Grand Olympia - Chapter 40: The Champion

Grand Olympia: Further Horizon - Chapter 40: The Champion

His back faced the bloodied champion, blades resting loosely in each hand, shoulders heaving with the slow, measured breath of someone who knew the weight of what had just happened but refused to let it end like this.

The arena was dead silent.

Even the phantoms in the stands waited.

"Stand up," Musashi said, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the stillness. "Stand up and fight."

A soft shuffle behind him. Protathlitis twitched but didn't rise.

Musashi closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence breathe before breaking it again.

"You think you were the only one who gave everything?" he asked. "You think sweat and scars are yours alone?"

He took a step forward not toward Protathlitis, but just forward, toward nothing. Like he was speaking to something greater than either of them.

"You've stood at the top for centuries. Thousands of battles. No one touched you. No one challenged you. But that… that doesn't mean you were invincible. It just means no one made you remember why you fought in the first place."

He looked over his shoulder now, just enough for the torchlight to catch one eye calm, steady, unwavering.

"There was a time you trained until your muscles screamed. A time you bleed just to sharpen your edge. A time your heart burned with something more than pride."

Another silence.

Musashi turned fully now, facing the broken form of the champion, wings bent, one arm gone, talons trembling.

"You're not done until you stop choosing to rise. You're not defeated until your will dies."

He walked slowly toward Protathlitis, stopping just a few feet away.

"I've fought men who begged for mercy. I've fought cowards. I've fought monsters that had no soul to begin with. But you…"

He pointed one of his wooden swords down at the cracked arena floor.

"You were a flame that lit this place. You were its purpose."

Musashi's voice grew harder now, like steel being sharpened.

"So don't end it lying on your knees. If you're going to truly fall, do it with your head high, blade raised, heart on fire."

He took a final step forward, lowered his blade to his side.

"I want you to show them all of them up there," he said, nodding toward the void where the phantom audience flickered like fading starlight, "why they cheered your name for so long."

"Give them an ending that matters."

A faint stir. A claw twitched. The wing flexed.

Protathlitis lifted his head slowly.

The crowd didn't speak.

But their silence now carried weight.

Musashi didn't smile. Didn't smirk.

He just watched.

Because he wasn't just challenging Protathlitis to fight again.

He was daring him to remember who he was.

Protathlitis lay still, chest heaving, his one remaining arm trembling from the pain. Blood dark and heavy poured from his shoulder, soaking the once-pristine stone floor of the arena. His wings lay slack behind him, bent, trembling. For the first time in ages, he had no answer, no roar, no strike, no defiance.

Then… something stirred inside.

Faint, like a whisper. A memory.

The roar of an audience is not these phantoms, not these illusions but real people. Living souls. Faces in a crowd, screaming his name not because he was cursed, but because he stood for something. Because he earned it.

He remembered the blinding light of the Crown Arena, banners waving in the wind. The feel of his sword not claws—resting in his hand. The ache in his muscles after hard-won victories. The pride that came not from domination, but from rising higher than yesterday's self.

Then the sky darkened.

The earth shook.

Cracks tore through the arena.

He remembered falling. Not in battle but deeper. Into something he didn't understand. The sky bled black. His hands split apart, reshaping into talons. His wings burned from his back. The pain was unbearable, and yet… he never screamed.

Because he couldn't. The monster didn't scream. It only obeyed.

That's what the phantom crowd was. Not spectators. Not fans.

Chains.

Then—

"Get rid of this illusion," Musashi said, his voice cutting through the silence like a sword drawn in meditation. "Wake up and fight. Focus on what's real. On what's in front of you. Not what was stolen from you."

Protathlitis twitched.

Musashi took a step forward, blades resting lightly at his sides. His tone didn't rise, but it didn't need to.

"You were their champion once. Not a puppet. Not a ghost." 

He pointed his wooden blade toward the still-cheering crowd. 

"They're not real. This isn't your story anymore. Unless you write the ending yourself."

Protathlitis slowly planted one taloned foot on the ground. Then another.

His breathing steadied.

The phantom crowd stuttered, flickering like failing candlelight.

Another breath.

And then silence.

The entire arena went still. The cheering died in an instant, like it had been swallowed by the void. And the phantoms? They disintegrated into gold dust, carried upward into the black ceiling, vanishing without a sound.

Musashi said nothing more.

Protathlitis stood tall not roaring, not snarling but resolute. He didn't need to speak. His stance said enough.

He was no longer trapped.

No longer dreaming.

The champion had returned not to relive the past, but to face the present.

Bloodied. Broken. Reborn.

And ready.

Musashi grinned faintly. "That's more like it."

Lapulapu, still recovering at the edge of the arena, slowly stood as well. 

"Guess we're not done yet."

Protathlitis couldn't help but smirk.

Not out of mockery.

But out of something deeper acknowledgement.

Respect.

He had every chance to strike Musashi down when he was vulnerable, and yet… he didn't. Those words Musashi said, those sharp truths that dug into the rot of his mind they lingered.

"You and I aren't so different," Protathlitis murmured under his breath.

His eyes narrowed, the red glow dimming to something colder than human.

He clenched his remaining fist tightly, his sharp talons piercing his own palm. Black blood oozed between his fingers, trailing down his wrist like ink bleeding through parchment. He didn't care.

Without a word without warning he launched himself forward, tearing across the arena like a living comet.

Musashi didn't flinch. He simply shifted his stance, the blades in his hands steady. He exhaled and moved.

Steel sang as he stepped forward, unleashing a horizontal cross-slash aimed for Protathlitis's chest.

But the champion, despite his size, blitzed.

He twisted mid-run, intercepting the blades with his lone hand, claws locked against Musashi's wooden swords in a moment of sheer force.

A heartbeat passed.

Then Protathlitis snarled and slammed his foot down.

The ground beneath them shattered, stone cracking like glass under a hammer. The arena trembled. Dust surged upward like a burst of smoke.

Musashi lost his footing for only a moment—but in this battle, a moment was enough.

Protathlitis capitalized. His fist drew back with speed that broke the sound barrier a blur of flesh and fury.

Just before it could land—

A wooden shield exploded into the space between them like a comet, ringing with a thunderous clang that split the air in two.

Lapulapu.

He had moved faster than thought, faster than the eye could track. His legs braced, his arms locked behind the shield, every fiber of muscle and spirit channeled into that single act of defiance.

Protathlitis's punch collided with the shield like a falling star. The resulting shockwave ripped through the stone beneath them, creating a ripple that carved trenches through the arena floor. The echo wasn't just sound it was pressure, force, raw impact that crushed the air from lungs and made bones groan in protest.

Lapulapu slid back, his bare foot grinding against the ground, molten sparks. His shield vibrates violently, his arms screaming under the weight of the blow. Behind him, Musashi stumbled, caught in the aftershock, his stance broken, his breath stolen.

But they didn't fall.

No, they endured.

Together, they dragged themselves to a stop. Dust swirled around them like a halo of ash. Their body was cracked, their skin torn, their weapons stained but their resolve? Unshaken.

Musashi spat blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. He met Lapulapu's eyes, and in that silent exchange, two warriors understood the weight of what they carried. No surrender. No retreat.

Across the stone battlefield, Protathlitis stood tall, his massive chest heaving, his lone arm flexed at his side. His wings flared open like banners of war, feathers bristling with fury. His eyes, those burning crimson coals locked onto the two men before him.

And then… he roared.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

A sound so primal it rattled the very walls of the arena. It wasn't just a roar of anger it was of disbelief, frustration, a wounded pride that had never known resistance. For centuries, he had stood alone, undefeated, unmatched.

But these two had dared to stop him.

His veins pulsed with divine rage. His talons curled, digging trenches into the floor. Blood dripped from his torn back, but he didn't care. The illusionary spectators, now reduced to golden dust, were gone yet in his mind, he still heard their cheers, still saw their eyes on him.

He wouldn't fall.

He couldn't.

With no warning, Protathlitis launched forward again. Each step thundered like a drumbeat of war. His speed hadn't waned. If anything, the pain had made him faster, meaner.

He was wrath given flesh.

And still, the warriors stood their ground.

The final clash was coming and none of them would leave unchanged.