THE DEMON WITHIN

The Astrian Colosseum was alive with anticipation.

The battlefield—cold, cracked concrete stained with the echoes of past battles—stood between two warriors. Thousands of spectators watched in silence, their breath held as two forces prepared to collide.

On one end stood Cassian of Squad Four, broad-shouldered, his battle-worn axe resting heavily in his grip. His muscular frame, slightly taller than his opponent's, radiated sheer strength. He had crushed countless enemies before. He would crush this one, too.

Or so he thought.

Across from him, standing utterly still, was Modred.

And then, the air changed.

---

Cassian's smirk faltered.

Because Modred wasn't moving.

But something else was.

The air around him began to tremble, a thick, suffocating presence leaking from his body. The torches lining the arena dimmed, as if his presence alone was devouring the light.

Then, his mana erupted.

A crimson glow flared around him, not wild, not uncontrolled—but heavy. Commanding. The air grew thick, almost liquid, as waves of crushing pressure rolled across the battlefield.

His crimson eyes pulsed, glowing like molten embers, their radiance piercing through the suffocating darkness. The aura around him swirled—deep red, like blood evaporating into mist.

The crowd froze.

Even the king leaned forward slightly, his burning gaze locked onto the warrior below.

Cassian gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of something monstrous pressing down on him.

It wasn't rage.

It wasn't bloodlust.

It was certainty.

The certainty that Modred was going to win.

Cassian clenched his fists, pushing past the suffocating force. His battle instincts screamed at him—Move first. Strike first. Break him before he gets close.

The horn blared.

And Cassian charged.

Cassian swung his axe in a devastating arc, his speed betraying his massive frame. The sheer power behind the strike cracked the ground beneath his feet.

But Modred was already gone.

A blur of black and red—a flicker of movement beyond normal sight.

Then—impact.

Cassian barely turned before a brutal kick slammed into his ribs, sending him skidding backward. He barely steadied himself before—

Clang!

The next attack came—a sword slash, so fast it blurred.

Cassian raised his axe just in time. Sparks erupted as steel met steel.

The moment of resistance was brief, but it was there.

The crowd gasped. Cassian had blocked the first strike.

A smirk touched his lips. "Not invincible, are you?"

Modred's expression didn't change. His voice was low, ice-cold.

"Neither are you."

Then, he attacked.

---

Cassian swung again, and this time, Modred didn't dodge.

Instead, he stepped into the strike.

His sword met the axe mid-swing, redirecting the force just enough to slip past Cassian's defense. A gash appeared on Cassian's shoulder, blood spilling onto the concrete.

Cassian grunted, stepping back—but Modred didn't let him breathe.

He was already there.

A downward slash. Parried. A counter-kick. Dodged.

Cassian gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. This wasn't like fighting a brute. This wasn't raw power.

This was precision.

A battle fought with flawless technique, deadly footwork, and the merciless patience of a true executioner.

And Modred wasn't even breathing heavily.

Cassian adjusted his stance. If he couldn't overpower him in speed, he'd force him into a direct clash.

He raised his axe high. His mana surged, reinforcing his muscles—one clean strike, backed by everything he had.

He swung.

BOOM.

The impact shook the entire arena—but Modred was still standing.

His sword had caught the axe mid-swing. His boots had barely shifted from the force.

Cassian's heart pounded. His strongest attack—and it wasn't enough.

Then, Modred exhaled.

The moment Cassian saw the shift in his stance, he knew.

He had already lost.

---

Modred moved.

Faster than before.

Cassian's body reacted on instinct, raising his axe for defense—but his arms felt slow. His movements sluggish.

Modred's first slash struck his shoulder.

The second landed on his ribs.

The third—a brutal, deep cut across his chest.

Cassian staggered. His vision blurred.

Then—the final blow.

Modred stepped in close, gripping his sword with both hands before swinging it in a clean, diagonal slash.

The force sent Cassian flying. His body hit the concrete, rolling until he came to a dead stop near the edge of the ring.

Blood dripped onto the ground. But he was still alive.

Modred flicked the blood from his blade, his crimson aura fading.

Then, without looking back, he turned away.

"You weren't bad."

Cassian, barely conscious, let out a weak chuckle. "Tch… bastard."

The referee hesitated before raising his hand.

"Winner—MODRED OF SQUAD FIVE!"

The colosseum exploded in chaos. Some cheered, some whispered in disbelief.

In the royal balcony, the king of Astria's expression remained unreadable.

But something in his gaze had changed.

---

Modred stepped out of the ring, his squad waiting.

Fenrick smirked. "That was clean."

Xeraniel chuckled. "I was expecting more blood."

Bran's sharp eyes studied him. "You're still holding back."

Modred said nothing.

Then—the arena shifted.

The next battle was about to begin.

And the next warrior was already stepping into the ring.