Michi opened his eyes.
The world around him was no longer the throne hall of Mélovetsia. Instead, he found himself standing in the middle of a massive, circular arena. The air was heavy, stained with the metallic scent of blood. The ground was made of broken stone, and crimson stains were splattered across every inch of it. Above him, endless shadows loomed like the audience of a cursed coliseum, whispering laughter that made his spine crawl.
And then he saw him.
Standing at the far end of the arena was a figure Michi would never forget—the towering form of Isiya Uradhara, the king of Prussaria. The same king Michi had once defeated after a bloody, merciless battle to protect Prussaria's people.
But here… Isiya looked untouchable. His presence was suffocating, his spear glowing with a dreadful radiance. His face carried no malice, no joy—only a calm coldness, as though he had been waiting here all along for Michi to arrive.
Michi clenched his fists. His breathing grew heavy. "You… again?" he muttered, his voice cracking under both disbelief and rage.
Isiya's eyes narrowed. No words, no greetings. He simply raised his spear and pointed it forward.
The fight began.
Michi charged forward, drawing his sword with desperate precision. He swung furiously, aiming at Isiya's chest, but the spear spun once, parrying it effortlessly. The impact threw Michi off balance.
He leapt back, pulling out a claymore this time. The heavy blade whistled as he swung with both hands, pouring every ounce of strength into the strike. Sparks exploded as spear met steel again. Isiya barely flinched. His spear twisted, slicing the claymore's edge in half.
Michi gritted his teeth, switching instantly—dagger in one hand, hatchet in the other. He darted around Isiya like a beast cornered, slashing from every angle. But the spear was relentless, weaving arcs that shredded the air itself.
The dagger flew from Michi's grip. The hatchet was shattered by a single jab. Blood sprayed as the spear pierced through Michi's shoulder, ripping muscle and flesh.
"Argh—!" Michi stumbled back, clutching his wound, his breath ragged.
Isiya advanced without hesitation. His spear blurred again, tearing across Michi's thigh. The sound of ripping skin filled the arena.
Desperation burned in Michi's chest. He pulled a bow, stringing an arrow with trembling fingers. He let it fly—then another, then another. A flurry of arrows shot toward Isiya like a storm.
The king barely moved. His spear swiped once, and every arrow splintered mid-air, fragments raining uselessly to the floor.
Michi's face twisted with anguish. He dropped the bow and spread a grimoire open, chanting desperately. Arcane circles flared beneath his feet, summoning waves of fire and shards of ice. The arena roared with elemental fury.
For the first time, Isiya spoke. His voice was sharp, deep, and unyielding.
"Hopeless."
He thrust his spear forward. The magical storm collapsed in an instant, exploding back at Michi. Flames engulfed him, ice shattered across his skin, and he screamed as his body was seared and torn at once.
But he refused to fall.
Through the smoke, he dragged out one last weapon—a scythe. Its blade gleamed black, trembling in his bloodstained hands. With a roar of defiance, Michi charged, swinging the scythe in deadly arcs.
The arena echoed with clangs as scythe met spear. For a brief moment, Michi's determination burned bright. His strikes were wild, his screams filled with rage, his body refusing to give in.
Yet every swing slowed. Every movement grew weaker.
Isiya's spear slashed across Michi's arm, tearing deep into muscle. Another strike crushed into his ribs, snapping bone. A third jab gouged into his eye, ripping vision from him.
"AHHHH—!" Michi's scream echoed like a dying animal. Blood gushed from the empty socket, dripping across his face.
Isiya grabbed Michi by the hair, yanking his head back, before dragging the spear's edge across his scalp. Strands of hair tore out in chunks, blood soaking them.
"Piece by piece," Isiya muttered coldly. His words were like a verdict.
He rammed the spear through Michi's side, then twisted it. Flesh ripped apart.
Michi collapsed to his knees, panting, broken. His skin was shredded, patches torn away as if carved by blades. His arms quivered, blood streaming from every inch.
Still, he tried to rise. His hands shook on the scythe. His one good eye glared upward.
"Not… yet…" he whispered hoarsely.
But Isiya gave no mercy.
The spear descended again.
It tore through Michi's leg, snapping bone. Another strike pierced his chest, blood bursting from his lips. Then another slash, carving his back open. Piece by piece, limb by limb, Michi's body was dismantled like fragile glass.
His screams grew weaker. His vision blurred.
Finally, Isiya's spear swung wide, cutting Michi clean across the torso. Flesh split apart. Blood cascaded like rain. His body toppled in fragments across the stone floor—arms, legs, torso, head, scattered in gruesome pieces.
The arena fell silent for a moment. Then, from the shadows above, came the sound.
Laughter.
Horrid, echoing laughter that filled the void. Countless unseen voices laughed at the shattered remains of Michi, at the pitiful ruin of his broken body.
His eyes—one gone, the other dimming—saw the blur of faces in the darkness, their mouths stretching unnaturally wide, mocking, ridiculing, celebrating his fall.
Michi wanted to scream again, but his voice was gone. He wanted to fight, but he had no body left. All that remained of him were torn limbs, blood-soaked fragments, and the echo of despair.
The arena was painted red with his destruction.
And the laughter continued, cruel and endless, until darkness swallowed his sight.