WHEN TITANS CLASH

The Astrian Colosseum was no longer just a battlefield.

It was a war zone.

The air was thick, crackling with raw power as two forces prepared to collide—both standing at the peak of human and supernatural ability.

Xeraniel of Squad Five. The mad tactician. The gravity-wielding specter of death. His silver hair drifted slightly, his blue eyes gleaming with something beyond reason—an unsettling mixture of brilliance and insanity. His black cloak swayed gently behind him, but the air around him wasn't still. It warped.

Across from him stood Dante of Squad Two.

A man built not for survival, but for conquest.

His jet-black hair was slicked back, his cold amber eyes unwavering—sharp as if they had already calculated a thousand ways to kill. His body was lean but sculpted like a predator, and his stance was unshaken, poised for war.

His power? Lightning.

But not just any lightning—it crackled with a destructive will, golden arcs surging around his frame, illuminating the battlefield in flickers of violent light.

Dante wasn't just strong.

He was a fanatic.

A soldier who lived, breathed, and killed for a purpose beyond himself. A warrior whose devotion was absolute.

He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "Gravity versus lightning," he mused, his tone indifferent. "Let's see which force is stronger."

Xeraniel smirked, cracking his neck. "Doesn't matter."

His eyes narrowed—his grin widening into something between amusement and pure, unhinged excitement.

"I'm stronger."

The horn blared.

And hell was unleashed.

Dante vanished.

A streak of golden lightning tore across the battlefield, the sheer force of his movement shattering the ground beneath his feet.

Xeraniel's smirk didn't fade. He lifted a single hand.

And the air itself twisted.

BOOM!

The moment Dante appeared, ready to strike, the very gravity around him multiplied.

His body jerked downward, his momentum crushed by an unseen force. The ground beneath him caved inward, concrete cracking like brittle glass under the weight.

But Dante wasn't weak.

His body flashed with golden arcs, and in an instant—he was gone again.

Xeraniel barely tilted his head before a lightning-coated fist nearly took it off.

He dodged.

By a hair's breadth, he twisted, barely avoiding the devastating strike that sent a shockwave ripping through the air behind him.

Dante's attacks didn't stop. He was relentless.

A storm of fists, kicks, and lightning-infused slashes.

And Xeraniel dodged them all.

His body shifted effortlessly, each movement precise, fluid—like he had already seen this fight before it had begun.

Then—his eyes flashed.

He lifted his hand.

And everything stopped.

---

A pulse rippled through the battlefield.

And suddenly, Dante's body locked in place.

He hovered mid-strike, suspended in the air as if invisible hands had seized him. His feet no longer touched the ground. The space around him twisted, compressed, crushing inward.

It was suffocating.

He growled, his lightning surging wildly—but it wasn't enough.

Xeraniel grinned. "Oops. Did I break your momentum?"

Then, he clenched his fist.

And Dante was sent hurtling downward.

BOOM.

The impact cratered the battlefield. Dust and shattered concrete exploded outward as Dante's body slammed into the ground with inhuman force. The air trembled, the audience stunned into silence.

From the dust, Dante's voice rang out—a chilling laugh.

"You think that's enough to break me?"

Then—the lightning changed.

---

Dante's body erupted in pure, blinding gold.

Xeraniel barely had time to react before a spear of lightning shot from the debris, tearing through the battlefield like an executioner's blade.

He barely dodged.

For the first time, his smirk faltered.

Dante appeared behind him.

Xeraniel twisted—too late.

A fist crashed into his ribs, sending him skidding backward, his boots carving deep trenches into the battlefield.

But instead of anger—he laughed.

A low, unhinged chuckle. "Now we're talking."

He lifted both hands.

And the sky collapsed.

Dante staggered as the gravity around them inverted, twisted—became unstable. The battlefield itself buckled.

The two warriors vanished.

What followed wasn't just a fight.

It was destruction.

Shockwaves rippled through the Colosseum as their powers collided in a storm of light and darkness. The ground fractured beneath them, and the sky itself seemed to shudder from the sheer force of their battle.

Xeraniel's grin was wide, his violet eyes burning. "You're good."

Dante gritted his teeth, blood dripping from his lip. "And you're insane."

They moved.

And then everything stopped.

---

Both warriors stood frozen—bloodied, battered, but unyielding.

Dante's fists were still crackling with golden arcs.

Xeraniel's fingers twitched, his body trembling from exhaustion.

Then—his legs gave out.

He collapsed, unconscious.

The referee hesitated. Dante was still standing—but barely.

A voice rang out. Smooth. Amused. Cold.

"That's enough."

The Commander of Squad Two stepped forward.

His presence alone commanded silence. His smirk was carved from something unnatural—a cruel, knowing expression, like a god watching mortals struggle.

He glanced at the two warriors.

Then—he turned his gaze toward Bran and Commander Halden.

And smiled.

A smile filled with arrogance and malicious intent.

"This match… is a draw."

---

The crowd erupted. Some in outrage, some in disbelief.

The King of Astria remained still.

Dante clenched his fists, his breathing ragged. But he said nothing.

Xeraniel, unconscious, lay still—his body completely drained.

The war was not over.

It had just begun.