The smell of industrial disinfectant and metal couldn't mask the ferrous odor that still hung in the arena's air. The cleaning had been swift, mechanical, almost disrespectful. Smith, from the height of his armchair, seemed reinvigorated by the previous bloodshed. He adjusted the cuffs of his white suit, which remained impeccable, and looked at his wristwatch with theatrical impatience.
"Well, well... time flies when we're having fun!" Smith announced, his voice echoing with a metallic vibration against the amphitheater walls. "But before we proceed, a small footnote for those interested in statistics. Unfortunately, our dear 'Artist,' Kevin, did not survive his injuries during the transfer to the infirmary. A pity, truly... he had a bright future in interior design, if we count the pattern he left in the sand."
Smith's ironic tone fooled no one. The sadistic glint in his eyes made it clear that he, or his henchmen, had finished the job John had started. Kevin was no longer useful; he was merely an operational cost to be discarded.
"Now, on to our next event!" Smith gestured toward the entrances. "Dante! Zack! Show us that fear can also be a form of entertainment!"
Dante entered first. His steps were hesitant, and the sound of his boots on the sand seemed louder than usual in the arena's spectral silence. His hands trembled slightly—a nervous spasm he tried to hide by clutching the hilt of his small defensive dagger. He looked toward the bleachers, searching for the faces of Alex, Harry, or Yuki, as if he needed an anchor to keep from being swept away by the current of his own panic.
From the opposite side, Zack emerged. The difference in posture was disconcerting. While Dante was the personification of fragility, Zack walked with a serenity that bordered on the supernatural. His brown hair fell casually over his green eyes, which shone with a crystalline calm. He wore simple clothes, like someone who had just stepped out for a casual stroll, and kept a light, constant smile on his lips.
"He isn't afraid," Harry whispered from the bleachers, adjusting his glasses and frowning. His analytical tone was heavy with concern. "Look at his heart rate, judging by his jugular... Zack is in a resting state. Dante, on the other hand, is in severe tachycardia. If he doesn't control the adrenaline, he'll collapse before the first strike."
"The kid is a coward, we know that," Foxy commented, crossing her legs and watching the arena with a look of disdain that hid a hint of curiosity. "But look at the other one. Zack... there's something wrong with that smile. Nobody smiles like that in a slaughterhouse, unless they're the butcher."
Alex remained silent, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes darted from Dante to Zack, processing every micro-movement. "Dante's fear is his strength, though he doesn't know it yet," Alex said finally, his voice low. "But this Zack... he's an enigma. He isn't carrying heavy weapons. He's far too confident."
The signal sounded. Smith didn't even bother using the bell; a simple hand gesture sufficed.
Zack didn't wait. The second the fight began, he lunged. It wasn't a furious charge like Kevin's, but a calculated, lightning-fast advance. He drew a set of short blades—almost like long scalpels—hidden in his sleeves.
Dante let out a choked breath and instinctively recoiled. Zack was like a silent storm. His blades sliced the air with a sharp hiss. He delivered a downward strike, aiming for Dante's shoulder. In a spasm of pure terror, the boy threw his body to the side, hitting the sand and rolling clumsily.
"Oh, look at that!" Smith laughed from his chair. "Dante has invented the 'rolling potato' style! Efficient, I suppose, though it lacks a bit of the dignity I so appreciate!"
Zack didn't stop. He pivoted on his heels, the blade in his left hand seeking Dante's flank as the boy tried to stand. Again, Dante reacted. His body seemed to have an autonomy of its own, driven by panic; he contorted in an impossible way, the fabric of his shirt tearing on the tip of Zack's scalpel, but his skin remaining unscathed.
"He's being hunted," Harry observed, his voice tense. "Zack has the total advantage. He controls the center of the arena, controls the rhythm, and is pushing Dante toward the edges. Dante is only alive right now because his self-preservation reflexes are absurdly fast."
Zack paused for a moment, watching Dante recover. Zack's smile didn't waver. "You're fast, Dante," Zack said, his voice soft, almost melodic. "But running uses a lot of energy. Why not accept the inevitable? It'll hurt less if you stand still."
Dante didn't answer. He was panting, sweat dripping down his pale face. His eyes were wide, fixed on Zack's hands. Every time his opponent moved, Dante felt his heart thumping against his ribs like a caged animal.
Zack attacked again, this time with a series of feints. He moved his shoulders to the left, but the blade came from the right. Dante, acting on purely kinesthetic instinct, managed to dodge. He ducked, leaped, and leaned with an agility that surprised even Smith.
"He's like a squirrel trying to escape a snake," Foxy remarked, letting out a dry laugh. "It's pathetic, but at the same time... impressive. Zack hasn't landed a single serious scratch yet, and he's visibly more technical."
"Dante is processing danger differently," Alex intervened, his eyes never leaving the combat. "He isn't fighting; he's surviving. But surviving doesn't win fights; it only prolongs them. He needs to stop reacting and start acting."
In the arena, Zack was beginning to shift his strategy. He realized Dante was a difficult mobile target to predict because the boy's reactions weren't logical—they were purely reflexive. Zack began to close the distance more aggressively, using low kicks to try and unbalance Dante before finishing him with the blades.
Zack delivered a roundhouse kick aimed at Dante's knee. Dante jumped, but Zack was already in the air with him, his blade pointed at the boy's chest. Mid-air, Dante had nowhere to go. He closed his eyes and, in a desperate move, kicked the concrete wall of the arena, propelling himself away from the trajectory of Zack's weapon.
Dante hit the ground hard, skidding through the sand. He was exhausted. The panic was reaching its saturation point. Zack landed softly, like a cat, and began to walk slowly toward the fallen boy.
"Out of agility?" Zack asked, tilting his head. "Fear is tiring, isn't it?"
Smith leaned forward, a cruel smile on his lips. "Come on, Dante! Show us if there's anything beneath that trembling skin, or will Kevin have company in the morgue before dinner?"
Dante felt the cold of the concrete floor against his palms. He looked at Zack, who was only three meters away. His opponent's calm smile was the most terrifying thing Dante had ever seen. It was the face of a death that feels no hatred, only indifference.
He looked toward the bleachers. He saw Alex, Harry, and Foxy. He saw the expectation and the fear in his friends' eyes. He realized that if he kept running, he would die. And if he died, the group's balance would break.
The noise of the arena—Smith's laughter, Foxy's comments, the sound of the wind in the tunnels—began to fade. Dante felt his heart slow down. Not because the fear had passed, but because he had accepted the fear. He stopped fighting the panic and allowed it to fill him completely.
Dante rose slowly. He didn't draw his dagger with fury. He just stood there, arms hanging at his sides.
Zack stopped, intrigued by the sudden change in posture. He raised his ceramic blade, preparing for the final blow.
"What's this? Given up?" Zack asked, his tone still serene.
Dante didn't answer. He closed his eyes. The image of Zack, the arena, and Smith's white suit vanished from his mind. He took a deep breath—a long, deep inhalation that seemed to pull all the stagnant air of that place into his lungs.
In the bleachers, Alex straightened up. "Harry, look at his breathing."
"His heart rate... it's dropping," Harry said, eyes wide behind his lenses. "He's entering a state of absolute focus."
Dante exhaled slowly. The trembling in his hands vanished. The silence he had been seeking finally found him. He was still terrified, but now, fear was his compass, not his anchor.
He opened a single eye, fixing Zack with an intensity the brown-haired youth had never seen in anyone. The real fight was about to begin.