Dust from their last clash still drifted in the air, curling around two silhouettes. Helios stood with Slánú na nDoimhneacht coiled into whip-sword form, violet veins of energy pulsing faintly across the blade. Across from him, Sephiroth's Masamune gleamed like a shard of the night itself.
They moved.
Masamune cut low, a blur of silver shadow. Helios snapped Slánú tight, catching the strike, then twisted his wrists to roll the whip-sword around and shove the cut wide. Sephiroth flowed with it, spinning on his heel to slash from the opposite angle. Helios dropped low, sparks raining as Masamune skimmed across his guard.
Before he could reset, Sephiroth stepped in. A boot hammered into Helios' stomach, launching him back. He hit stone, teeth gritting, but didn't fall. Slánú snapped into sword form and caught the next thrust an inch from his throat.
Sephiroth leaned in, pressure unyielding. Masamune pressed harder, grinding down the length of Helios' blade. Helios twisted, disengaging, and countered with a rising slash. Sephiroth tilted back just enough to let it whistle past his coat, then brought Masamune down in an arcing sweep. Helios braced, but the force still tore cracks through the floor beneath him.
Sparks cascaded like meteors.
Helios lashed out, trying to break Sephiroth's rhythm with the whip-sword. The chain hissed, wrapping around Masamune's length. He jerked, hoping to drag the weapon wide—but Sephiroth simply spun with the motion, pulling the slack taut until Helios' own weapon snapped back toward him. Masamune surged free and came for his chest.
Helios barely twisted aside, blade scraping against clothes. The shallow cut along his ribs burned, hot blood seeping down.
Sephiroth saw his opportunity and pressed without pause, every strike chaining seamlessly into the next. Downward arcs flowed into diagonal cuts, thrusts bled into sweeps, his body moving with predatory inevitability. Each motion was precise, calculated, no wasted effort.
Helios was forced into constant retreat. Slánú snapped from sword to whip-sword and back again, each form used to parry angles that should have been impossible. Sometimes he'd slacken the chain mid-clash, letting Masamune slip past before jerking the weapon taut to catch the strike behind his back. Other times he'd flicker the weapon back into sword form mid-swing, redirecting his block just enough to hold the line.
Still, Sephiroth cut him.
A shallow slash across the shoulder. A slice along the thigh. A nick at the jaw. Nothing fatal, nothing deep—Sephiroth wasn't rushing the kill. He was whittling Helios down, shaving away defense after defense, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.
Helios' breath came ragged, each inhale tasting more and more of blood. His arms trembled from the relentless impact, his ribs screamed where Sephiroth's boot had landed, his body already slick with cuts. Yet his eyes gleamed, refusing to lose, today would be the day he won against Sephiroth.
They locked blades again, Masamune and Slánú grinding together in sparks. Sephiroth's boot lashed out, but this time Helios caught it on his shin and spun, trying to drag Masamune off-balance with whip-sword tension. Sephiroth let it flow, turning his wrist so the pressure snapped back into Helios' chest, forcing him to stumble. Masamune whistled down.
Helios dropped Reflect instinctively, a single hexagonal panel flashing into existence. Masamune cleaved through it in half a breath, shards of light scattering, and the edge bit into his guard. The impact rattled him to the bone. His knee buckled, nearly driving him down.
The crowd had fallen into stunned silence. Every gasp was swallowed by the sheer weight of what they saw.
Sephiroth pressed harder, Masamune bearing down. Helios' arms trembled under the pressure. His vision blurred. The next strike would break him.
He smiled.
Light burst from his body, searing and absolute. A sudden, blinding flare that turned night into day. The Colosseum cried out as one—hands raised to shield eyes, gamblers swearing, priests clutching charms. Even Sephiroth flinched, his body twisting back, Masamune cutting air.
Helios moved.
Slánú unfurled into whip-sword form, his hands snapping the chain taut. Darkness and light surged together down its length, coiling, thickening, growing sharp as fangs. His body screamed, his blood roared in his ears, but he drove everything he had into this one strike.
The weapon lashed out, coiling around Masamune in midair. Sephiroth's eyes widened a fraction, his instincts already moving to sever the bind—but Helios had prepared for this moment. The coils locked, energy surging down the blade.
Fang of the Abyss.
The whip-sword contracted, teeth of light-shadow grinding down Masamune's length before snapping outward in an explosion of force. Darkness detonated like a collapsing star, jagged fangs tearing forward with Helios' scream.
The impact hit Sephiroth full in the chest. His body staggered back, coat ripping, a gush of blood spraying into the air. For the first time, he was driven off his rhythm, Masamune torn wide as the abyssal strike carved through his guard.
The explosion thundered across the arena, dust and rubble flying, pillars cracking.
Helios dropped to one knee, Slánú trembling in his grip, blood dripping from his lips. His vision swam, his arms shook from the recoil, but he grinned through it.
Across from him, Sephiroth stood still, Masamune lowered, his chest bleeding openly from the gash carved into him. His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with a cold acknowledgment. For the first time in the match, his rhythm had been broken.
The Colosseum erupted, some in cheers, some in horrified disbelief.
Helios forced himself upright, Slánú steadying in sword form. His breath rattled, his wounds screamed, but his smirk remained.
Sephiroth tilted his head slightly, blood trailing down his coat. His voice was calm, almost faint.
"…Impressive."
The moon shone overhead, silver bleeding into the dust-choked air. Two silhouettes faced each other still—one trembling and broken but defiant, the other bleeding but unbowed.