The sand had not yet dried from Gloxkir's blood when the gates opened again.
The crowd's shrieks rattled the bone-pillars, but Kairo did not move. His hands were still stained, his chest still heaving from the storm he had unleashed. Yet his eyes — crimson burning against the dark — never left the black maw of the gate.
Hades spoke from above, his voice rolling like thunder through the silence:
"Raw power alone will not save you, Kairo. Let us test what you fear to reveal."
The thing that entered this time was not heavy, nor loud. It was small, cloaked in tattered robes, its face hidden behind a lattice of threads that writhed like worms. Each thread twitched and pulsed, and wherever they moved, the sand beneath them warped, bleeding colors that had no name.
The faceless crowd went silent.
Even Igron leaned forward. His gaze was sharp, but not mocking this time. "Threads of Madness…" he muttered, too soft for most to hear.
The creature raised its head. No eyes glimmered through the threads, only the hollow suggestion of a face. And then, without moving its body, it was suddenly everywhere.
Kairo blinked — the arena around him fractured, shifting into images that weren't his own. Burning fields. Shattered crowns. Corpses kneeling before him, whispering his name as if it were worship. The same visions from the Hall returned, sharper, unbearable.
The seven voices roared in unison:
"We remember."
"This was ours."
"This will be yours again."
Kairo clutched his skull, teeth grinding. The sand beneath him felt like fire, his chains biting into his wrists. He tried to steady himself, but the arena itself seemed to split, showing him a dozen broken worlds where he was both the conqueror and the corpse.
From the stands, Hades' voice cut through the madness:
"Break, Kairo. Show us what lies beneath."
But then — another voice. Quiet, subtle, threading beneath the chaos.
Igron.
"Hold on to yourself. They want you to shatter. Don't."
Kairo's eyes widened. For a moment, clarity flickered. The threads writhed, trying to drag him deeper into visions of ruin, but his hand clenched into a fist. The crimson glow in his eyes pulsed against the illusions.
The whispers screamed, furious.
"Do not resist us!"
"We are the throne!"
"We are you!"
Kairo roared and struck the ground. The shockwave cracked the arena floor, tearing the illusions apart. The Threads reeled back, hissing in soundless fury.
For the first time, the faceless crowd gasped — a hollow, sharp intake of air that shook the terraces.
Kairo rose slowly, blood dripping from his temples, his body trembling with both fury and restraint. He looked up — not at Hades, not at the Threads, but at Igron.
And Igron, ever unreadable, simply smirked and leaned back, as though nothing had passed between them.
The fight was far from over. But for the first time, Kairo wasn't standing entirely alone.