He couldn't feel his arm anymore.
Warm blood slicked his fingers, dripping down the hilt of his sword. His side—just below the ribs—burned with every breath. No, not burned. It screamed. Each inhale was like a knife of its own, lodging deeper inside his chest. Caelvir staggered a step back, sand shifting beneath his boot. His breath came in jagged gasps, loud and shallow.
Lysara's blade glinted under the colosseum sun.
She moved like a whisper. Precise. Sharp. Cold.
Every swing she made was not a test—it was a sentence. Aimed at his neck, she struck for the kill. Then his heart, then again his throat. She was trying to end him quickly. Decisively. Mercilessly.
He had no time to think—only to survive.
Block. Duck. Parry. Again. And again.
If he dropped his guard even for a heartbeat, he would fall headless before the crowd's roar. She was unrelenting, each swing faster than the last, attacks folding into attacks. Faints became real strikes. Real strikes became feints. He couldn't read her.
He couldn't follow her.
She had already struck him twice. He had done everything to minimize the damage—but how long could he keep this up?
Was it luck that had allowed him to survive this long against her?
No. It wasn't luck. It was desperation. Grit. Maybe stubbornness.
And yet—
There was something unnatural about her movements.
The wind seemed to follow her, as though it chose to back her, hastening her steps, sharpening her turns. Her reflexes weren't human—they were blade-born, honed through endless war. His own counter-attacks—when he dared try—were seen, predicted, dismissed before they began.
So he stopped charging. He circled.
They both did.
Waiting.
Hunting.
She was testing his guard, her steps measured and precise. Searching for weakness. The smallest slip of footing. The briefest hesitation.
And then she found it.
She lunged.
Caelvir gritted his teeth, pulled his sword close to his body, and prepared for the coming storm.
She was fast.
He blocked the first blow. Barely. The second—he caught on the edge of his blade, but it jarred his bones. The third sliced down his ribs again. The fourth cut into his arm. A fifth—he never saw it—passed so close to his head he felt it comb through his hair.
She was still trying to decapitate him.
Still going for his throat.
Too fast. Too smart. Too precise.
There was no way he could go on the offensive now—not if he wanted to live. Not unless he wanted his head to roll across the sand before his blade even reached her shoulder.
His hand stayed locked on the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled. The twin daggers at his sides might as well have been illusions — there was no time, no gap, no air between her strikes. Lysara didn't allow it. She was too fast. Too relentless. The moment he reached for them would be the moment she carved him open.
The clash of steel roared in his ears. His body screamed from every fresh tear of flesh.
And then—
He jumped back.
Just for a breath.
Just to think.
But she followed.
She moved with him.
A blur of steel surged forth—strike after strike—blows that fell like a violent storm. He blocked with everything he had, trying to protect only what mattered: his head. His heart. His life.
Her sword swung for his neck.
Caelvir raised his guard—too slow.
But it was a feint.
His sword up, his ribs exposed—
Her boot crashed into his right leg. His stance shattered. Balance lost.
And then—
A sharp crack. Pain lanced through his thigh.
Her blade had sunk deep into the meat of his left leg.
He cried out, collapsing onto one knee. Sand clung to his bloodied hands as he rolled, desperate, avoiding a finishing blow that might've already been coming. He twisted, scrambled, every breath heavier than the last.
He didn't even know how long it went on. Steel and blood. Sand and blur.
Then, finally—distance.
She stopped.
Her chest rose and fell, slow, steady. She wasn't gasping like he was. But she had paused.
That was the plan. It had to be the plan.
His only advantage.
His stamina.
But what use was stamina... if he was the one bleeding?
He tried to rise—but it was no longer standing. It was kneeling. Barely. His sword sank into the sand, his hands wrapped tight around the hilt—not to wield it, but to hold himself up.
He could not run.
Every step would be a stagger.
If he moved too much, he'd bleed to death before she struck again. But there were scraps of cloth on the ground—garments torn in combat, his own included. Maybe, just maybe, he could bandage something. Stop the flow. Buy seconds.
But would she allow it?
Of course not.
She was not blind.
He pressed his weight into the sword, and the weapon held him like a crutch. The one they called the Blade King now knelt in the dirt. Covered in wounds. Breathing like a dying animal. Holding himself upright not with pride—but with stubborn, exhausted need.
And in that blur of blood and pain—
He saw it.
Behind her. Behind Lysara. Above.
The emperor's box.
Blurred... yet clearer than anything else. His vision had tunneled into focus.
He saw them.
A musclebound man, thick-necked and smug, looked down with a crooked smile. A smirk that whispered: pathetic.
But Caelvir did not flinch.
A mountainous figure beside him grinned with lazy amusement. A man entertained by the death of another.
Caelvir did not care.
Another noble—a boy, barely a man, sat high and proud. His smile was the type Caelvir had seen before—dismissing, superior, one who would never believe Caelvir could rise.
Caelvir did not blink.
Even Venara. She was there too. Golden hair, and eyes filled with detached joy. She smiled as well. He was their entertainment now. A dancing beast meant to fall in the sand.
But still—he did not burn.
And then—her.
She sat at the center of them all.
Draped in deep crimson and shadow, a figure of grace and venom. Her smile—so delicate, so perfect—was watching him.
Looking at him.
And that?
That made him flinch.
That he cared about.
That he blinked for.
That put him ablaze.
The anger bloomed quietly. Then grew violent. Hot. Raging.
He was supposed to be focused on Lysara, but his vision of her had blurred completely now.
Only the one in the crimson gown remained clear.
Still. Far. Above.
But the warrior must always look forward. Always.
Lysara began walking.
Step.
He gritted his teeth.
Step.
"This is not you, Caelvir…" he whispered to himself, the words barely audible. "The Caelvir I know... would not give up so easily."
Step. Step. Step.
He would survive.
He would rise from this.
He would not rot in hell.
The whispers became words. The words grew louder. Roars. Fury boiled in his blood alongside pain.
Ninety-nine battles. Ninety-nine victories. Ninety-nine fallen.
Would it all end now?
STEP. STEP. STEP.
She was close now.
Her shadow—so wide—fell across him. A delicate woman. But a deadly one. Her silhouette carved into the golden sand beneath the burning sun.
Her eyes met his. Cold. Calculating.
But she kept her distance.
Her armor shimmered. Her breath calm. Her blade steady.
She looked like death beneath the sun.
But Caelvir had suffered years for this.
And she—
She only saw a glimmer that suffered for mere months.
Her grip shifted on her blade.
Then—
She paused.
"Any final words?" she asked.
The colosseum shouted. The world bled. Time slowed.
She was offering him more moments.
They say death grants no delays.
Apparently... not accurate.
Caelvir coughed, then straightened his spine.
Voice low. Cold. Sharp.
"You're not death," he said. "And I do not intend to die."
Something changed in her.
He didn't see it.
But her face warmed. Just a little.
"I see," she replied. "So you're fighting to the last breath." She tilted her head slightly. "Truly a commendable resolve."
Then she looked up to the sky. A pause in the storm.
"I'm grateful," she said, softly. "This fight was different. I feel... warm."
She smiled.
Rare. Beautiful. Brief.
"My inner Valkira seems to have lit up, if just a little. I think I know what I want to do now. You can say I have found my dream."
Another pause.
Another breath.
"I'm sorry I have to do this..."
He could no longer hear her after that.
The crowd's voices blurred in his ears.
FINISH HIM. KILL HIM. FINISH HIM.
Caelvir grunted, pressing into the sword, forcing his legs to listen—just once more.
And she—
She raised her blade.