The crowd's roar, once a chaotic storm of voices shouting orders, bets, and prayers, was suddenly cut short by the piercing cry of the announcer's bell.
A high, metallic chime echoed across the stone ribs of the colosseum, silencing even the most fervent spectators.
"Enough!" boomed the announcer's voice, his tone straddling the line between humor and warning. "While this sort of combat—by its very nature—will always flirt with interference, we would not want the generous nobles and wealthy men of power to find their pockets emptied by those sitting too close to the flames." He paused, letting the message sink in. "So unless you plan to return home with broken teeth and missing tongues, I suggest—for your own good—you let the boy win or lose on his own."
The threat was laced with charm, but the underlying menace was unmistakable. The colosseum obeyed. Voices died in throats. The gamble had turned quiet.
The silence was immediate and sharp, like cloth torn clean. It was the kind of silence that only made the arena louder in other ways—the brushing of sand beneath feet, the jingle of steel, the ragged breath of the desperate. For the blind warriors, it was a return to clarity. Their domain.
The five remaining soldiers and their commander quickly tightened their formation. A narrow line, shoulder to shoulder, shields interlocked, weapons low and ready.
No flanks. No weak wings. Just steel and instinct, strung tight like a bowstring.
Order had returned.
But Caelvir had not the time to let them settle.
The makeshift wrappings on his right arm had done little to truly stop the bleeding—only to slow it, delay the inevitable.
Every heartbeat was another drop.
His vision had begun to blur, not only from blood loss, but from the exhaustion rattling through every muscle.
His breath rasped beneath the mask he'd tied over his mouth, but even that cloth now reeked of old sweat and iron.
He fell to his knees near one of the bodies, biting down the pain. His eyes scanned the corpse, then the next. Their armor—loose, not his size. Their boots—thicker, echoing the sharp, sand-scraping rhythm of trained soldiers. That was what he needed.
He moved like a ghoul among the dead, crawling from one to another, scavenging quickly: a breastplate that slipped too low on his ribs, a helmet that jangled and tilted when he turned his head, a long sword like theirs, and most importantly—boots.
Sturdy and worn, they mimicked the footfalls of the blind men exactly. He tested them in the sand.
They spoke the same language of steps.
He sheathed the stolen sword and adjusted the dagger by his waist. There were no mirrors in the arena, but he didn't need one. He looked like them—No, sounded like them—enough.
The limp in his step could be passed off as a wound from the fight. The armor was bloodied already. The helmet hid his face. He swallowed hard and staggered to his feet.
He had one chance.
Shuffling forward, he limped toward the regrouped soldiers with shoulders hunched, body tilted. With a hoarse voice, cracking under strain, he shouted:
"Still alive! Give me location!"
The words rang out into the silence. Dry. Raspy. Human. It could've belonged to any of them. And in the confusion of silence, fatigue, and the fresh trauma of their comrades killing each other by mistake, it worked.
"Here, brother! Hurry up!" one of them said.
The formation turned slightly, not breaking, but shifting—expecting a sixth man returning to position.
Caelvir kept limping closer, matching their boots' rhythm, muffling his breath behind the mask. The blood down his arm was drying now in thick lines. His fingers on his injured hand twitched uselessly, but he kept the other near the hilt of his blade.
From above, the nobles had risen to their feet.
"He's walking among them," Talen whispered, unable to mask the admiration in his voice. "He's mimicking their footwork."
Masquien narrowed his eyes. "But they're blind. They can't verify him by face. Only by presence. Rhythm."
"They might accept him… just long enough," Venara said, eyes sharp with amusement.
"Desperation births brilliance," muttered the old noble, stroking his chin. "But he won't fool them for long."
Below, the commander cocked his head faintly, a slight pivot of the neck. He raised a hand, not with suspicion, but welcome.
Caelvir was nearly within striking range. His legs were shaking beneath the weight of the stolen armor, but his eyes locked onto the spaces between the helmets. The narrow slivers of unguarded flesh. If he could just get one clean strike—
"Six of us now," one of the soldiers muttered.
"Finally," said another. "Took your time, brother."
Caelvir nodded beneath his helmet. He slid into line, shoulder to shoulder with the others. One heartbeat. Two.
Then the commander's brow furrowed.
"There were only five of you left," he said quietly.
Caelvir didn't wait for the sentence to finish.
His dagger flew from his hip, stabbing the throat of the man to his right before he could lift his sword.
Caelvir spun, the blood on his mask hiding the gasp that escaped him. He ducked under a wide swing from another, thrusting his sword into the soldier's side, where the armor met the waist.
The man screamed, fell, twitched.
The commander yelled: "Treachery!"
The line scattered, formation broken. But Caelvir wasn't done.
He pivoted low, sweeping the legs of the third soldier with the heel of his boot, sending him crashing down. Before the man could roll away, Caelvir's foot crushed his wrist, pinning it, and his blade cut a quick line across the soldier's throat. Blood spurted up, catching the edge of Caelvir's dangling helmet.
He looked up. Only three remained now—two elites and the commander.
And the arena had fallen silent again.
Caelvir's breath hissed behind the cloth at his mouth. His vision flickered. The world tilted, light and dark flashing like stars behind his eyes. But he stood still.
Venara leaned in over the railing. "How long before he drops from blood loss?"
Faron didn't answer. He only licked his lips, eyes on the wounded, panting warrior.
"Soon," said the old noble. "Too soon. That's his greatest enemy now."
And indeed, though Caelvir stood tall and unyielding for the moment, blood still dripped from his right arm.
The makeshift wrappings from belts and cloth had held—but they weren't miracle work. Every movement strained the wound, and every breath behind the cloth became shallower than the last.
The two remaining soldiers stood ahead of him, their heads shifting like animals sniffing for prey, bodies tense, blades drawn. The absence of crowd noise sharpened every footstep, every scrape of steel on armor.
And Caelvir made sure to use it.
He angled his body behind the injured corpse, dragging his boots in wide arcs to mimic the steps of a wounded man.
Then he pivoted quickly, scuffing the sand behind the nearest warrior.
The soldier's ears twitched.
"Behind you," hissed his comrade to the right, his tone sharpened with adrenaline.
"No, he's near you," the other snapped back, uncertain.
Caelvir circled swiftly, dragging his blade behind him to make a scratch on the stone nearby, adding to the confusion.
Their heads turned opposite ways. The tension between them began to fray.
And then one of them struck.
With a wide, panicked swing, the closer soldier's blade caught the shoulder of his ally—steel clashing against armor with a sharp crack.
The wounded man stumbled back, a grunt escaping his lips. His blood joined the sand.
In that brief stagger, Caelvir lunged.
There was no time for hesitation. His right hand too weak for precise work, he used his left, dragging the stolen dagger across the wounded warrior's throat. The blade slipped under the helmet's edge and opened the flesh like fruit skin.
The wounded soldier gurgled, dropped.
Two left.
The commander.
And the other blind warrior—disoriented, but still very much alive.
A sound thundered through the arena. A scream of motion. The commander, having heard the death of his ally, charged with brutal intent. His claymore—a monstrous thing of bronze and dark iron—sliced downward in a devastating arc.
Caelvir barely raised his sword in defense.
The impact was like a falling tree. His weapon cracked with a painful screech of strained metal, and the force sent Caelvir sprawling. He hit the sand hard, his ribs screaming, the air bursting from his lungs.
He crawled blindly, ribs aching, breath short, blood dripping from his arm.
Then he shouted—
"Commander, what are you doing?!"
His voice—strained, rasping—carried the same rhythm and tension of a soldier under pressure. Just enough.
In the dome of silence, where the voice of a man could travel crisp and full, the illusion took hold.
The commander froze. His blade lifted mid-stance. His head tilted toward the sound.
Behind him, the last remaining warrior—still alive, still alert—shifted his foot, trying to track the noise. The faint crunch of sand gave him away.
The commander spun toward that sound, blade ready.
A hesitation. A beat. Then, brutal finality.
He swung.
Steel cleaved into neck and spine. The soldier didn't scream—he simply dropped, head rolling in the blood-warmed dust.
The commander exhaled, lowering the blade. "It's over," he said, voice low and grim.
He believed it.
But in the drifting heatwaves and rising haze, behind scattered corpses, Caelvir was still alive—crawling, dragging himself up, limb by limb.
Step by careful step, pressing the soles of the dead man's boots into the sand without rush or force. He couldn't afford to bleed faster than his body already allowed.
Every heartbeat was a drumbeat of danger.
Across the arena, the commander stood still, blade at his side, waiting. Listening.
And then… nothing.
No cheers. No applause. Not a whisper.
Just silence. Heavy and unnatural.
His brows furrowed beneath his helmet. Something was wrong.
Then, like a sudden crack of lightning, realization hit.
His head turned.
"You son of a bitch," he snarled, the words spat like venom. "You rat bastard."
He turned toward the lingering scent and echo of blood and breath.
Then—he laughed. Loudly. Madly.
"We trained ears sharper than knives, and handed them to liars."
A single bark of laughter became a howling fit, echoing through the domed arena.
"Well," he shouted, spreading his arms wide as though embracing the gods, "Now it's one-on-one, is it?! Just you and me, huh?"
He turned his face toward the silence, toward the presence he knew was out there, unseen.
"Should've done this from the start," he muttered with a grin. "No formations. No fancy lines. No flanks or reserves. That's for people who can see."
He raised his claymore again, pointing it into the air. "All those strategies, all those polished maneuvers and orders... they go straight out the window the moment your eyes go dark. You know what's left?"
He slammed the blade into the sand beside him. The sound cracked.
"Experience and Instinct. That's what. That's all a blind man has."
He grinned. A predator's grin.
He leaned forward, voice lowering but colder. "Every breath, every footfall, every heartbeat we track in this darkness—it's a roll of the dice. A guess. A risk. A hunch."
"Only now, there's no restraint by order. There's only chaos, only darkness!"
He squared his stance again. Breath steady. Muscles poised.
"I'm excited," he hissed, breath curling like smoke from a forge. "Been too long since I heard death breathing so close, just for me."
Across from him, Caelvir stood like a ghost of a man—his body slack, blood crusted around his wrapped arm, dried on his face, pooled near his boots.
His clothes mismatched, borrowed armor dangling loosely off his smaller frame. His breathing was shallow, though muffled beneath the cloth he'd tied across his face.
He looked broken.
He looked done.
But his eyes—they were still burning.
And that was enough.
For a moment, he stood still—just a silhouette against the churned sand, chest rising and falling like a dying bellows. Then, with a hiss through clenched teeth, he straightened.
Across the sand, the commander grinned at the sound. He nodded, approving.
"Good," he growled, his voice almost reverent now. "That's good. You're still standing. Still clawing."
He raised his claymore, voice lifting like a hymn to war.
"That means we both still get what we came for."
And so, in a silence thick as stormclouds, the two of them faced each other—one bloodied and broken, the other blind and brutal—drawn by fate, fury, and the final breath of a blind gamble.