For long moments, the Colosseum remained smothered in shadow and smoke, the crowd straining forward, every breath caught. Then a breeze swept through the ruined arena, carrying with it the stink of ash and scorched stone. The smoke thinned, peeling back, and what it revealed drove the silence into screams.
Helios and Sephiroth lay at the center of the crater.
Helios was sprawled on his back, Slánú na nDoimhneacht lying just beyond his fingertips, its black-violet glow guttering out. His stomach had been carved open in a horizontal line so deep it was a miracle his body still held together—flesh split nearly to the spine, blood spilling in rivers across the ruined stone. Each breath he took was ragged, wet, and too shallow.
Sephiroth was no better. He lay only a few feet away, Masamune still clutched in his hand, but its tip was buried uselessly in the rubble. A single vertical slash ran from shoulder to stomach, an obscene line that cut through his clothes and flesh alike. His silver hair was drenched red, his pale skin painted with his own blood. He twitched faintly, fingers curling as if still holding on to his last strike.
The sight of them—the two strongest warriors nearly cut in half, bleeding into the same pool—was too much. The crowd screamed, voices shrill with horror, some turning away, others shouting that they were dead, others demanding healers.
Phil leapt into the crater, horns shaking as his hoarse voice bellowed above the chaos. "You idiots just gonna sit there screaming?! Ten priestesses, NOW!" His voice cracked with panic, eyes wide and unblinking. "Move it before they bleed out! Go, go, go!"
The priestesses rushed forward, their white and gold robes whipping in the night wind as they scrambled down into the crater. Light green energy flickered into their hands, spells already forming. They knelt between the two, their chants overlapping, green glyphs blooming on the shattered ground.
Both men groaned in agony as the light touched them. Their bodies, broken beyond reason, twitched violently, blood hissing as magic forced itself into the wounds. Flesh began to knit, bones scraped together, organs quivered and tried to reform. The smell of iron and ozone filled the air, thick enough to choke.
Helios' head snapped back. His eyes, half-shut and glazed, opened just long enough to reveal a sliver of blue. His lips cracked open, whispering words barely audible.
"…Curaga…"
Light burst from his body.
The priestesses gasped as the spell overlapped theirs, amplifying the healing. Another flare followed, weaker, his hand twitching through the motions. A second Curaga spilled across both warriors, bathing them in green light.
The effort ripped the last of his strength away. His body slumped, his eyes rolling back as unconsciousness swallowed him whole.
The priestesses didn't stop. They layered their magic over his, light green energy weaving with green that still covered them until both warriors' wounds stopped gushing and began to seal. Slowly, impossibly, the gaping slashes dulled into scars, though their bodies still trembled on the edge of death.
Phil dragged his hands down his face, sweat streaking down his furry brow. "Sweet Zeus, I thought they were goners…" His voice cracked again as he waved frantically at the guards. "Get them out of that crater! Somewhere stable! Now! They can't keep bleeding all over my stage—what's left of it anyway!"
Four armored soldiers clambered down, carefully lifting the broken forms of Helios and Sephiroth onto conjured stretchers of glowing light. The priestesses walked beside them, continuing to channel as they were carried toward the waiting chambers.
Skuld, Kurai, Cloud, Thalen, Zack, Tempest, and Helga rushed forward, pushing past startled guards. Skuld was first to reach them, her keyblade flaring into her hands, heart hammering so loud it drowned everything else.
"Curaga!" she cried, light flooding from her keyblade into his chest. His wounds flared green, closing further, though his face stayed pale and his breath shallow.
"Again—Curaga!" Her voice cracked with desperation, tears blurring her vision. Another wave of light passed through him, sealing the smaller cuts across his arms, knitting his muscles, stopping the faint seep of blood, and causing the scars to fade slightly.
Kurai stood behind her, arms folded tightly, face hard but unreadable. Her eyes followed every movement of Helios' chest, the rise and fall, the faint groan when Skuld's spell pressed his body further toward survival.
Tempest clenched her fists, jaw tight. "He can't die before I get to, I swear I'll—" She stopped herself, voice shaking. She turned instead toward Sephiroth's stretcher, glaring at the faint rise and fall of his chest. "And him. He doesn't get to die before I can challenge him."
Zack tried to laugh, but it came out in a choked sound. He scratched the back of his head, looking anywhere but at the stretchers. "Guess… guess this is why these two are the first and second place winners of the advanced tournament, huh?" His grin faltered when no one answered. His fists trembled as he shoved them into his sides.
Helga crouched at Sephiroth's side, her hand hovering just above his wounds before checking his pulse. She wasn't a healer, not truly, but she could see the faint stitching of the priestesses' work. "They'll live," she said, her voice steady, deliberate, as though willing it into truth. "They'll need weeks of rest. Maybe months. But they'll live."
From behind her, Circe's voice slid like silk. "How reassuring. I'd hate to think all this drama ended with two corpses." She leaned against the archway, lips curling as her eyes traced Helga's posture. "Though I must say, dear, you seem very… invested. I didn't think you had such tender affections for men half-dead in pools of their own blood."
Helga shot her a look that could cut steel. "Not now, Circe."
Circe only laughed softly, turning her eyes back to the stretchers as they were carried past. Her smile remained, but her gaze was sharp, calculating, as though already planning how this outcome could be twisted to her advantage.
Phil finally exhaled, his hands trembling against his knees as the stretchers were carried into the inner chambers. His voice was hoarse as he muttered to himself, "Thank the gods… but next time, I'm banning these lunatics from my Cup. No more lunatics with weapons longer than I am tall." He slapped his forehead. "My poor Colosseum…"
The crowd still roared and wailed, torn between relief, horror, and awe. Some shouted for refunds, others praised the fighters as gods among men. But all eyes lingered on the ruined stage, on the trail of blood still staining the crater.
Because though both Helios and Sephiroth had survived, everyone knew what they had seen tonight was not a game.
It was the greatest match of a lifetime, followed by a miracle.