Sassy's breaths grew sharp, almost frantic. She blinked, trying to piece together what had just happened. A second ago, her strike was flawless.
Her weapon should have carved through Elior's guard with ease. Yet here she was, clutching her bleeding shoulder, staring at a man who hadn't even moved an inch.
Her thoughts churned. Something's there. Something I can't see. He's not just faster… it's like the very space between us is betraying me. My shuriken didn't miss. It was sent back.
Her lips trembled as she spat, "What the hell are you, Jones?"
Elior didn't answer.
He just kept walking forward, his face carved in stone, pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, his eyes sunken yet burning.
Every step echoed too loud in the silent arena, as if the earth itself carried the weight of it.
Up in the stands, Vincent Chilham leaned forward. For the first time since he'd entered this cursed game, his calm aristocratic mask cracked.
His mind whispered a bitter realization that he was holding back. All that time… he was holding back!?
Sassy swallowed her fear and forced her arm to move. With a furious scream, she threw her shuriken again, spinning it at full force, faster than before.
The air itself split, whistling as it cut across the arena.
But Elior didn't flinch.
He lifted his broken right arm bandaged, mangled, still trembling from earlier and let the weapon collide.
A sound like splitting metal rang out.
The crowd gasped.
The shuriken split into jagged halves, falling uselessly to the ground.
Sassy was in trauma. Her pupils shrank. No… no, that's not possible. Not with a broken arm…
Before she could retreat, Elior vanished from where he stood.
In a blur, he was right in front of her. She barely registered his hand before fingers gripped her hair tight, yanking her head back.
"Wha—"
Her scream was cut short as Elior slammed her skull into the stone wall with a force that cracked the surface. Dust spilled down.
The arena shook.
The crowd cried out in disbelief.
Sassy crumpled, her body folding, blood dripping from her lips.
Her vision blurred. Everything spun, but instinct clawed her back awake. She staggered to her feet, coughing violently, her green dress torn, eyes wild.
She had never felt so small, so powerless, yet her pride wouldn't let her stop. "I'm not… done yet," she hissed, her voice shaking.
Her hand twitched, calling the broken halves of her shuriken back into her grasp. She stumbled forward, rage burning, desperation masking her fear.
Elior stood waiting, dagger steady, face still twisted in that unrecognizable shadow of himself. He didn't look like the man who once spared enemies. He didn't look like the man who spoke of protecting others.
He looked like death.
Somewhere high above, Vincent whispered under his breath, "If he was holding back against me… then what is his true strength?"
The air was heavy. Dust still lingered from Sassy's impact on the wall, and the crowd murmured with unease, unable to process what they had just witnessed. Elior did not pause.
He turned, dagger dripping faint lines of crimson, and began walking toward the center of the arena.
His broken right arm hung stiff at his side, but his steps carried a force that made the ground seem fragile beneath him.
Then, from the shadows of the stands, a slow clap echoed.
Azmaik reached there. His tall frame wrapped in that black, rune-etched cloak. The faint glow of the red rune in his pocket pulsed with every beat of his heart, like a parasite breathing. His eyes narrowed on Elior.
"Stop there, Jones," Azmaik said, his tone almost amused, though his aura was sharp as a blade. "You've gone too far. One more step… and all three of us will crush you together."
The crowd erupted, excited by the thought. Three leaders against one. Blood promised to stain the night.
But Elior didn't answer. His eyes flicked up, empty of hesitation, and he stepped forward again.
The sand under his boots cracked.
Azmaik's smile widened, though his gaze didn't leave Elior. "Fool," he whispered, just loud enough for Vincent and Sassy to hear. "You'll die here."
Yet his thoughts told another story.
No… he isn't a fool. That face, that aura… he was never fighting seriously.
Against Vincent, he pulled every strike, every feint, even the wounds he took was deliberate. He hid his strength like a man hiding teeth behind a smile.
Azmaik's fingers twitched, brushing the glowing rune in his pocket. He could feel the presence stirring within him, the Outer Deity watching, whispering. Still, even with that eldritch thing as his shadow, his chest tightened as he stared at Elior.
If he had used his full physical stats against Vincent, that noble would already be a corpse. No theatrics or struggle. Just one clean kill.
He licked his lips, nerves disguised as amusement.
But now Elior was different. His dagger arm trembled not from weakness, but from restraint breaking. His broken right arm, which should have been useless, shifted slightly, twitching with unnatural strength.
Around him, faint distortions rippled in the air, space bending like water under heat.
Vincent noticed too. His grip on his sword tightened. "What… is this feeling?" he muttered, though he forced his stance upright, unwilling to show fear.
Sassy, still panting, pressed her shoulder wound. Her eyes darted nervously toward Elior's face cold, merciless, unblinking.
The same man who once bled silently under their stones now looked like a predator awakened.
Azmaik's laughter broke the tension, sharp and mocking. "Hah! Do you see him, Vincent? Do you see, Sassy? This is the danger of a man who hides his fangs. You two fought against shadows of his strength. What you face now—" his smile faltered for a moment, "—is something else entirely."
Elior lifted his dagger.
The silence that followed was suffocating. His presence pressed down heavier than the crowd's bloodlust, heavier than Vincent's noble confidence, heavier even than
Azmaik's rune-fueled aura. It was the seriousness of a man who had thrown away restraint, who had chosen not to be human anymore.
His voice, when it finally came, was low, stripped of emotion. "Come."
Vincent flinched. Sassy's breath hitched. Even Azmaik's grin twitched for the first time, his tongue dry against his teeth.
Because in that moment, even with three against one, Elior felt larger. Scarier.
Azmaik alone knew why.
He's not just using his body now. He's calling his Face out. You fools can't even see it.
The arena exploded into chaos the moment the three moved.
Vincent Chilham leapt first, his sword shimmering with sky-light, arcs of compressed air slicing forward like blades. At the same instant, Sassy whipped her massive shuriken, its edges glowing green, spinning in a deadly arc.
Azmaik hung back for now, runes lighting faintly across his arms, watching Elior with predatory patience.
Elior didn't step back. He darted forward, one hand dagger flashing, sliding under Vincent's initial slash.
The air blade tore the sand behind him apart, but he was already twisting, kicking up dust with a low roll. The shuriken hummed past his head, close enough to nick strands of his hair.
He planted his palm in the dirt, pivoted with his good arm, and kicked Vincent's leg.
The noble staggered, but recovered instantly, driving his blade downward. Elior let it graze his bandaged arm, blood spraying but used the moment to slash the dagger toward Vincent's ribs.
Steel met steel as Vincent barely parried.
From the side, the shuriken came whistling back. Elior ducked under it, gripping Vincent's coat and pulling him into the weapon's path. Vincent snarled, forcing psychic energy into his sword, and the shuriken split in two before it could carve him apart.
Sassy reformed it in her hands with a snap, smirking. "Not bad, cripple."
Elior's face didn't shift. His eyes flicked once to her, then back to Vincent. His dagger whirled like water in his hand—fast, efficient, surgical.
Azmaik's runes flared. Chains of light erupted from the sand, snaking for Elior's legs.
For a breath, he seemed caught. Vincent struck, blade humming with sky-magic, aiming to cleave his torso.
The crowd roared.
Elior dropped his dagger, letting it fall deliberately. With his free hand, he ripped one of the chains toward himself, twisting the angle.
The chain yanked Vincent's strike off-course, and the noble nearly stumbled into Sassy's waiting shuriken.
Gasps erupted.
Elior snatched his dagger mid-fall, slashed the chain free, and slipped between them like smoke.
He moved with precision, not rage. Every step was a measured calculation, every motion angled to force the three into each other's way.
Vincent's sword carved air where Elior had stood. Sassy's shuriken tore sand into spirals. Azmaik held the runes, trying to close the arena itself.
Elior's breathing stayed steady. Cold. His eyes and dead serious asf.
He shifted his dagger, pointing downward, and whispered something the crowd couldn't hear. For the first time, a ripple of his Face stirred. Space warped faintly at his side.
Azmaik's grin faltered.
He's bringing it out… here?
The night seemed to lean inward. Dust rose unnaturally.
The three leaders pressed in together. Vincent's blade from the left, Sassy's shuriken from above, Azmaik's runes tightening from below.
A drop of blood fell from Elior's left eye....