Thud!
Vern tossed aside the severed hand he had been gripping, the sound of it hitting the stone floor echoing like a grotesque drumbeat. Without pause, his blade moved again—swift and merciless. Enkris sang through the air, and in the blink of an eye, Tanvir's other arm was cleaved away, the spray of blood painting the dust-red arena floor in arcs of crimson.
The crowd erupted in screams—half in horror, half in awe. Mothers shielded their children's eyes, while warriors in the stands leaned forward with morbid fascination.
Vern stood unmoved amidst the chaos, his calm face now twisted with cold ferocity. His black hair clung to his face, streaked with blood. His chest rose and fell with measured rhythm, but his eyes—those unflinching, abyss-like eyes—spoke of nothing but finality.
Lifting Enkris high above his head, the blade hummed with a low, eerie vibration as though it, too, demanded more blood. With a swift motion, he swung down, aiming to shatter even the remnants of his opponent's body.
Clang!
The strike was stopped. Sparks burst violently as Enkris was intercepted, locked against another blade.
Vern's gaze snapped up, meeting the stern, unyielding face of Instructor Vikel. The older man's stance was iron-solid, his sword braced against the monstrous force of Vern's downward strike. The air vibrated from the collision, dust swirling between them.
"That's enough."
Vikel's words cut through the air like a steel command. His voice carried no hesitation, no warmth—only finality.
For a long moment, Vern did not move. His eyes lingered on Vikel, cold and unreadable, before he slowly pulled Enkris back. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the black blade shimmered, its surface clean once more. Without another word, he turned, his steps echoing heavily as he strode toward the exit. The arena trembled not from his weight, but from the suffocating silence he left behind.
"Vern!"
Edward, his jaw tight and fists clenched, made to chase after him. But before he could move, Charlotte's hand shot out, pressing against his chest. Her expression was tense, her lips pressed into a thin line as she shook her head firmly.
"Leave him alone… for the moment." Her voice was soft but unwavering, her eyes shadowed with worry.
"But—" Edward began, frustration lacing his tone, only for Salena to interject sharply.
"She's right."
Edward turned toward her, startled by the firmness in her voice. Salena's gaze lingered on Vern's fading silhouette, her brows drawn tight. She didn't know the exact reason, couldn't put words to the storm she sensed in him, but her instincts screamed that this was not the time to approach him.
Her voice lowered, almost a whisper, but filled with certainty. "He needs space. If you chase him now… you'll only make it worse."
The three of them stood there in silence, watching Vern's figure vanish into the shadows of the Colosseum's tunnel, the atmosphere thick with tension and unspoken fear.
"How can someone be so ruthless…?"
A woman in the crowd whispered, her voice trembling as she clutched her shawl tighter.
"Y-yeah… I agree. He shouldn't have cut off his hands. The match was already over once Tanvir fainted." Another spectator muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
But not everyone shared the same view.
"Well, I think he was right." A young man leaned forward, eyes gleaming with morbid excitement. "Tanvir shouldn't have insulted his mother in the first place. He asked for it."
The remarks spread like wildfire, the Colosseum erupting into a thousand hushed debates. Some looked at Vern with fear, others with admiration, and a few with silent approval. To many, he was no longer just a competitor—he was a figure that blurred the line between warrior and executioner.
The murmurs swelled into a sea of voices, each word carrying judgment, awe, or dread.
All eyes shifted back toward the arena floor. The once-proud Tanvir now lay limp and broken, his body pale, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. Blood stained the cracked tiles beneath him, an ugly reminder of the carnage.
The medical team rushed forward, their expressions grim as they carefully lifted him onto a stretcher. A pair of healers encased both severed arms in blocks of shimmering ice, their hands glowing faintly as they whispered preservation spells. The chilling mist curled into the air, an eerie sight under the harsh sunlight.
The crowd fell quieter at the sight. Some turned away, unable to stomach it. Others leaned forward, watching every detail with wide, unblinking eyes. The brutality of the moment was etched into their memories, a scar none of them would soon forget.
And above it all, the image of Vern—walking away without a single glance back—remained like a shadow looming over the Colosseum.
****
Sigh.
Edward exhaled heavily, his back pressing against the cold stone wall outside the Colosseum. He tilted his head upward, eyes tracing the sky as if searching for answers in its vastness.
"Why did he get so angry for?" he muttered, turning his gaze toward Charlotte. His brows were furrowed, his tone carrying both confusion and unease.
Charlotte crossed her arms, her lips curling into a scoff. "Angry? Hmph. He's lucky he's even alive. If not for Instructor Vikel stepping in, Tanvir would have been dead already." Her voice was sharp, her eyes still carrying the chill of the battlefield she had just witnessed.
Edward blinked, startled by her bluntness.
"Hm?" Salena leaned forward, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Did he… love his mother that much?"
Her words hung in the air, heavy and uncertain.
Charlotte's gaze shifted, her expression softening just a little. "Well, he did. More than you can imagine." She paused, her tone lowering, almost as though she were recalling a distant memory. "He even tried to poison the First Lady of the house once… all because she insulted his mother. That's the kind of son he is. So believe me when I say, that Tanvir guy should count himself lucky."
Edward's eyes widened slightly at the revelation, his mouth opening as if to question further, but no words came out. A silence settled between the three of them, broken only by the distant murmur of the lingering crowd still buzzing about the fight.
Minutes turned into hours. The tension of the Colosseum had long since faded, but the shadow of Vern's actions still lingered over them like a storm cloud.
And then—
Footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor.
Vern appeared from the far corridor, walking at an easy pace, his black hair slightly damp as if he had washed away the blood. His posture was relaxed, his eyes calm, and on his lips rested a simple, casual smile—like nothing had happened at all.
The contrast was jarring. The same man who had moments ago severed Tanvir's arms and nearly struck him down now looked as though he were returning from a stroll in the garden.
Edward straightened immediately, his fists tightening at his sides. Charlotte and Salena exchanged quick glances, their eyes narrowing in silent question.
But Vern's expression gave nothing away. He approached them with that same unreadable calm, his smile light and unbothered, as if the Colosseum's blood-soaked chaos had been nothing more than a passing breeze.
The three of them exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between their eyes. None of them would ask. Not about the severed hands, not about the blood, not about the merciless look Vern had worn in the arena.
And naturally, Vern gave them nothing either. His smile remained light, his eyes calm, as though the brutality in the Colosseum had never happened.
"Haha!" Edward's sudden laugh shattered the silence. He threw an arm around Vern's shoulder, grinning wide to mask the lingering unease. "Now that you and I are in the finals, be prepared. Tomorrow, we'll show the whole Colosseum what a real fight looks like!"
Vern glanced at him, his lips curving into that same serene smile. "Of course."
The air lightened, if only slightly.
"So…" Salena cleared her throat, her voice cautious at first, then firmer. "Should we… get something to eat?"
Charlotte gave a short nod, her expression still guarded but her tone steady. "We should."
With that decision, the tension eased enough for them to move. The four of them began walking side by side, their footsteps echoing along the stone path that led toward the canteen. The earlier storm of the arena seemed to fade behind them, replaced by the ordinary rhythm of conversation and the faint scent of food wafting from ahead.
Yet even as they walked, laughter and small talk gradually filling the gaps, the shadow of what had transpired lingered unspoken in their minds.
Tomorrow would come soon enough