Naze landed with a sickening crunch that echoed across the arena like a dropped drum. Bones cracked audibly—someone in the stands let out a shriek, and a cluster of commoners leapt to their feet in fright, knocking over their baskets and goblets in the commotion. A noblewoman fainted into her husband's arms, though it was unclear if it was from shock or sheer dramatics.
Lola's gaze was nailed to the point of impact. Her fists clenched so tight, the leather of her gloves creaked. The only reason she wasn't already ripping through space to his side was because the tote's dimension—magic-infused and sealed with a binding glyph—held her trapped like a tiger behind glass. Her breathing grew sharper, nostrils flaring, eyes wide and filled with a storm of violent emotion.
Conrad Stan stood beside her, the only calm in her tempest. His hand reached out and clutched her shoulder with a firm squeeze, trying to anchor her rage. But even he flinched when he saw her eyes—bloodshot red, not from grief, but from fury barely chained. She wasn't crying. She was calculating.
Down below, the Trickster God was clapping his hands together like a delighted toddler at a puppet show. He practically bounced in his throne, legs swinging in glee. "Oh, now this is delicious! The blind bat is down! The monster is charging in to bite! Who's going to have the last laugh—our broken bat, or the meat-grinding ogre?"
He leaned forward with a wicked grin, his eyes suddenly finding Lola amidst the crowd. "Oh-ho, what's this? Look at her face! That's not just worry. That's longing! Has the blind bat stolen her heart? Is she done pining for the Black Dragon now?" He snorted, then laughed harder, slapping his own thigh. "Someone bring me a harp, I think we have a new tragic ballad!"
A few of the high-ranking lords around him chuckled nervously, but most remained frozen, their eyes pinned on Naze's motionless body. His arms sprawled unnaturally, his leg bent at a wrong angle. He hadn't twitched since he hit the ground.
And Agra the Giant—hulking, bleeding, and maddened by pain—was charging like a runaway beast. His severed arm dripped blood behind him, staining the arena floor with a gruesome trail. But he didn't care. Victory was close. Freedom was close. And once he had it, he'd drink a potion, mend his limb, and sing songs of his triumph over the tiny rat who dared to mock him.
He roared as he thundered forward, raising his remaining arm high, ready to slam it down with bone-breaking finality.
Naze still didn't move.
The crowd held its breath.
And somewhere, something else was stirring.
Agra the giant stormed over to where Naze lay, blood oozing from the stump of his severed arm, each heavy footstep shaking the arena like thunderclaps. The ground bore his fury, quaking under his weight and intent. When he reached the motionless form of the blind swordsman, he raised his remaining arm triumphantly to the crowd, chest heaving with ragged breaths.
"I am your victor!" his guttural voice roared.
A pocket of the audience cheered, mostly those who either feared him or simply craved violence. But the majority remained silent—too gripped with dread at what was about to happen. For all his cruelty, even they could not deny the raw spectacle of Naze's elegant, unyielding dance earlier, or the calm that had turned into chaos the moment Agra's fist had connected.
Lola's nails were digging into her own palm, trembling with helpless rage. Inside the tote's dimension, she pressed against the unseen barrier, lips parted in horror. Conrad Stan's hand had not left her shoulder, but even he was swallowing hard now. The red in her eyes had deepened; it wasn't just anger—it was a quiet, burning storm.
Agra didn't wait for the cheers to swell. His fist rose—huge, dark, and bloodstained—blocking the sun for a second. The speed at which it came down was inhuman. A blinding descent, raw power crashing like a falling star toward the fragile body beneath.
Gasps echoed around the coliseum. Mothers turned their children's heads. Some looked away entirely, not wanting to witness the pulverization of a man who had held his ground with such grace.
And then—
A blur.
Like silk slicing through wind. Like the hiss of a cobra mid-strike.
Just before the earth-shattering impact, Naze moved. No warning, no twitch. One moment he lay still like a corpse, and the next, he was alive—no, awakened. His body twisted and rolled in a serpentine motion, his blindfold rippling in the air, his twin sword gleaming in a perfect arc.
The crowd screamed.
Agra's fist crashed into the ground with an earth-shaking boom—but Naze wasn't there.
In the same breath, the flash of steel shimmered.
A spray of blood.
A roar of agony.
Agra reeled back, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the twitching stub where his last functioning arm had been. Severed cleanly. The sword had passed through flesh, bone, and sinew like butter.
A deafening silence fell.
Agra stumbled back two paces, roaring in frustration. Blood spurted violently from his shoulder, soaking the sand beneath him. The once-proud giant, now armless, trembled—not from rage, but something dangerously close to fear.
Naze stood with unshaken composure, the tip of his sword resting by his side, his expression unreadable behind the blindfold. His breathing was controlled, every inch of his posture speaking of relentless focus.
The Trickster God stood from his seat, both palms on his cheeks, gasping with joy like a child unwrapping a twisted gift.
"Oh-hohoho! What was that?! Did the dead man just dance?!" he laughed gleefully. "Oh this is rich! Somebody give that blind bat a medal!"
Then his voice dropped to a darker, more amused tone. "But Agra, poor Agra… how do you fight now? What's a beast without claws?"
No one responded.
All eyes were on the man who had just risen from certain death to disarm a monster.
Naze stared into the bloodshot eye of Agra the Giant, whose howls now echoed through the air like the wailing of a wounded beast. He stumbled back, staring at his stumps—both arms now severed, flailing uselessly with gushing trails of blood. The crowd gasped at the grotesque sight, their shock locking them in place as if the scene before them were too real to process.
"You talk too damn much..." Naze muttered, his voice as calm as still water, yet edged with finality. He tightened the grip on his twin swords and burst forward with such fluidity that it was hard to tell if he was flying or sprinting.
His feet barely touched the ground before he leapt—an elegant, deadly arc slicing through the air. In one swift movement, both swords came down in a beautiful, synchronised X, cleaving through Agra's thick neck like it was paper. There was a sickening thud as the giant's head tumbled off his shoulders and rolled across the stage like a dropped melon, stopping at the foot of a noblewoman who promptly fainted.
A geyser of blood erupted from Agra's neck, soaking the sand and painting Naze in a grotesque baptism of crimson. The giant's body staggered, trembled, and then collapsed forward with an earth-shaking crash that made several guards instinctively grip their weapons.
And then it happened—an eruption.
The silence shattered into a wild, deafening roar.
The crowd that had held its breath out of fear for the Trickster God now screamed with unfiltered joy. It was a raw, primal noise—a collective surge of triumph, disbelief, and euphoria. Even those who had once rooted for Agra couldn't help but be swept up by the tidal wave of excitement.
From the nobles seated in gold-rimmed booths to the street-born commoners clutching each other's sleeves, everyone was shouting one name.
"Naze! Naze! Naze!"
He stood tall, blood dripping from his chin, his swords still singing in the air from their deadly dance. And for a brief moment, he didn't look like a blind man. He looked like vengeance itself given human form.
The Trickster God, who had reclined on his floating throne with a look of eternal amusement, now leaned forward, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. For once, the grin dropped from his lips—only for it to return, wider and more amused than before.
"That…" he drawled, flicking his fingers as though to conduct the chaos, "was much more fun than I anticipated."
His maniacal laughter paused for a beat, the silence around him filled with the thunderous cheers of a crowd now free from the spell of fear. But then, his smile twisted.
"And here I thought the blind bat would be the first to fall," he mused, his eyes flicking to Lola in the stands, whose gaze had never left Naze from the beginning. The Trickster God chuckled. "Perhaps we have a new favourite in the arena after all."
But even as he spoke, Naze remained motionless—head lowered, blades dripping—unbothered by the crowd, the praise, or the gory wreck behind him. The fight wasn't just over.
It was finished.
And Naze had carved his name into legend with the sword.