Zeck walked forward in slow, deliberate strides as each step he took echoed across the hollow arena like a final judgment. The dust curled around his feet, trailing behind him like shadows that feared to touch him. His eyes, were locked on the broken figure of the Reaper who now lay motionless—too weak to lift a limb, barely conscious, and steadily bleeding out.
The Reaper didn't move. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, and every breath seemed to tear at the silence like a scream no one could hear. He was broken and if for anything, this is what could be called total defeat.
Five meters away, Zeck halted.
Then suddenly, his body recoiled slightly.
It was like slamming into air.
His palm rose instinctively, reaching out—and again, it met resistance.
The same cursed dome the Reaper had used to trap and destroy his brother Killmonger.
Zeck's eyes narrowed.
He stepped back, tightened his fist, and slammed it against the dome with a force that cracked mountains—but the barrier didn't even tremble.
His hand hovered for a second longer before falling to his side. He slowly lifted his chin and looked past the barrier—right at the dying Reaper, who was now blinking slowly, as if slipping between consciousness and the void.
A smirk spread across Zeck's face.
Then he chuckled.
Not the laugh of joy or relief.
Whispering loud enough for everybody to hear,
"The dying struggles of a fool."
The ground beneath Zeck's feet began to sink—but he didn't flinch. The baby, now suspended mid-air with an expression of uncertainty, was about to react when Zeck raised a hand.
"No," he said gently, almost like a father to a child. The baby paused, its glow dimming with sadness.
Still with that unsettling smile stretched across his face, Zeck knelt and pressed his palm against the trembling earth. Instantly, the sinking halted. The arena, still holding its collective breath, watched as the sand vibrated unnaturally beneath his touch. Then—with the sound of a great bell tolling—the dome around Zeck shattered like fragile glass under pressure.
Zeck rose and resumed his steady march toward the Reaper.
When he reached him, the Reaper lay broken—torn, bloodied, limbs severed, eyes barely flickering with life. Zeck leaned down, grabbed him by the throat, and hoisted him effortlessly into the air.
Then—
The fists came.
A brutal barrage, each punch landing with the weight of vengeance and authority. The Reaper's face, already soaked in blood, contorted under the savage rhythm of the blows. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the silent arena. The crowd couldn't look away.
Finally, Zeck paused.
He stretched out his free hand.
The baby—obedient, loyal—shifted form in mid-air, contorting with a shimmer of light until it became the sword once more. With a high-pitched hum, the blade streaked into Zeck's waiting grip.
Without a word, without hesitation—he drove the sword into the Reaper's chest.
A flash of red—
A sound like air being sucked from the world—
And then came the draining.
The sword glowed crimson, pulsing violently as it drew out every last drop of life. The Reaper convulsed. The bandages on his body flapped in the growing wind, then slowly peeled away as his form collapsed inward—emptied of essence. The staff clattered to the ground beside the bandages, still glowing faintly, the last remnant of what he once was.
Zeck closed his eyes briefly as the vitality coursed through him, veins glowing, muscles tensing with renewed energy. The sword in his hand thrummed with satisfaction.
All that remained of the Reaper...
When the form reverted back, the baby had grown noticeably. It was now slightly larger than it had been before—its arms a bit longer, its eyes more alert, and its body heavier in Zeck's arms. Whatever transformation it had undergone, it had left a mark. But Zeck didn't seem fazed. He didn't leave the arena. Instead, he turned, still holding the baby close, and walked back to the center of the arena.
The crowd watched in silence, expecting him to leave and give way for the next match. But he remained there, unmoved. He waited until the murmurs and whispers began to settle, until even the commentators grew quiet, unsure of what came next.
Then, his voice rang out.
"In a time where voices are barely heard, in a time where righteousness is ignored and carnage is seen as true beauty. Tell me, brothers—why do we let ourselves be commanded and led astray by fools?
We all have the capacity to change our fate.
There was a brief pause before he continued in a commmanding tone.