A WARRIOR’S FALL
The Colosseum was a sea of voices—cheers, gasps, and whispers merging into a chaotic storm. But within the arena itself, there was only silence.
Two warriors stood across from each other.
Fenrick. Dante.
One was a ghost of the battlefield, an executioner with golden, unreadable eyes.
The other was a storm incarnate, a warrior who fought not for survival, but for absolute conquest.
Dante rolled his shoulders, lightning crackling along his fingertips. His body was marked with the aftershocks of his battle against Xeraniel—faint bruises, minor burns—but his stance remained unshaken.
Fenrick said nothing.
He just lowered his stance.
His muscles coiled like a predator's, his fists tightening. His golden eyes, cold and detached, held nothing but sheer focus.
Dante smirked. "You're quiet. Good. The last one wouldn't shut up."
Fenrick exhaled slowly.
Then—he vanished.
---
The first impact shattered the air.
Fenrick's fist rocketed toward Dante's ribs, too fast for the untrained eye to see.
Dante barely dodged.
A shockwave erupted from the missed strike, splintering the concrete beneath them. The very pressure of the attack sent cracks snaking across the battlefield.
But Fenrick was already moving again.
A low sweep—Dante leapt back.
A sharp elbow toward his jaw—Dante twisted, deflecting it.
Another fist—this time, it landed.
BOOM.
Dante skidded back, his boots grinding against the floor.
The crowd gasped.
Fenrick didn't stop.
His attacks were merciless. Precise. Calculated. His body moved like a weapon honed for nothing but destruction. His golden eyes never wavered, his expression never changed.
But Dante wasn't a normal opponent.
The moment Fenrick came in again—Dante countered.
Lightning erupted from his fingertips, crackling with raw destructive energy. A single, blinding palm thrust.
Fenrick felt it before it hit.
And then—pain.
BOOM.
The entire battlefield shook.
Fenrick's body was blasted backward, his feet barely scraping the ground before he landed—hard.
He had blocked the full impact. And yet, his right arm trembled.
His vision flickered. The force had disrupted his balance—but not broken it.
Dante tilted his head. "You're durable."
Fenrick exhaled, shaking the numbness from his arm.
Then—he rushed in again.
Dante's smirk widened. "Try again, then."
They clashed.
Fist against lightning.
Pure martial technique against overwhelming speed.
Each strike sent shockwaves across the Colosseum. The audience could barely follow the movements. Fenrick's body twisted, dodged, struck—each movement precise, like a beast honed for nothing but combat.
But Dante was faster.
For every hit Fenrick landed, Dante landed three.
For every attack Fenrick dodged, Dante barely needed to move.
And then—the end.
A faint crackle of lightning. A shift in the air.
Fenrick's golden eyes flickered.
And Dante moved.
---
A lightning-coated fist slammed into Fenrick's gut.
The impact was devastating.
Fenrick choked. For the first time, his body betrayed him—his stance collapsed, his vision blurred.
Dante grabbed his collar. And threw him.
BOOM.
Fenrick's body crashed into the ground, dust and debris exploding outward.
Silence.
His fingers twitching. His body refusing to move.
Dante exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Not bad," he muttered. "But not good enough."
The referee hesitated. Then—
"Winner—DANTE OF SQUAD TWO!"
Dante stepped back, stretching. His victory was clear.
But as he moved, his body locked up.
Pain.
He frowned, glancing down.
His ribs—bruised.
His shoulder—dislocated.
His breathing—heavy.
He exhaled sharply. Fenrick had done more than just fight back.
He had damaged him.
And that damage…
Would cost him the next round.
The judges convened quickly.
The commander of Squad Two, Malakai Voss, did not argue.
Dante was strong. But he was wounded.
And in this war—only the strongest could continue.
The announcement rang across the battlefield.
"DANTE OF SQUAD TWO IS UNFIT TO CONTINUE TO THE FINALS!"
The crowd erupted.
And then—the true declaration.
"BY DISQUALIFICATION—MODRED OF SQUAD FIVE ADVANCES TO THE FINAL ROUND!"
---
Modred stood at the edge of the ring, unmoving.
His crimson eyes burned beneath his cloak's shadow.
He had been watching.
Waiting.
Now, the final battle had arrived.
Across from him, his final opponent stepped into the arena.
A warrior from Squad One.
Tall. Poised. A presence that commanded attention.
He wielded a sword—no, not just a sword.
A weapon bathed in ethereal light, humming with a power unlike any other.
This warrior was not just strong.
He was an embodiment of war.
And he was Modred's last obstacle.