Rebellion’s First Spark: Final Part

The infirmary grew silent again, save for the soft hum of the machines, as the Valkyries disappeared with Shigenori into the shadows beyond the doors.

The faint glow of the infirmary lights fades into the cold darkness of the coliseum, now eerily silent under the night sky. The sounds of earlier battles were replaced by the hum of distant torches and the occasional shuffle of restless feet.

Inside the chambers beneath the coliseum, Raiden, Kaito, and Zohar sat in their separate cells. Though divided by thick stone walls, their voices carried through the cracks, allowing them to talk.

Raiden, lying on his back with sparks of electricity flickering between his fingers, broke the silence. "I keep thinking about Shigenori and Kirashi... We haven't heard a thing since they were taken." His tone wavered slightly, betraying the concern hidden behind his usual confident demeanor.

"Yeah," Kaito replied, his voice heavier than usual. "They were in bad shape when Lucifer got to them... You don't think—"

"Don't even say it," Zohar interrupted sharply. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His tone softened, though his frustration was evident. "They're alive. They have to be. Shigenori is too stubborn to let hell poison take him out, and Kirashi... she's tough as nails."

Raiden sat up, his split-colored hair catching the flickering light of his electricity as he fidgeted with his powers. "What if they're not? What if..." he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Stop," Zohar cut in again, firmer this time. "What's the point of tearing ourselves up with 'what ifs'? We don't know anything right now. All we can do is wait and be ready. When the time comes, we'll find out the truth ourselves."

Kaito let out a long breath, leaning his head back against the stone wall. "I hate this. Sitting here, waiting for some horn to tell us to fight like dogs. It feels like a sick game."

"Everything about this is a game to them," Raiden muttered bitterly, sparks flaring brighter as his frustration grew. "The gods, the all mighty, this whole coliseum. They think we're just their pawns."

"Pawns or not, we're still in this," Zohar replied. "We're chosen for a reason. If we start doubting ourselves now, we've already lost."

Kaito nodded slowly. "Zohar's right. Shigenori and Kirashi wouldn't want us sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves. They'd want us to keep fighting."

Raiden clenched his fist, snuffing out the electricity in his hand. "Then we fight. For them, for us, for everyone."

The three boys fell silent after that, their unspoken resolve filling the air. Though they couldn't see each other, the connection between them felt stronger than ever. Outside their chambers, the distant sound of footsteps echoed, signaling that the next round of battles was fast approaching.

Connor's Chamber

The dim torchlight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting long shadows across Connor's bruised and battered form. He sat on a wooden bench, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his chest rising and falling heavily. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, mixing with sweat and dirt streaked across his face.

His armor lay scattered across the chamber floor, battered from his brutal clash with Feiyu. Connor's bare chest bore fresh bruises, and his knuckles were raw and swollen. Yet, despite the pain, his expression remained hard, determined.

He clenched his fists tightly, feeling the dull ache in his arms and the sharp sting from the cuts on his hands. "You can't look weak," he muttered to himself, his Irish accent rougher than usual. "Not now. Not here."

Connor winced as he sat up straighter, pressing a cloth to the cut above his eye. The room was silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing and the faint drip of water from somewhere in the chamber. He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the noise of the arena above, trying to steady his mind.

Morrigan's voice whispered in his thoughts.

"You fought well, my chosen, but the war has barely begun. You must endure. You must rise again."

"I know," he whispered back, though no one else was there to hear him. "But I can't keep taking hits like that, Morrigan. I'm not invincible."

The crow-like goddess didn't reply this time, but Connor felt her presence linger, a cold comfort in the otherwise oppressive room.

His gaze fell to his claws, still faintly stained with blood from his last fight. He flexed his fingers, watching as the sharp tips retracted back into his gauntlets. "They're watching," he murmured, glancing toward the stone ceiling as if he could see the gods above. "All of them are watching. You've got to keep going, Connor. Show them what you're made of."

With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet, every muscle in his body protesting the movement. He reached for his battered armor, piece by piece fastening it back onto his body. The Celtic runes shimmered faintly, a reminder of the power bestowed upon him. As the bear helmet rested in his hands, he hesitated for a moment, staring into the hollow eye sockets.

"Ma," he said softly, his voice barely audible. "You'd be proud, wouldn't ya?"

Connor shook his head and slid the helmet back into place, the metal fitting snugly over his face. He rolled his shoulders, standing tall despite the pain. No one could see him falter. Not the gods, not his fellow chosen, and certainly not his opponents.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as the distant sound of the arena horn echoed through the chamber. The next round was coming. And so was he.

The horn blares, signaling the next match. Connor, still battered and bruised, watches the bars of his chamber rise. He steps out into the dimly lit coliseum, his armor adjusting to his form as his gauntlets lock into place. His eyes scan the gates as another chamber creaks open.

From the shadows steps a young man, his braided hair reflecting faint flashes of electricity. The crowd erupts as his name is announced.

"This next chosen is backed by Thor and Odin, the gods of thunder and wisdom! Zohar!"

Connor narrows his eyes, sizing him up. "Thunder and wisdom, huh? Let's see what you're made of."

Zohar steps into the arena, his calm demeanor a sharp contrast to the energy flickering off his body. Though unfamiliar with Connor, his focus remains unbroken, his voice steady as he mutters to himself, "One step at a time. This is just another trial."

The two warriors stand across the sandy battlefield, the crowd roaring in anticipation. Then the all mighty raises his hand.

"Begin!"