through the air toward the Reaper like a predator cloaked in purity. The Reaper, helpless, could only watch.
Then, across the cratered arena, a leg appeared.
It was Zeck's.
The crowd gasped as, piece by piece, Zeck's body began to regenerate—from the toes up, muscles and bones weaving themselves together with glowing strands of ethereal energy. His form was rebuilding, rising from the destruction like a phoenix from the ashes.
Just as the baby reached the Reaper, raising a hand glowing with the same eerie power that had destroyed the orb, a single word cut through the silence like thunder.
"Stop."
It came from the opposite side—from Zeck.
His voice was low, firm, and heavy with command.
The child froze mid-air, tilting its head curiously as if weighing the order.
All eyes turned to Zeck, standing fully restored amidst the broken earth, dust still swirling faintly around him like a cloak.
And now… all awaited his next move.