The Colosseum was silent. Not with awe, not with fear—just silence. A silence so thick it drowned the gamblers, the priests, the soldiers, and even Phil himself. The dust from the attack, Fang of the Abyss still hung in the air, and both warriors stood bleeding in the moonlight.
Helios swayed, Slánú na nDoimhneacht trembling in his grip. Blood ran down his arm in steady rivulets, dripping from his fingertips into the broken stone. Yet his lips curved into a thin, defiant smile.
"Neither of us," he rasped, his voice cracked but steady, "can move well with injuries like these." His eyes, one nearly sealed by blood, locked on Sephiroth's. "So why don't we just end this… with our most powerful attack?"
Sephiroth took a single step forward. His coat shifted in the night breeze, stained dark where Fang had landed its mark. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths. Then, suddenly, he coughed, crimson spilling at the corner of his lips. The sound echoed through the silent arena like a death knell.
He straightened, silver hair clinging to his bloodied cheek. His voice was calm, level, as if stating a truth: "Agreed."
The crowd exhaled all at once.
Helios shifted his stance. Slánú flowed into whip mode, unraveling from a chain of abyssal steel that shimmered into a leathery light-threaded darkness. He spun it slowly at first, the whip slicing through the night air in a low hum. Then faster, and faster still, until the weapon became a blurred black circle above his head, each rotation feeding on the black well of power inside him. Darkness surged into it, thick and jagged, bleeding into violet sparks.
Sephiroth's aura erupted in answer. His body bled engery, the ground at his feet cracking under the pressure. Masamune hummed with unnatural resonance, the edge glowing not silver but dark blue, as though it were carving reality itself with every idle shift. His single wing flared wide, shuddering as if the air itself recoiled.
The Colosseum trembled. The audience leaned back instinctively, shielding their faces as the pressure alone began to blister skin and warp stone.
Helios' blood streamed faster from his wounds, the power tearing him open from the inside, but he clenched his teeth and poured more of himself into the weapon. His veins glowed faint violet, light and darkness intertwining dangerously within.
Sephiroth's blood dripped freely from his chest wound, each drop sizzling as it struck the floor. Still, he pressed more power into Masamune, his aura turning so heavy that cracks spiderwebbed outward from his stance, splitting the arena further.
Both men's bodies were wrecked. Neither stopped.
Helios roared. With a violent motion, he snapped Slánú na nDoimhneacht downward, the whip straightening mid-motion, transforming into its whip-sword form. Darkness howled from its edge, the very air curving toward it as if dragged by gravity. He shifted again, the weapon collapsing into sword form at the final instant. He slashed vertically with everything left in him, and from the edge burst a massive crescent wave of pure darkness. It tore across the arena, shredding stone, its violet and black glow painting the Colosseum in night.
Sephiroth stepped into it. His grip tightened, Masamune raised high at his side. The blade was no longer a sword but a line of deep, dark blue—a cut so sharp, so absolute, it seemed to slice through existence itself. He moved, horizontal slash so clean it made no sound.
The world answered.
The air split into a perfect line, glowing blue so deep it hurt to look at. It stretched across the entire arena, a gash in reality itself.
The crescent of darkness and the line of blue met.
For one instant, there was nothing.
Then the world exploded.
The Colosseum vanished in light, a storm of black and deep blue swallowing everything. The shockwave ripped outward, stone shattering into dust, pillars collapsing as if struck by gods. The crowd screamed, shielding their faces as the blast tore across the stands, rattling teeth, snapping bones. Phil was thrown off his feet, hooves scrambling uselessly before he slammed into a wall.
The clash roared like a collapsing star.
Blackness surged upward, devouring moonlight. Blue light seared through it, cutting arcs across the sky. When they touched, they detonated again, expanding the storm. The stage floor was obliterated, reduced to craters and gaping holes. The barrier spells Phil had prepared for the games shattered like glass, fragments raining across the stands.
The crowd could no longer see the fighters—only blinding light, only chaos.
The blast tore upward into the heavens, a column of night and blue so tall it pierced the clouds. Thunder rolled. The moon itself seemed to dim, swallowed by the clash of powers.
And still, within the storm, two figures pressed forward.
Helios staggered under the force of his own attack, his body shredding with every ounce of darkness he poured into it. His wounds ripped wider, blood spraying, but his eyes changed from blue to gold, and they stayed locked on Sephiroth. He forced more and more into Slánú, his roar drowned in the cataclysm.
Sephiroth's coat whipped in the gale, his chest wound pouring freely now. Masamune's line of blue flared brighter, splitting wider, cutting not just the wave but the world itself. His body shook under the strain, yet his face remained cold, determined, as he carved reality open to meet Helios' abyssal strike.
The two powers buckled, crashed, consumed each other.
And then the arena gave way.
The ground beneath the fighters collapsed, swallowed by their own clash. Dust and rubble surged upward like a tidal wave.
From the stands, there was no sight of Helios or Sephiroth anymore—only the storm of black and blue ripping the Colosseum apart.
And then, silence.
The light vanished all at once, leaving only smoke and ruin.
The Colosseum floor was gone, carved into a massive crater. The walls groaned, parts collapsed. Fires burned in the rubble, crackling against the silence.
No one moved. No one spoke.
The moon hung above, pale and distant.
The dust began to settle.