The arena trembled under the roar of the crowd. Flames licked the edges of the jagged platform, casting monstrous shadows that danced like living things. Kairo stepped forward, each movement deliberate, the Ashweave bindings still tight against his side, each breath a reminder of pain endured and survived.
Across the arena, Gloxkir waited. The hulking fighter towered over the other combatants who had fallen, a mass of iron, muscle, and cruel intent. His claws scraped the stone floor, sending sparks flying, eyes glinting with anticipation.
Kairo's gaze remained steady, unmoved by the crowd, unmoved by the threat. He was not here to perform. He was here to survive.
Before the first strike could fall, a ripple ran through the air behind him. Igron's form shimmered, energy twisting unnaturally as though the very fabric of Hell itself called him away.
"They're summoning me," Igron muttered, voice tight, almost a growl. His golden eye met Kairo's briefly. "No warnings. No choice. If I leave…"
Kairo did not respond. Words had little meaning here. Survival was his language.
With a crack like splitting stone, Igron vanished, leaving only the echo of his presence and a faint scent of scorched iron. The emptiness he left behind pressed against Kairo like the weight of the arena itself.
Gloxkir took the first step forward, claws raised. The crowd's roar became a distant murmur in Kairo's ears as the fight began.
The first strike came as a sweeping arc of iron, a blow that would have shattered bones in any normal human. Kairo shifted slightly, letting the edge glance off his side. The pain surged, but he stood.
Each subsequent attack was brutal, precise, designed to test his limits. Kairo's immortality became clear—not a power to destroy, but a stubborn refusal to fall. Each hit tore at him, yet he moved with careful calculation, using every stumble, every forced retreat, to read Gloxkir's style.
The arena shook with the clash, sparks flying from claws meeting stone, dust rising like smoke. Kairo did not flinch at the gaping wounds he should have suffered. He had no flashy powers, no overwhelming strength, only endurance, sharp instinct, and the faint, deliberate steps of the Judgment Dance—small, almost imperceptible movements that allowed him to anticipate and dodge, not strike.
The crowd gasped as he withstood blows that would have ended any other combatant. Gloxkir's frustration grew, each attack more desperate, more savage. But Kairo's gaze remained calm, detached, and unyielding—a silent statement: I will not fall.
Above the arena, somewhere in the twisting expanse of Hell, Igron's summoning pulled him farther from the battlefield, the danger he faced mirrored by the intensity of the fight Kairo endured below.