The horror did not end. Not yet.
The Dragon Lord stood there, his body refusing to fall. For a heartbeat, it looked as if he might lunge again, but then a clean, perfect line appeared, starting from the crown of his head. It cut downward through his face, his chest, and his waist, all the way to the earth between his feet.
Wet.
Silent.
The two halves of his body slid apart, slow and heavy, and collapsed onto the broken arena floor with a twin, sickening thud. Blood pooled out in thick, sluggish rivers.
No one moved. No one breathed. The entire stadium froze, trapped in a stunned silence so deep it swallowed the wind.
The only thing that stirred was the weight of Leo's presence, stretching across the audience like a tidal wave. It was a crushing, suffocating pressure, yet it was not hostile. It felt warm and steady, like standing at the edge of a roaring bonfire in the dead of winter. The feeling lingered for a few long seconds before it faded.
Leo's crown flickered and his golden mantle unraveled into a reverse rain of soft, golden-white motes that drifted upward like fireflies. The heavy emerald glow in his eyes dulled until a message hovered, clear and cold, across the broken sky.
[System Notification] Race Change Scroll (Elf) has expired.
Leo's eyes shifted back from brilliant emerald to their natural dark shade. He lowered his sword. In the stillness, the Dragon Lord's blood steamed in the cracked dust. Leo simply stood there, unmoving. The storm he had unleashed was now gone, leaving only the aftermath.
[System Notification] Congratulations! You have leveled up to Level 8.
[System Notification] Congratulations! You have leveled up to Level 9.
[System Notification] Congratulations! You have leveled up to Level 10.
The notifications were instantly shadowed by what came next.
A strange sensation rippled through Leo's body. It was a faint pulse, a heartbeat that was not his own. It was subtle at first, like a whisper at the back of his mind. Then came the tug.
Inevitable. Draining.
His limbs turned heavy, as if clamped in iron. The power inside him, once blinding, flickered like a dying candle. Leo's fingers slackened, and the Astral Sword slipped from his grasp, dissolving into fine dust before it ever touched the ground.
The draining grew worse, pulling from the marrow of his bones. Leo raised a trembling hand. A dark, oily red mist coiled around it, thickening until it burned itself into his skin. The pain was quiet but sharp, like a hot needle dragging through his nerves as a sigil etched itself into him. There was no grand fanfare, just a sinister carving, blood-red and wicked, with jagged lines like a wound that refused to heal.
The mark pulsed once.
[System Notification] You are now cursed by the Blight of the Vanquished.
[System Notification] Overall power is reduced by 90% for 50 years.
The audience did not dare make a sound. Leo stared at the mark, dazed. Then, his knees buckled. The world tilted, the battered ground rushing up to meet him as he crashed down, still staring numbly at the cursed sigil. Darkness licked at the edges of his vision.
Amanda's scream ripped through the void, wild and broken. "Leo!"
It was the last thing he heard.
The Astral Sovereign was on her feet, hugging herself tightly. She was shivering, but not from fear. It was something far worse: a raw, wild excitement. She thought of it all, and her heart raced. A fight that had not bored her. The shattering of her precious Paradise. The downfall of a tyrant.
She inhaled slowly, savoring the moment. A living System User, now branded with the legendary Blight of the Vanquished. Her smile twisted. Things were about to get interesting.
The Dragon God moved with silent, measured steps. His boots crunched lightly over the cracked ground as he approached the Dragon Lord's split body. He stood there for a moment, his gaze holding no hatred, no sadness.
"Your greed led you here," he murmured, his calm voice stripped of any pity.
He shifted his gaze to where Amanda now knelt, cradling Leo's unconscious form. He could see the mark of the curse on the boy, a legendary brand that came with a brutal price. He watched for a breath longer, then straightened and turned toward the Astral Sovereign.
"I thank you for your invitation," he said, his voice carrying cleanly. "But there's nothing more for me here."
Before the Sovereign could reply, huge, ancient black dragon wings erupted from his back, shadowing half the arena. With a single, effortless flap, he shot skyward. The force of his departure trembled through the stadium as he vanished into the clouds.
The Winter Warlock stepped forward next, her staff clicking softly. She stopped before the Astral Sovereign and dipped her head in a quick, respectful gesture.
"I must report this to the King," she said, her low voice frosting the air.
The Astral Sovereign smiled thinly. "Of course."
The Winter Warlock raised her hand, and her staff floated upright. With practiced ease, she mounted it sideways like a rider and launched into the sky. Leaving a wake of frozen mist that sparkled like tiny stars before vanishing.
Near the arena's exit, Burdado was already leaving, not bothering with a formal farewell. He just threw a lazy wave over his shoulder.
"Thanks for the show!" he called out, his voice soaked in that same mocking amusement. His eagle tattoo returned to his back, its wings shifting once before staying still. The Astral Sovereign caught the small smirk playing at his lips. A great spectacle indeed.
Alone now, the Astral Sovereign stood in the heavy silence of the ruined arena. But her heart raced, alive and vibrating with possibilities.
Far below, an adventurer burdened by a curse slept on, completely unaware of the storm he had just unleashed upon the world.