The arena burned around them, flames clawing at the sky, shadows writhing like living beasts. Kairo's breaths came in shallow, measured gasps, the Ashweave bindings a constant burn against his side. Every muscle screamed, yet he stood. Every blow that should have ended him had been absorbed, endured, survived.
Gloxkir's attacks became more frenzied, a storm of iron and sinew. He roared, swinging with full force, striking at every angle. Yet Kairo moved through it all with cold precision, every step deliberate, every dodge calculated. The Judgement Dance guided his movements subtly, a rhythm of anticipation rather than assault.
Kairo's eyes caught a flicker in Gloxkir's stance — the momentary shift in weight, the ever-so-slight tension before a strike. He had endured enough to recognize patterns, to see the rhythm of life and death in his opponent.
Flashbacks came like whispers, brief yet vivid: chains biting into his flesh, the Remnant's cruel methods, endless days of torture. It had all been preparation. Every scream, every wound, every near-death he had survived had forged him into this unyielding force.
Gloxkir lunged again, claws aimed to rip through Kairo's chest. Kairo sidestepped, letting the momentum carry the brute past him, and used a small, precise step of Judgment Dance to reposition. He did not strike back. He did not need to. The fight had become a test of endurance, a measure of will.
Above the arena, hidden in the shadows of a summoning circle far from the battlefield, Igron watched. His single golden eye traced Kairo's movements, his body tense. He could not intervene, yet his presence was a tether — a reminder to Kairo that even in isolation, he was not entirely unseen.
The crowd's excitement reached a fever pitch, unaware of the quiet revelation unfolding: Kairo was not merely a fighter; he was a force that could not be broken, a presence that endured beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond death itself.
Minutes—or perhaps hours—passed in this relentless exchange. Gloxkir's strikes slowed, frustration etched in every line of his massive frame. Kairo's body was battered, but his mind remained clear, cold, and unyielding. He had learned the rhythm, predicted the patterns, and endured everything his opponent could throw at him.
And yet, Kairo did not finish the fight. Not yet.
He stood in the center of the arena, breathing shallowly, watching Gloxkir's frustration boil over. The victory was already his in endurance, in revelation, in survival. The final blow—the one that would come like a hammer of judgment—was still to come.
Igron's eye never left him, observing from afar, silent and watchful. The stage was set