u/Orionjam25

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Chapter 11: On the Verge of the Abyss

 

The grayish dust floated in suspension over the destroyed arena, covering the coliseum with a dense shroud. The seconds stretched like hours. Beneath the mountain of fragmented stones from the divine bleachers, there was not the slightest trace of movement. Not a vibration, nor a creak. Nothing.

 

In the arena, Egil Skallagrímsson remained motionless, with the flat of his colossal sword resting on his shoulder and his chest covered in superficial cuts rising and falling to the rhythm of his heavy breathing. His blank eyes remained fixed on the mound of rubble.

 

In humanity's stands, the murmur soon turned into a widespread clamor.

 

— It's over... —murmured a medieval knight, lowering his visor—. Nobody can survive an impact of that magnitude and then be buried by rock. The Khan is dead.

 

— The Bear of the North has shattered the Conqueror! —shouted a soldier from the 20th-century trenches, as the commotion began to spread through the ranks of European and Nordic warriors.

 

Flying above the destructive trench, in her floating commentator station, Nike was about to go crazy. Surrounded by giant holographic screens replaying the impact from drones in the air, the goddess clutched her hair, her eyes wide open. She loved the damn action and what she had just seen was fucking beautiful.

 

«What the hell? Is Genghis Khan already dead?», thought Nike, holding her breath as her fingers drummed on the holographic console, debating internally whether she should declare the winner right now or wait for a miracle. In the end, she couldn't contain herself and shouted with the full power of her lungs into the divine microphone:

 

— HUMANS AND DEITIES PRESENT, WHAT THE HELL DID WE JUST SEE!! —brayed Nike, her voice echoing with a charismatic and wild joy throughout the coliseum—. Could the emperor of Mongolia have been defeated by the inhuman strength of the Norse?! The Khan isn't moving, folks! Could this be the end of the conqueror?!

 

The commentator's cry ignited the murmur in humanity's stands, which erupted into theories and shouts, except for the Mongolian section, which maintained a sepulchral silence of pure faith.

 

Higher up, in the highest box of the coliseum, the atmosphere was extremely different.

 

Ares, the god of war, was standing at the edge of the balcony, contemplating the black trench that Egil's slash had left in the arena. In his eyes there was no bloodlust, but an absolute fascination. He maintained a vibrant smile, capturing the invisible nuances emanating from the clash. He turned slightly toward where his uncle Hades was naturally.

 

— Uncle Hades... did you see that? —Ares asked in an enthusiastic and extremely polite voice, standing right at the edge of the box railing, infected by the vibration of the arena—. The Nordic's will when exploding... the colors emitted by his soul were of a violent and beautiful crimson. He is truly painting a monumental canvas in this arena, don't you think?

 

Right next to him, sitting comfortably on his throne to have a perfect perspective of the coliseum, Hades remained motionless. However, this time his fingers tightened subtly on the armrest. His analytical eyes, usually dulled by boredom, opened a little wider than usual as he observed the smoking trench of the arena. There was a genuine hint of surprise in his gaze, mixed with deep caution.

 

— Unmeasured brute strength combined with an erratic temperament —Hades replied with his characteristic dry tone, but this time dragging a careful slowness, without taking his eyes off the crater—. Centuries had passed since I last saw a physical density of that caliber, Ares.

That downward slash... for an instant reminded me of the brute force with which Heracles used to break the laws of logic, or the pure devastation that Hebrew legends attributed to that Samson fellow. The Norseman is an incomprehensible danger. Hades readjusted slightly in his seat, fixing his eyes on the mound of rubble in the front row.

 

— However... seeing only one side of the canvas is a mistake, nephew. One must always look for the other's point of view. Someone who built the largest empire on Earth does not let themselves be buried so easily. You have a gift for appreciating their wills, but do not underestimate the Mongol's ingenuity. It is under maximum pressure where great strategists find their answer.

 

An absolute dramatic pause then ensued. Nike's implicit countdown at her floating station hung in the air as the holograms flickered.

 

But just before the Goddess made a verdict, the sepulchral silence of the Mongolian stand broke in the most violent and unexpected way. A wild laugh, overflowing with electric energy and absolute confidence, echoed from the front stands. A young man, with long hair braided in the style of the steppes, eyes blazing with pure adrenaline, and light commander armor revealing his weathered arms, jumped over the crowd. It was Subutai, the Khan's youngest and undefeated strategist, a demon on the battlefield overflowing with unstoppable vigor. With a single dry impact, he planted his boot on the stone railing of the stand and threw both arms wide open toward the sky, as if he wanted to devour the entire coliseum.

 

With a gaze loaded with a demented daring, he pointed his index finger directly at the commentator's floating station.

 

— YOU'D BETTER KEEP QUIET, LITTLE GIRL!! HAHAHAHA!! —shouted Subutai, with a voice so powerful and full of vitality that it cut Nike's breath mid-word, leaving her dumbfounded with the microphone in hand.

 

The young general turned his back to the arena for a second, looking at his compatriots with eyes injected with fervor.

 

— DID YOU FORGET WHO IS DOWN THERE?! —Subutai shouted, striking his chest with his fist—. WHEN MY TRIBE ABANDONED ME TO MY FATE IN THE BLOODIEST WINTER, WHEN THE COLD FROZE MY BONES AND I WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A DYING DOG, IT WAS HE WHO EXTENDED HIS HAND! HE GAVE US A NAME!

HE GAVE US A HOME! DO YOU THINK SOME DAMNED ROCKS ARE GOING TO STOP THE MAN WHO PULLED US OUT OF THE MUD?!

 

Subutai took a breath, expanding his lungs to the absolute limit, and pointing with sacred fury toward the mound of rubble burying his leader, shouted at the top of his lungs the true name of his youth on the steppes:

 

— TEMÜJIN!! —roared the young general with a devotion that gave goosebumps to the spectators.

 

 

Upon hearing the testimony and cry of their youngest commander, ten veteran generals suddenly stood up, beating their shields:

 

— TEMÜJIN!!

 

One hundred Mongolian warriors joined in the blink of an eye, drawing their curved blades. Then there were a thousand. And within seconds, ten thousand Mongols were on their feet, stomping on the stands with a synchrony so brutal that the entire Coliseum of Purgatory began to shake as if an earthquake were demolishing the bleachers. The gods' wine goblets trembled, Nike's holograms were distorted by the sonic wave, and the arena's dust began to be swept away by the sheer impact of an empire's massive shout:

 

— TEMÜJIN!! THE ONE WHO UNITED THE TRIBES INTO A SINGLE BLOOD!! —ten thousand throats chanted with a deafening roar—. TEMÜJIN!! THE ONE WHO ROSE FROM HUNGER TO CONQUER THE WORLD OF THE LIVING!! THE ONE WHO NEVER BACKED DOWN BEFORE THE ABYSS!!

 

The acoustic impact of ten thousand men clamoring for their king was so monumental that the gray dust curtain over the arena completely dissipated, revealing the imposing mound of rubble that buried the emperor.

 

And it was there, under the suffocating darkness and the crushing weight of the rock, that the brutal echo of his people's shouts arrived like a jolt of pure adrenaline to the Khan's bleeding heart. Upon hearing his true name echoing with the force of ten thousand wild horses in Purgatory, Genghis Khan in the middle of the gloom... his mind, responding to the roar of his empire, plunged deep into the furthest memories of his youth on the endless steppes...

 

Beginning of the flashback

 

Year 1162 — The freezing steppes of the Onon River —

 

He was born holding in his small right hand a clot of dried blood, like a divine omen of the red tide he would unleash upon the earth. Baptized as Temüjin, his childhood knew no crowns or thrones, but abandonment, fierce hunger, and betrayal by his own clan. In winters where snow burned the skin, he learned to calculate the weight of each arrow, the wind's trajectory, and the limits of the human body. He was not born a giant, but he built his mind like an impregnable fortress.

 

By the time Mongolia's divided tribes knelt before him and proclaimed him Genghis Khan —the Sovereign of all Men—, his word was no longer an order; it was a cosmic law.

 

Khwarazmian Campaign — Siege of Samarkand (1219)

 

The sky over the fortress was not blue, but a gray and crimson curtain fueled by the smoke of burned peace and the dust of destroyed walls. Atop the walls, the enemy's heavy artillery worked tirelessly. Six counterweight catapults screeched with hydraulic force before releasing their projectiles.

 

KABUUUM!

Rocks the size of bison fell from the sky, opening craters in the frozen earth and turning men and mounts into masses of flesh. In the vanguard, chaos threatened to break the formation. A young Mongolian soldier, his face splashed with mud and blood, stumbled. He looked up and froze completely.

 

A gigantic shadow was growing at a frightening speed above his head. A solid stone projectile weighing almost nine hundred kilos — a mass the size of a young elephant, was coming in free fall toward him. The air whistled with death. The soldier couldn't even scream; his legs froze, unable to respond.

 

—Move, damn it! —a bellow was heard beside him.

 

Before the shadow hit the ground, a figure dressed in leather plate armor and dark furs burst into the trajectory. Genghis Khan grabbed the soldier by the collar of his tunic and projected him several meters backward, out of the impact point.

 

But there was no longer time for the Khan to dodge.

 

CRASHHHHH-BOOOOOOOOM!

 

The blow of the rock against flesh and earth reverberated across the battlefield like the explosion of a destroying mountain. The mass of stone fell with all its weight upon Genghis Khan's body, crushing him against the frozen ground and raising a dense smoke of rubble and red dust.

 

Meters in the rear, Subutai saw the scene. Time seemed to stop. His eyes dilated with terror, while cold sweat ran down the back of his neck.

 

—LORD!! —Subutai shouted, tearing his vocal cords as he spurred his horse at full speed toward the dust cloud—. Vanguard line, retract the shields! Make way! OUR LORD IS DOWN!!

 

The Mongolian soldiers around him fell into horror. Murmurs of panic began to spread like fire in dry grass:

 

—The Khan... the stone destroyed him... —The Great Khan has fallen!

 

Subutai reached the crater, dismounted in a leap, and fell to his knees on the broken earth. Desperate, he began to dig through the rubble with his bare hands, pushing aside burning stones.

 

—RESIST! BY THE SKIES OF THE STEPPE, ANSWER, LORD! —Subutai clamored, teeth clenched and face distorted by panic—. The army will not move without his shadow! WAKE UP, GENGHIS KHAN!!

 

Atop the Khwarazmian walls, the enemy catapult operators erupted in cheers and taunts, raising their spears:

 

—Look at the dogs of the steppe! We have crushed your demon! Your king is manure under the rock!

 

But the enemy's laughter lasted barely a few seconds.

 

CRACK... CRRRRACK!

 

From inside the mud, the colossal mass of stone weighing nine hundred kilos trembled. Subutai's fingers froze in the air. A bloody hand, with split nails and covered in dirt, emerged from the bottom, grasping the edge of the projectile. The rock began to rise slowly. Not with the help of levers or horses, but driven by the pure strength of a broken body that refused to remain buried.

 

FWOOOSH!

 

Genghis Khan stood up.

 

Subutai took a step back, paralyzed by the vision. His lord was bathed in blood; blood gushed from his forehead, soaking his face and tunic. His left arm hung useless with the collarbone bone exposed, his broken ribs creaked loudly with each inhalation, and his hip was dislocated. But the most terrifying thing wasn't his wounds.

 

It was his eyes.

 

Genghis Khan's pupils were completely blank.

 

He had entered a trance of adrenaline and fury so inhuman that mortal consciousness had abandoned his face, leaving only the instinct of a primitive predator. There was no pain on his countenance; only a demented vacancy and an aura of death that made the troop's own horses tremble.

 

Subutai, astonished and with his voice trembling from the mixture of devotion and dread, murmured: —Lor... lord... your bones... are shattered... The Khan didn't even look at him. Blood dripped from his chin to the ground. He placed both hands on the colossal stone that had crushed him, driving his fingers into the cracks of the rock. His muscles swelled to the limit, the veins in his neck seemed about to burst, and his teeth ground with such force that blood emanated from his gums.

 

—A LEADER... MUST NEVER BE ON HIS KNEES IN FRONT OF HIS MEN!! —brayed the Khan.

 

The cry did not sound like that of a man; it was the guttural roar of a beast that made the foundations of the fortress rumble.

With a superhuman impulse that defied all laws of physics and human anatomy, Genghis Khan flexed his broken back, lifted the stone mass weighing nearly nine hundred kilos above his head, and, with a violent twist of his torso, threw it straight back toward the battlements.

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

 

The rock flew through the air as if it had been fired by another catapult, crossing the sky in a brutal upward trajectory until it slammed fully into the upper tower of the wall. The impact was devastating. The stone pulverized the enemy catapult that had fired at him seconds before, reducing it to splinters and crushing the ten Khwarazmian soldiers operating the machine. Parts of the wall collapsed in a shower of rubble, silencing the enemy's taunts forever. On the ground, the Mongolian vanguard contemplated the scene in an afterlife silence. The enemy tower burned and crumbled from the very projectile they had launched.

 

Genghis Khan, still with blank eyes and breathing heavily as blood covered his face, slowly turned his head toward his men. The golden pupils took a few seconds to refocus, fixing on Subutai's figure and the rest of the army.

 

 —What are you waiting for? —the Khan murmured with an icy voice that made the air vibrate—. The gates are open. Take the city.

 

After giving the order with the icy voice, the Khan did not wait for his wounds to heal. Without taking a single step back, ignoring the dislocated hip and creaking ribs, Genghis Khan lunged forward. With an inhuman leap, he mounted the back of his black steed and dug his heels into its flanks.

 

The horse neighed wildly and broke into a gallop toward the ajar gates of the fortress.

 

 —FOLLOW THE KHAN!! —brayed Subutai, raising his saber into the air.

 

 

Beside him, ten thousand Mongolian throats erupted in a muffled roar. The cavalry tide set off, making the earth tremble like an earthquake of hooves and steel. The entire empire ran behind the bloody shadow of its sovereign.

 

From atop the walls and behind the entrance barricades, hundreds of Khwarazmian archers opened fire. A black rain of arrows crossed the sky, plunging down upon the Mongolian vanguard. It was at that instant that Genghis Khan's mind disconnected from physical pain and entered a state of absolute perception.

 

In his vision, time seemed to slow down. His brain began to process thousands of data per second: the tilt angle of the enemy bows, the humidity of the air, the whistle of the breeze, and the scatter range of the arrows. Just like a legendary swordsman who simulates ten thousand scenarios in his mind before taking a step, the Khan calculated each attack vector before the arrows touched his skin.

 

FWOOSH! FWOOSH! FWOOSH! FWOOSH!

 

Tilting his torso a few millimeters to the left, the first burst grazed his shoulder. Tilting his head barely a centimeter, a deadly arrow passed him millimeters from his jugular. The Khan did not dodge out of panic; he traced the most efficient path toward his prey. For the enemy archers on the wall, the scene was terrifying: they saw a demon covered in blood riding inside a storm of wood and iron without being touched.

 

ZAAAK! ZAAAK!

Genghis Khan leaped from his horse just as the animal knocked down the main barricade. Landing in the middle of the enemy ranks, the Khan was the embodiment of a steppe wolf leading its pack. With cold, dry, and perfect movements, he slashed necks right and left as he advanced through the smoke. The Khwarazmian troop was no longer fighting against soldiers; it felt surrounded by hunters cornering their prey inside a slaughterhouse. Through the chaotic corridor of blood and fallen bodies, the Khan carved a path to the central courtyard of the fortress. There, surrounded by his elite guard and trembling behind their bronze shields, stood Governor Inalchuq

 

 Genghis Khan stopped dead. The tide of Mongolian soldiers surrounded the courtyard, blocking all exits. The Khan stood erect in the center. Of all the rain of thousands of arrows that had fallen upon him during the charge, only two bolts had managed to embed themselves in his body: one driven into his left thigh and another into the leather shoulder pad. Two coldly calculated impacts, accepted by his mind to avoid wounds to vital organs while crossing the crossfire.

 

Inalchuq, his eyes unhinged by panic, took a step back holding his scimitar with trembling hands:

 

—You... how is it possible?... We crushed you with the stone! ... Hundreds of men shot at you!... And you're still alive?!... YOU ARE A DAMNED MONSTER!

 

Genghis Khan brought his right hand to the arrow embedded in his thigh and, without changing his stone face, ripped it out in a single bloody pull. He looked at the iron tip stained with his own blood, then fixed his golden pupils on Inalchuq and murmured with terrifying serenity:

 

 

—I still need to... improve my prediction. Two arrows managed to pierce me.

 

 

Inalchuq, retreating toward the shadows of the central courtyard's columns, let out a hysterical laugh that echoed throughout the enclosure. He spread both arms wide, revealing several dozen marksmen and elite troops stationed on the upper balconies, lower barricades, and corners.

 

 

—Even at this stage, old prairie dog... you never thought I'd have an ace up my sleeve against you! HAHAHAHA! —brayed Inalchuq, dropping both arms at once— FIRE!!

 

 

FWOOOOOOSH! FWOOOOOOSH!

 

The air of the courtyard cracked. It was not a simple volley; it was a three-dimensional storm of death.

 

From above, from the left side, and from the ground, a tide of heavy spears and projectiles was launched simultaneously. The trajectories crossed in a perfect framework designed not to leave a single centimeter of free space. A wall of iron fell from the sky while another burst cut the air flush with the ground. It was a death trap from which no human being could escape.

 

But Genghis Khan did not move out of panic.

 

In the absolute silence of his mind, time stopped once more. His golden pupils traced thousands of invisible lines in the air. He calculated the mass velocity of the heavy spears, the wind resistance in the enclosed courtyard, and the exact intersection point of each projectile. In his mind, Inalchuq's trap had already been solved before the first spear touched the air.

 

ZAAAAAAK!

 

The Khan initiated a sequence of superhuman movements. He tilted his torso at an impossible angle to let two spears pass millimeters from his chest; he pivoted on his fractured hip to dodge the impact of three bolts coming from the right and took a sharp diagonal step to dodge the upper rain.

 

Among the hundreds of projectiles that crossed the courtyard, only three spears managed to tear his flesh: a clean cut on the right cheek, a scratch on the shoulder, and a superficial wound on his flank. Three impacts coldly accepted by his brain so as not to compromise a single tendon or a single vital muscle.

 

Inalchuq, seeing the bloody figure emerge from the iron rain practically unharmed, paralyzed. The laughter froze in his throat.

 

—You... no... that's impossible! There were dozens of spears! —stuttered the governor, drawing his scimitar with trembling hands—. Stay away from me! STAY AWAY!!

 

Genghis Khan did not run. He took a firm step forward. To him, Inalchuq's movements, the tension of his muscles, the weight of his sword, and the direction of his gaze were no mystery. His opponent was, at that precise moment, an open book. Every attack Inalchuq intended to execute had already been read, processed, and countered in the Conqueror's mind.

 

Inalchuq launched a desperate and savage thrust with his scimitar toward the Khan's neck:

 —DIE!!

 

The Khan didn't even blink. He simply tilted his head two centimeters to the right, letting the enemy blade cut only the air. Without losing a single millisecond of momentum, Genghis Khan's right hand drew his curved saber in an invisible, horizontal, and perfect stroke.

 

CLEAV-SLICED!

 

The sound was as dry as the snap of a dry branch. Inalchuq's head flew through the air, spinning in space with eyes wide with horror, before rolling over the stone slabs of the courtyard. Inalchuq's lifeless body collapsed noisily onto the stone slabs of the courtyard, dropping his scimitar. The governor's head rolled a few meters until it stopped near the Conqueror's boots.

 

The central courtyard was submerged in a sepulchral silence. Above, on the battlements, the surviving Khwarazmian troops dropped their weapons with trembling hands, paralyzed by dread.

 

Genghis Khan did not celebrate. He did not raise his arms or let out a roar of victory.

 

Slowly, he cleaned the thread of blood from his blade with a dry wrist movement and sheathed the saber. He brought the fingers of his left hand to his flank, touching the three openings in his leather tunic where the enemy spears had managed to graze his flesh. He felt the sting of crimson welling up from the three marks. A heavy sigh, dense and loaded with a strange melancholy, escaped his lips. He looked at the corpse at his feet with dull eyes, murmuring in a low tone, almost self-absorbed, as if talking alone with the steppe wind:

 

—Now there were three... I need to improve this even further.

 

In his mind there was no triumph. Only the frustration of knowing that, among thousands of trajectories, three iron needles had managed to touch him. For Genghis Khan, perfection was not a goal; it was the only barrier between life and death. Subutai, who had just entered the courtyard surrounded by the Mongolian vanguard, stopped a few steps away. Upon hearing his lord's words, he felt an icy chill run down his spine. He understood at that instant that for the Great Khan, the entire world was nothing more than a board he had to learn to read before the pieces began to move.

 

End of the flashback

 

Back to Purgatory

 

The silence over the arena was so dense it could be cut with a thread. The lower stands area where Egil's technique, Jörmungandr, impacted was a landscape of total ruin. The devastating attack had not only hit the Conqueror squarely, sending him crashing against the back wall, but the colossal force had pulverized the stone structure, burying Genghis Khan under tons of rubble.

 

In the Nordic stands they were already celebrating victory, but in the Mongolian section, the roar of ten thousand throats guided by Subutai refused to die down. Planted on the railing, the veins in his neck about to burst and his fists clenched, the young general continued to cry out to the sky his lord's true name:

 

—TEMÜJIN!! WAKE UP, MY LORD!! SHOW THESE GODS WHO IS THE MASTER OF THE EARTH!!

 

The entire steppe section was a hotbed of euphoria, feet stomping on stone and sabers clashing against shields. And then, the empire's faith had its answer.

 

BANG-CRASH!!

 

The peak of the rubble mountain exploded toward the sky in a violent eruption of dust and rocks.

 

Before the stones hit the ground, a bloody shadow emerged projected from the bowels of the crater. With a colossal leap that defied gravity, Genghis Khan crossed the air and landed on his feet in the center of the ring, making the entire arena rumble.

 

CLANK! CLACK!

 

With each heavy breath of the Conqueror, the leather plate armor covering his torso fell apart, torn to shreds by the pressure. On his bare chest there was no sword cut, but a horrifying mark: a deep bruised groove crossing his skin, purple, cracked, and burst by the brutal shock force of Jörmungandr.

 

Thick threads of fresh blood gushed from his forehead, soaking his young face and falling in constant drops onto the frozen ground. But his sharp twenty-six-year-old countenance did not reflect agony.

 

Genghis Khan raised his head and looked directly toward the steppe stands. He fixed his gaze on Subutai.

 

Seeing his king standing, undefeated and erect after the catastrophe, the strength in the young general's legs gave way. Subutai fell to his knees on the edge of the railing, as thick tears of pure emotion, relief, and devotion furrowed his dust-stained face.

The Khan, seeing his most faithful war dog broken in tears, didn't say a single word. He simply clenched his right hand and raised his fist into the air toward his people, giving them a broad, wild, and complicit smile, enjoying the chaos he had just unleashed. In that millisecond, the ten thousand warriors of the steppe erupted in a sonic roar that shook the foundations of the entire coliseum. Then, the Khan lowered his arm, slowly turned his torso, and extended his right index finger, pointing directly at Egil's face.

 

 

—Nordic... I owe you a thanks —the Khan said in a deep voice that echoed in every corner of the coliseum— I thought I had reached the limit of my mind... but your blow forced me to evolve.

 

He brought his hand to his forehead, wiping away some of the blood clouding his vision, revealing golden pupils shining with unhinged intensity.

 

—Every time I overcome the clutches of death, my predictions increase. The closer I am to the abyss of death, the farther my eyes can see into the future. It's a pity I died in my era without perfecting this technique... although, truth be told, I never bothered to give it a name.

 

At the commentator's station and in the stands, the Khan's aura felt suffocating. The man had not only survived Jörmungandr's destructive impact, but had used it as a catalyst to elevate his prediction capacity to superhuman levels.

 

Egil Skallagrimsson observed the pieces of armor falling to the ground, the blood on the Khan's face, and the brutal groove on his chest. Instead of backing down or showing consternation, the Norse skald let out a clean, resonant laugh, full of pride for his opponent.

 

—I like you, Mongol! —Egil laughed, as he adjusted his posture with terrifying elegance— Let's see if your mind can surpass my speed...

 

FWISH... CRACKLE!

 

Upon uttering those words, Egil's body began to transform again. Beneath his skin, his muscle fibers began to move and contract grotesquely, twisting like live snakes across his arms and torso. The density of his muscles skyrocketed, altering his blood flow and preparing his body to reach a superhuman level of acceleration.

 

Egil smiled maliciously, his eyes shining with the poetry of battle:

 

—A wolf can predict where the prey will run... but what use are your wonderful eyes if the lightning strikes before you can blink?

 

The Khan's response was not a word, but an icy smile that fixed his golden pupils on the Nordic's shadow. The air between them exploded into vapor, gravity seemed to break in the arena, and, in that single instant suspended in the eternity of Purgatory, the Devouring Lightning of the north and the wolf's prediction threw themselves at each other to write the next verse of blood.

​

Chapter 11: On the Verge of the Abyss

 

The grayish dust floated in suspension over the destroyed arena, covering the coliseum with a dense shroud. The seconds stretched like hours. Beneath the mountain of fragmented stones from the divine bleachers, there was not the slightest trace of movement. Not a vibration, nor a creak. Nothing.

In the arena, Egil Skallagrímsson remained motionless, with the flat of his colossal sword resting on his shoulder and his chest covered in superficial cuts rising and falling to the rhythm of his heavy breathing. His blank eyes remained fixed on the mound of rubble.

In humanity's stands, the murmur soon turned into a widespread clamor.

 

— It's over... —murmured a medieval knight, lowering his visor—. Nobody can survive an impact of that magnitude and then be buried by rock. The Khan is dead.

 

— The Bear of the North has shattered the Conqueror! —shouted a soldier from the 20th-century trenches, as the commotion began to spread through the ranks of European and Nordic warriors.

 

Flying above the destructive trench, in her floating commentator station, Nike was about to go crazy. Surrounded by giant holographic screens replaying the impact from drones in the air, the goddess clutched her hair, her eyes wide open. She loved the damn action and what she had just seen was fucking beautiful.

 

«What the hell? Is Genghis Khan already dead?», thought Nike, holding her breath as her fingers drummed on the holographic console, debating internally whether she should declare the winner right now or wait for a miracle. In the end, she couldn't contain herself and shouted with the full power of her lungs into the divine microphone:

 

— HUMANS AND DEITIES PRESENT, WHAT THE HELL DID WE JUST SEE!! —brayed Nike, her voice echoing with a charismatic and wild joy throughout the coliseum—. Could the emperor of Mongolia have been defeated by the inhuman strength of the Norse?! The Khan isn't moving, folks! Could this be the end of the conqueror?!

 

The commentator's cry ignited the murmur in humanity's stands, which erupted into theories and shouts, except for the Mongolian section, which maintained a sepulchral silence of pure faith.

 

Higher up, in the highest box of the coliseum, the atmosphere was extremely different.

 

Ares, the god of war, was standing at the edge of the balcony, contemplating the black trench that Egil's slash had left in the arena. In his eyes there was no bloodlust, but an absolute fascination. He maintained a vibrant smile, capturing the invisible nuances emanating from the clash. He turned slightly toward where his uncle Hades was naturally.

 

— Uncle Hades... did you see that? —Ares asked in an enthusiastic and extremely polite voice, standing right at the edge of the box railing, infected by the vibration of the arena—. The Nordic's will when exploding... the colors emitted by his soul were of a violent and beautiful crimson. He is truly painting a monumental canvas in this arena, don't you think?

 

Right next to him, sitting comfortably on his throne to have a perfect perspective of the coliseum, Hades remained motionless. However, this time his fingers tightened subtly on the armrest. His analytical eyes, usually dulled by boredom, opened a little wider than usual as he observed the smoking trench of the arena. There was a genuine hint of surprise in his gaze, mixed with deep caution.

 

— Unmeasured brute strength combined with an erratic temperament —Hades replied with his characteristic dry tone, but this time dragging a careful slowness, without taking his eyes off the crater—. Centuries had passed since I last saw a physical density of that caliber, Ares. That downward slash... for an instant reminded me of the brute force with which Heracles used to break the laws of logic, or the pure devastation that Hebrew legends attributed to that Samson fellow. The Norseman is an incomprehensible danger. Hades readjusted slightly in his seat, fixing his eyes on the mound of rubble in the front row.

 

— However... seeing only one side of the canvas is a mistake, nephew. One must always look for the other's point of view. Someone who built the largest empire on Earth does not let themselves be buried so easily. You have a gift for appreciating their wills, but do not underestimate the Mongol's ingenuity. It is under maximum pressure where great strategists find their answer.

 

An absolute dramatic pause then ensued. Nike's implicit countdown at her floating station hung in the air as the holograms flickered.

 

But just before the Goddess made a verdict, the sepulchral silence of the Mongolian stand broke in the most violent and unexpected way. A wild laugh, overflowing with electric energy and absolute confidence, echoed from the front stands. A young man, with long hair braided in the style of the steppes, eyes blazing with pure adrenaline, and light commander armor revealing his weathered arms, jumped over the crowd. It was Subutai, the Khan's youngest and undefeated strategist, a demon on the battlefield overflowing with unstoppable vigor. With a single dry impact, he planted his boot on the stone railing of the stand and threw both arms wide open toward the sky, as if he wanted to devour the entire coliseum.

 

With a gaze loaded with a demented daring, he pointed his index finger directly at the commentator's floating station.

 

— YOU'D BETTER KEEP QUIET, LITTLE GIRL!! HAHAHAHA!! —shouted Subutai, with a voice so powerful and full of vitality that it cut Nike's breath mid-word, leaving her dumbfounded with the microphone in hand.

 

The young general turned his back to the arena for a second, looking at his compatriots with eyes injected with fervor.

 

— DID YOU FORGET WHO IS DOWN THERE?! —Subutai shouted, striking his chest with his fist—. WHEN MY TRIBE ABANDONED ME TO MY FATE IN THE BLOODIEST WINTER, WHEN THE COLD FROZE MY BONES AND I WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A DYING DOG, IT WAS HE WHO EXTENDED HIS HAND! HE GAVE US A NAME!

HE GAVE US A HOME! DO YOU THINK SOME DAMNED ROCKS ARE GOING TO STOP THE MAN WHO PULLED US OUT OF THE MUD?!

 

Subutai took a breath, expanding his lungs to the absolute limit, and pointing with sacred fury toward the mound of rubble burying his leader, shouted at the top of his lungs the true name of his youth on the steppes:

 

— TEMÜJIN!! —roared the young general with a devotion that gave goosebumps to the spectators.

 

 

Upon hearing the testimony and cry of their youngest commander, ten veteran generals suddenly stood up, beating their shields:

 

— TEMÜJIN!!

 

One hundred Mongolian warriors joined in the blink of an eye, drawing their curved blades. Then there were a thousand. And within seconds, ten thousand Mongols were on their feet, stomping on the stands with a synchrony so brutal that the entire Coliseum of Purgatory began to shake as if an earthquake were demolishing the bleachers. The gods' wine goblets trembled, Nike's holograms were distorted by the sonic wave, and the arena's dust began to be swept away by the sheer impact of an empire's massive shout:

 

— TEMÜJIN!! THE ONE WHO UNITED THE TRIBES INTO A SINGLE BLOOD!! —ten thousand throats chanted with a deafening roar—. TEMÜJIN!! THE ONE WHO ROSE FROM HUNGER TO CONQUER THE WORLD OF THE LIVING!! THE ONE WHO NEVER BACKED DOWN BEFORE THE ABYSS!!

 

The acoustic impact of ten thousand men clamoring for their king was so monumental that the gray dust curtain over the arena completely dissipated, revealing the imposing mound of rubble that buried the emperor.

 

And it was there, under the suffocating darkness and the crushing weight of the rock, that the brutal echo of his people's shouts arrived like a jolt of pure adrenaline to the Khan's bleeding heart. Upon hearing his true name echoing with the force of ten thousand wild horses in Purgatory, Genghis Khan in the middle of the gloom... his mind, responding to the roar of his empire, plunged deep into the furthest memories of his youth on the endless steppes...

 

Beginning of the flashback

 

Year 1162 — The freezing steppes of the Onon River —

 

He was born holding in his small right hand a clot of dried blood, like a divine omen of the red tide he would unleash upon the earth. Baptized as Temüjin, his childhood knew no crowns or thrones, but abandonment, fierce hunger, and betrayal by his own clan. In winters where snow burned the skin, he learned to calculate the weight of each arrow, the wind's trajectory, and the limits of the human body. He was not born a giant, but he built his mind like an impregnable fortress.

 

By the time Mongolia's divided tribes knelt before him and proclaimed him Genghis Khan —the Sovereign of all Men—, his word was no longer an order; it was a cosmic law.

 

Khwarazmian Campaign — Siege of Samarkand (1219)

 

The sky over the fortress was not blue, but a gray and crimson curtain fueled by the smoke of burned peace and the dust of destroyed walls. Atop the walls, the enemy's heavy artillery worked tirelessly. Six counterweight catapults screeched with hydraulic force before releasing their projectiles.

 

KABUUUM!

Rocks the size of bison fell from the sky, opening craters in the frozen earth and turning men and mounts into masses of flesh. In the vanguard, chaos threatened to break the formation. A young Mongolian soldier, his face splashed with mud and blood, stumbled. He looked up and froze completely.

 

A gigantic shadow was growing at a frightening speed above his head. A solid stone projectile weighing almost nine hundred kilos — a mass the size of a young elephant, was coming in free fall toward him. The air whistled with death. The soldier couldn't even scream; his legs froze, unable to respond.

 

—Move, damn it! —a bellow was heard beside him.

 

Before the shadow hit the ground, a figure dressed in leather plate armor and dark furs burst into the trajectory. Genghis Khan grabbed the soldier by the collar of his tunic and projected him several meters backward, out of the impact point.

 

But there was no longer time for the Khan to dodge.

 

CRASHHHHH-BOOOOOOOOM!

 

The blow of the rock against flesh and earth reverberated across the battlefield like the explosion of a destroying mountain. The mass of stone fell with all its weight upon Genghis Khan's body, crushing him against the frozen ground and raising a dense smoke of rubble and red dust.

 

Meters in the rear, Subutai saw the scene. Time seemed to stop. His eyes dilated with terror, while cold sweat ran down the back of his neck.

 

—LORD!! —Subutai shouted, tearing his vocal cords as he spurred his horse at full speed toward the dust cloud—. Vanguard line, retract the shields! Make way! OUR LORD IS DOWN!!

 

The Mongolian soldiers around him fell into horror. Murmurs of panic began to spread like fire in dry grass:

 

—The Khan... the stone destroyed him... —The Great Khan has fallen!

 

Subutai reached the crater, dismounted in a leap, and fell to his knees on the broken earth. Desperate, he began to dig through the rubble with his bare hands, pushing aside burning stones.

 

—RESIST! BY THE SKIES OF THE STEPPE, ANSWER, LORD! —Subutai clamored, teeth clenched and face distorted by panic—. The army will not move without his shadow! WAKE UP, GENGHIS KHAN!!

 

Atop the Khwarazmian walls, the enemy catapult operators erupted in cheers and taunts, raising their spears:

 

—Look at the dogs of the steppe! We have crushed your demon! Your king is manure under the rock!

 

But the enemy's laughter lasted barely a few seconds.

 

CRACK... CRRRRACK!

 

From inside the mud, the colossal mass of stone weighing nine hundred kilos trembled. Subutai's fingers froze in the air. A bloody hand, with split nails and covered in dirt, emerged from the bottom, grasping the edge of the projectile. The rock began to rise slowly. Not with the help of levers or horses, but driven by the pure strength of a broken body that refused to remain buried.

 

FWOOOSH!

 

Genghis Khan stood up.

 

Subutai took a step back, paralyzed by the vision. His lord was bathed in blood; blood gushed from his forehead, soaking his face and tunic. His left arm hung useless with the collarbone bone exposed, his broken ribs creaked loudly with each inhalation, and his hip was dislocated. But the most terrifying thing wasn't his wounds.

 

It was his eyes.

 

Genghis Khan's pupils were completely blank.

 

He had entered a trance of adrenaline and fury so inhuman that mortal consciousness had abandoned his face, leaving only the instinct of a primitive predator. There was no pain on his countenance; only a demented vacancy and an aura of death that made the troop's own horses tremble.

 

Subutai, astonished and with his voice trembling from the mixture of devotion and dread, murmured: —Lor... lord... your bones... are shattered... The Khan didn't even look at him. Blood dripped from his chin to the ground. He placed both hands on the colossal stone that had crushed him, driving his fingers into the cracks of the rock. His muscles swelled to the limit, the veins in his neck seemed about to burst, and his teeth ground with such force that blood emanated from his gums.

 

—A LEADER... MUST NEVER BE ON HIS KNEES IN FRONT OF HIS MEN!! —brayed the Khan.

 

The cry did not sound like that of a man; it was the guttural roar of a beast that made the foundations of the fortress rumble.

With a superhuman impulse that defied all laws of physics and human anatomy, Genghis Khan flexed his broken back, lifted the stone mass weighing nearly nine hundred kilos above his head, and, with a violent twist of his torso, threw it straight back toward the battlements.

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

 

The rock flew through the air as if it had been fired by another catapult, crossing the sky in a brutal upward trajectory until it slammed fully into the upper tower of the wall. The impact was devastating. The stone pulverized the enemy catapult that had fired at him seconds before, reducing it to splinters and crushing the ten Khwarazmian soldiers operating the machine. Parts of the wall collapsed in a shower of rubble, silencing the enemy's taunts forever. On the ground, the Mongolian vanguard contemplated the scene in an afterlife silence. The enemy tower burned and crumbled from the very projectile they had launched.

 

Genghis Khan, still with blank eyes and breathing heavily as blood covered his face, slowly turned his head toward his men. The golden pupils took a few seconds to refocus, fixing on Subutai's figure and the rest of the army.

 

 —What are you waiting for? —the Khan murmured with an icy voice that made the air vibrate—. The gates are open. Take the city.

 

After giving the order with the icy voice, the Khan did not wait for his wounds to heal. Without taking a single step back, ignoring the dislocated hip and creaking ribs, Genghis Khan lunged forward. With an inhuman leap, he mounted the back of his black steed and dug his heels into its flanks.

 

The horse neighed wildly and broke into a gallop toward the ajar gates of the fortress.

 

 —FOLLOW THE KHAN!! —brayed Subutai, raising his saber into the air.

 

 

Beside him, ten thousand Mongolian throats erupted in a muffled roar. The cavalry tide set off, making the earth tremble like an earthquake of hooves and steel. The entire empire ran behind the bloody shadow of its sovereign.

 

From atop the walls and behind the entrance barricades, hundreds of Khwarazmian archers opened fire. A black rain of arrows crossed the sky, plunging down upon the Mongolian vanguard. It was at that instant that Genghis Khan's mind disconnected from physical pain and entered a state of absolute perception.

 

In his vision, time seemed to slow down. His brain began to process thousands of data per second: the tilt angle of the enemy bows, the humidity of the air, the whistle of the breeze, and the scatter range of the arrows. Just like a legendary swordsman who simulates ten thousand scenarios in his mind before taking a step, the Khan calculated each attack vector before the arrows touched his skin.

 

FWOOSH! FWOOSH! FWOOSH! FWOOSH!

 

Tilting his torso a few millimeters to the left, the first burst grazed his shoulder. Tilting his head barely a centimeter, a deadly arrow passed him millimeters from his jugular. The Khan did not dodge out of panic; he traced the most efficient path toward his prey. For the enemy archers on the wall, the scene was terrifying: they saw a demon covered in blood riding inside a storm of wood and iron without being touched.

 

ZAAAK! ZAAAK!

Genghis Khan leaped from his horse just as the animal knocked down the main barricade. Landing in the middle of the enemy ranks, the Khan was the embodiment of a steppe wolf leading its pack. With cold, dry, and perfect movements, he slashed necks right and left as he advanced through the smoke. The Khwarazmian troop was no longer fighting against soldiers; it felt surrounded by hunters cornering their prey inside a slaughterhouse. Through the chaotic corridor of blood and fallen bodies, the Khan carved a path to the central courtyard of the fortress. There, surrounded by his elite guard and trembling behind their bronze shields, stood Governor Inalchuq

 

 Genghis Khan stopped dead. The tide of Mongolian soldiers surrounded the courtyard, blocking all exits. The Khan stood erect in the center. Of all the rain of thousands of arrows that had fallen upon him during the charge, only two bolts had managed to embed themselves in his body: one driven into his left thigh and another into the leather shoulder pad. Two coldly calculated impacts, accepted by his mind to avoid wounds to vital organs while crossing the crossfire.

 

Inalchuq, his eyes unhinged by panic, took a step back holding his scimitar with trembling hands:

 

—You... how is it possible?... We crushed you with the stone! ... Hundreds of men shot at you!... And you're still alive?!... YOU ARE A DAMNED MONSTER!

 

Genghis Khan brought his right hand to the arrow embedded in his thigh and, without changing his stone face, ripped it out in a single bloody pull. He looked at the iron tip stained with his own blood, then fixed his golden pupils on Inalchuq and murmured with terrifying serenity:

 

 

—I still need to... improve my prediction. Two arrows managed to pierce me.

 

 

Inalchuq, retreating toward the shadows of the central courtyard's columns, let out a hysterical laugh that echoed throughout the enclosure. He spread both arms wide, revealing several dozen marksmen and elite troops stationed on the upper balconies, lower barricades, and corners.

 

 

—Even at this stage, old prairie dog... you never thought I'd have an ace up my sleeve against you! HAHAHAHA! —brayed Inalchuq, dropping both arms at once— FIRE!!

 

 

FWOOOOOOSH! FWOOOOOOSH!

 

The air of the courtyard cracked. It was not a simple volley; it was a three-dimensional storm of death.

 

From above, from the left side, and from the ground, a tide of heavy spears and projectiles was launched simultaneously. The trajectories crossed in a perfect framework designed not to leave a single centimeter of free space. A wall of iron fell from the sky while another burst cut the air flush with the ground. It was a death trap from which no human being could escape.

 

But Genghis Khan did not move out of panic.

 

In the absolute silence of his mind, time stopped once more. His golden pupils traced thousands of invisible lines in the air. He calculated the mass velocity of the heavy spears, the wind resistance in the enclosed courtyard, and the exact intersection point of each projectile. In his mind, Inalchuq's trap had already been solved before the first spear touched the air.

 

ZAAAAAAK!

 

The Khan initiated a sequence of superhuman movements. He tilted his torso at an impossible angle to let two spears pass millimeters from his chest; he pivoted on his fractured hip to dodge the impact of three bolts coming from the right and took a sharp diagonal step to dodge the upper rain.

 

Among the hundreds of projectiles that crossed the courtyard, only three spears managed to tear his flesh: a clean cut on the right cheek, a scratch on the shoulder, and a superficial wound on his flank. Three impacts coldly accepted by his brain so as not to compromise a single tendon or a single vital muscle.

 

Inalchuq, seeing the bloody figure emerge from the iron rain practically unharmed, paralyzed. The laughter froze in his throat.

 

—You... no... that's impossible! There were dozens of spears! —stuttered the governor, drawing his scimitar with trembling hands—. Stay away from me! STAY AWAY!!

 

Genghis Khan did not run. He took a firm step forward. To him, Inalchuq's movements, the tension of his muscles, the weight of his sword, and the direction of his gaze were no mystery. His opponent was, at that precise moment, an open book. Every attack Inalchuq intended to execute had already been read, processed, and countered in the Conqueror's mind.

 

Inalchuq launched a desperate and savage thrust with his scimitar toward the Khan's neck:

 —DIE!!

 

The Khan didn't even blink. He simply tilted his head two centimeters to the right, letting the enemy blade cut only the air. Without losing a single millisecond of momentum, Genghis Khan's right hand drew his curved saber in an invisible, horizontal, and perfect stroke.

 

CLEAV-SLICED!

 

The sound was as dry as the snap of a dry branch. Inalchuq's head flew through the air, spinning in space with eyes wide with horror, before rolling over the stone slabs of the courtyard. Inalchuq's lifeless body collapsed noisily onto the stone slabs of the courtyard, dropping his scimitar. The governor's head rolled a few meters until it stopped near the Conqueror's boots.

 

The central courtyard was submerged in a sepulchral silence. Above, on the battlements, the surviving Khwarazmian troops dropped their weapons with trembling hands, paralyzed by dread.

 

Genghis Khan did not celebrate. He did not raise his arms or let out a roar of victory.

 

Slowly, he cleaned the thread of blood from his blade with a dry wrist movement and sheathed the saber. He brought the fingers of his left hand to his flank, touching the three openings in his leather tunic where the enemy spears had managed to graze his flesh. He felt the sting of crimson welling up from the three marks. A heavy sigh, dense and loaded with a strange melancholy, escaped his lips. He looked at the corpse at his feet with dull eyes, murmuring in a low tone, almost self-absorbed, as if talking alone with the steppe wind:

 

—Now there were three... I need to improve this even further.

 

In his mind there was no triumph. Only the frustration of knowing that, among thousands of trajectories, three iron needles had managed to touch him. For Genghis Khan, perfection was not a goal; it was the only barrier between life and death. Subutai, who had just entered the courtyard surrounded by the Mongolian vanguard, stopped a few steps away. Upon hearing his lord's words, he felt an icy chill run down his spine. He understood at that instant that for the Great Khan, the entire world was nothing more than a board he had to learn to read before the pieces began to move.

 

End of the flashback

 

Back to Purgatory

 

The silence over the arena was so dense it could be cut with a thread. The lower stands area where Egil's technique, Jörmungandr, impacted was a landscape of total ruin. The devastating attack had not only hit the Conqueror squarely, sending him crashing against the back wall, but the colossal force had pulverized the stone structure, burying Genghis Khan under tons of rubble.

 

In the Nordic stands they were already celebrating victory, but in the Mongolian section, the roar of ten thousand throats guided by Subutai refused to die down. Planted on the railing, the veins in his neck about to burst and his fists clenched, the young general continued to cry out to the sky his lord's true name:

 

—TEMÜJIN!! WAKE UP, MY LORD!! SHOW THESE GODS WHO IS THE MASTER OF THE EARTH!!

 

The entire steppe section was a hotbed of euphoria, feet stomping on stone and sabers clashing against shields. And then, the empire's faith had its answer.

 

BANG-CRASH!!

 

The peak of the rubble mountain exploded toward the sky in a violent eruption of dust and rocks.

 

Before the stones hit the ground, a bloody shadow emerged projected from the bowels of the crater. With a colossal leap that defied gravity, Genghis Khan crossed the air and landed on his feet in the center of the ring, making the entire arena rumble.

 

CLANK! CLACK!

 

With each heavy breath of the Conqueror, the leather plate armor covering his torso fell apart, torn to shreds by the pressure. On his bare chest there was no sword cut, but a horrifying mark: a deep bruised groove crossing his skin, purple, cracked, and burst by the brutal shock force of Jörmungandr.

 

Thick threads of fresh blood gushed from his forehead, soaking his young face and falling in constant drops onto the frozen ground. But his sharp twenty-six-year-old countenance did not reflect agony.

 

Genghis Khan raised his head and looked directly toward the steppe stands. He fixed his gaze on Subutai.

 

Seeing his king standing, undefeated and erect after the catastrophe, the strength in the young general's legs gave way. Subutai fell to his knees on the edge of the railing, as thick tears of pure emotion, relief, and devotion furrowed his dust-stained face.

The Khan, seeing his most faithful war dog broken in tears, didn't say a single word. He simply clenched his right hand and raised his fist into the air toward his people, giving them a broad, wild, and complicit smile, enjoying the chaos he had just unleashed. In that millisecond, the ten thousand warriors of the steppe erupted in a sonic roar that shook the foundations of the entire coliseum. Then, the Khan lowered his arm, slowly turned his torso, and extended his right index finger, pointing directly at Egil's face.

 

 

—Nordic... I owe you a thanks —the Khan said in a deep voice that echoed in every corner of the coliseum— I thought I had reached the limit of my mind... but your blow forced me to evolve.

 

He brought his hand to his forehead, wiping away some of the blood clouding his vision, revealing golden pupils shining with unhinged intensity.

 

—Every time I overcome the clutches of death, my predictions increase. The closer I am to the abyss of death, the farther my eyes can see into the future. It's a pity I died in my era without perfecting this technique... although, truth be told, I never bothered to give it a name.

 

At the commentator's station and in the stands, the Khan's aura felt suffocating. The man had not only survived Jörmungandr's destructive impact, but had used it as a catalyst to elevate his prediction capacity to superhuman levels.

 

Egil Skallagrimsson observed the pieces of armor falling to the ground, the blood on the Khan's face, and the brutal groove on his chest. Instead of backing down or showing consternation, the Norse skald let out a clean, resonant laugh, full of pride for his opponent.

 

—I like you, Mongol! —Egil laughed, as he adjusted his posture with terrifying elegance— Let's see if your mind can surpass my speed...

 

FWISH... CRACKLE!

 

Upon uttering those words, Egil's body began to transform again. Beneath his skin, his muscle fibers began to move and contract grotesquely, twisting like live snakes across his arms and torso. The density of his muscles skyrocketed, altering his blood flow and preparing his body to reach a superhuman level of acceleration.

 

Egil smiled maliciously, his eyes shining with the poetry of battle:

 

—A wolf can predict where the prey will run... but what use are your wonderful eyes if the lightning strikes before you can blink?

 

The Khan's response was not a word, but an icy smile that fixed his golden pupils on the Nordic's shadow. The air between them exploded into vapor, gravity seemed to break in the arena, and, in that single instant suspended in the eternity of Purgatory, the Devouring Lightning of the north and the wolf's prediction threw themselves at each other to write the next verse of blood.

​

Capítulo 10: El demonio de dos caras

El primer paso de Egil Skallagrímsson no fue rápido, pero tuvo el peso de un glaciar desmoronándose sobre el coliseo. Bajo la suela de su bota, las baldosas de la arena se agrietaron y se convirtieron en polvo fino. El aire se volvió denso al instante, cargado de un frío húmedo que evocaba la niebla helada de los fiordos noruegos.

Gengis Kan no retrocedió, pero su cuerpo se tensó con una rigidez que sus generales en la Tierra jamás habrían creído posible. Su mente, esa máquina de predicción perfecta, trabajaba a toda máquina para reajustar las variables tras el choque contra aquel cráneo de yunque.

Sin embargo, Egil no le dio tiempo a recalcular.

En las gradas, el silencio se rompió con un murmullo de asombro y horror. Guerreros de distintas épocas —desde hoplitas espartanos y legionarios romanos con armaduras abolladas, hasta caballeros medievales y soldados de las guerras mundiales— observaban la arena con los ojos muy abiertos.

—¡Miren sus brazos! —gritó un centurión romano, señalando al nórdico— ¡Eso no es normal! ¡Su carne se retuerce!

—Es como si tuviera serpientes moviéndose bajo la piel… —murmuró un samurái del período Sengoku, apoyando la mano en su katana mientras un sudor frío le recorría la nuca.

No era una ilusión. Los músculos de Egil Skallagrímsson comenzaron a moverse y contraerse con un violento balanceo. Al igual que el legendario control muscular de los colosos de combate, las fibras del nórdico se contrajeron y agruparon hacia su hombro y brazo derecho, expandiendo su volumen hasta que su antebrazo se volvió tan grueso y denso como el tronco de un roble centenario.

En la sección reservada para los hombres del norte, rodeado de barriles de hidromiel y guerreros cubiertos de pieles, un hombre alto de mirada penetrante, cabello gris y una sonrisa que mezclaba melancolía con feroz orgullo, se cruzó de brazos. Era Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson, padre de Egil, un temido berserker en su época que conocía la naturaleza monstruosa de su linaje mejor que nadie.

—Sigue siendo el mismo bastardo incorregible… —bramó Skalla-Grímr, cuya risa ronca resonó entre sus compañeros—. ¡Mírenlo! ¡La muerte no ha hecho más que enfriar su sangre y endurecer su carne! ¡Enséñale a ese rey de las llanuras cómo ruge el verdadero Oso del Norte!

Abajo, el "Oso" se abalanzó. El suelo vibró bajo su potente embestida, un ataque que combinaba la fuerza del sumo con la ferocidad de la lucha nórdica. Egil no usó su espada; la soltó con desdén, dejándola caer a un lado, y extendió su enorme antebrazo derecho con un movimiento directo, como un lazo, hacia el cuello del Kan.

El aire emitió un silbido violento y ensordecedor. Gengis Kan, que había anticipado la trayectoria una milésima de segundo, intentó esquivar el golpe pivotando sobre su pie izquierdo, pero la onda expansiva del musculoso brazo de Egil fue demasiado amplia. El colosal antebrazo del vikingo impactó de lleno contra la armadura laminar del pecho y el cuello del Kan, deteniendo su agilidad en seco con un chirrido metálico ensordecedor.

¡CRRRRAAAAAACK!

La fuerza del impacto no solo le cortó la respiración, sino que barrió las piernas del emperador mongol, estrellándolo contra el suelo con un latigazo seco que levantó una nube de polvo. Sin perder un milisegundo, Egil alzó su pesada bota con la intención de pisotearle la cabeza y estamparla contra las baldosas.

El Kan, con los reflejos de un felino, rodó desesperadamente hacia la izquierda una fracción de segundo antes de que el talón del nórdico impactara. El pisotón de Egil fue tan brutal que hundió el suelo de piedra, agrietando la arena en un radio de tres metros. Pero Egil era implacable. Antes de que el Kan pudiera levantarse por completo, la mano del nórdico descendió como una garra, agarrando al emperador firmemente por el cabello. Con una fuerza sobrehumana, Egil lo levantó del suelo como si fuera un muñeco de trapo y, con un movimiento descendente y violento, estrelló la cara del Khan directamente contra el piso.

¡ Cualquier otro hombre se habría desplomado al instante, pero Egil solo gruñó, abriendo los ojos mientras sus dedos aflojaban el agarre del cabello del Khan por una fracción de segundo debido al espasmo muscular. Aprovechando ese instante, el Khan se deslizó hacia atrás, liberándose del agarre. Pero la tregua duró poco. Con una resistencia al dolor casi demoníaca, Egil ignoró el impacto en la ingle. Sus ojos, completamente vacíos, brillaron con furia desenfrenada. Dio un paso al frente y, con la mano libre, le propinó una bofetada colosal en el costado del rostro al Khan.

El impacto sonó como un cañonazo. ¡ZASSS!

La fuerza de la bofetada fue tan devastadora que el cuerpo de Gengis Kan salió disparado por los aires, cruzando media arena como un proyectil humano, hasta estrellarse violentamente contra el imponente muro de piedra de las gradas. El impacto fue tan fuerte que dejó la silueta del Kan marcada en la roca agrietada, haciendo que la sangre salpicara de sus labios rotos mientras varios espectadores en las primeras filas se estremecían de horror.

El silencio volvió a apoderarse del coliseo mientras el Kan se deslizaba lentamente por la pared agrietada, intentando ponerse de pie con un brazo tembloroso... Con un gemido sordo, el emperador mongol se deslizó por la pared agrietada hasta que sus botas tocaron de nuevo el suelo cubierto de escombros. Jadeaba con dificultad, su pecho subía y bajaba erráticamente. Con un movimiento brusco de cabeza, escupió un chorro espeso de sangre hacia su derecha, manchando las piedras grises.

«Maldita sea...», pensó el Kan, apretando los dientes mientras una gota de sudor frío se mezclaba con la sangre que le corría por la frente. «¿De qué demonios están hechos sus huesos?»

Para el público en las gradas, el Kan solo se había quedado quieto unos segundos, recuperando el aliento tras el impacto. Pero en la mente de Gengis Kan, el tiempo transcurría a una velocidad infinitamente diferente. Su cerebro, esa máquina perfecta para la predicción y el cálculo vectorial, trabajaba al límite, sobrecalentándose.

Desde la perspectiva del Kan, la arena ya no era un espacio vacío. Estaba completamente saturada. En su mente, docenas de proyecciones fantasmales y translúcidas de sí mismo y de Egil se entrecruzaban en un caótico entrelazamiento de líneas de combate.

Era su capacidad de simulación llevada al extremo:

·        En la proyección mental número 14: El Kan logró esquivar y deslizar su Dao directamente sobre el cuello de Egil. Pero los músculos hipertrofiados del vikingo se contrajeron como una prensa hidráulica, atrapando la hoja metálica dentro de su propia carne, dándole al coloso tiempo suficiente para aplastar el pecho del Khan con sus propias manos. ¡Muerte!

·        En proyección mental número 52: El Khan realizó una estocada perfecta directa al corazón. Pero las costillas de Egil, tan densas como el acero templado, astillaron la punta del Dao. El contraataque del nórdico fue un cabezazo que desintegró el rostro del emperador. ¡Muerte!

·         En proyección mental número 89: Una ráfaga de rápidos tajos logró cercenar el brazo izquierdo del vikingo, pero el berserker simplemente ignoró la pérdida de la extremidad, agarró al Khan por las piernas y lo partió en dos con su espada. ¡Muerte!

«Ya van cien veces...», pensó el Kan, con la mirada perdida en aquel mar de fantasmas mentales donde, sin importar qué vector de ataque eligiera, su propia silueta terminaba desmembrada, aplastada o decapitada en el suelo. «Cien malditas simulaciones de combate. Da igual cómo ataque; sus músculos son como una armadura viviente y sus huesos son de hierro, más duros que cualquier metal que haya visto en la Tierra...»

El Kan levantó lentamente la cabeza para despejar la tormenta de cálculos de sus ojos. Mirando hacia las gradas de la primera fila, justo encima del muro donde se había estrellado, su mirada se encontró con un par de ojos cargados de brillante arrogancia. Sentado con las piernas cruzadas, con la barbilla apoyada en el puño y sosteniendo una jarra de vino dorado en la otra mano, estaba Alejandro Magno.

El joven conquistador macedonio observaba la arena con una sonrisa de oreja a oreja, disfrutando del espectáculo como nadie. Al notar que el mongol lo miraba, Alejandro alzó su copa y, sin dudarlo, soltó una carcajada que resonó en toda la sección de las gradas:

— ¡Jajaja! ¡Ya te has muerto ciento dos veces en la cabeza, mongol! —gritó Alejandro, con los ojos brillando de diversión—. ¡Hasta desde aquí puedo ver cómo te tiemblan las emociones! ¡Ese bárbaro del norte no entiende de mapas ni de imperios, solo sabe destrozar cosas!

Los generales mongoles en las gradas superiores gruñeron indignados ante la burla del macedonio, pero a Gengis Kan no le importó. Al contrario. Al oír las palabras de su rival histórico, una chispa de pura adrenalina encendió el pecho del emperador. La tensión en sus hombros disminuyó, y a pesar de tener el rostro ensangrentado y el cuerpo magullado, el Kan esbozó una leve sonrisa, tensa y nerviosa, pero cargada de una excitación bélica descontrolada.

— Ciento dos… —susurró el Kan para sí mismo, apretando la empuñadura de su Dao hasta que sus nudillos se pusieron blancos—. Tienes buen ojo, griego.

El emperador mongol dio un paso al frente, emergiendo de entre los escombros. La sonrisa nerviosa permanecía dibujada en su rostro, la sonrisa de un hombre que sabe que está al borde del abismo, pero que jamás en su vida ha retrocedido ante territorio desconocido. Gengis Kan avanzó, ignorando las burlas de Alejandro Magno desde las gradas. Sus ojos oscuros se clavaron en la inmensa silueta del vikingo.

El emperador sabía que no podía ganar en un choque de fuerza bruta, así que decidió cambiar de estrategia. El Kan respiró hondo, expandiendo sus pulmones, y flexionó las piernas en una postura casi felina. La velocidad de su cálculo mental se tradujo en un juego de pies tan veloz que el polvo de la arena pareció flotar a su alrededor.

—¡DANZA DE MIL PIES: ZIGZAG!—gritó el emperador.

En un abrir y cerrar de ojos, Gengis Kan se convirtió en una mancha borrosa. No se movió en línea recta; su cuerpo trazó ángulos agudos e impredecibles, apareciendo a la izquierda, derecha y retaguardia de Egil en fracciones de segundo. El tintineo de su Dao al cortar el aire era lo único que se oía. Egil Skallagrímsson permaneció completamente inmóvil en el centro del caos. No levantó los brazos para defenderse, ni intentó predecir el ataque. Se quedó allí, inmóvil, como un viejo árbol en medio de un huracán.

¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS!

La hoja curva del Kan comenzó a cortar. Con precisión milimétrica, el emperador mongol trazó docenas de cortes en el torso, los brazos y las mejillas de Egil. Sin embargo, tal como temía el Kan, el acero solo logró cortar la piel superficial. Cada vez que el filo intentaba penetrar más profundamente, la densa masa muscular del nórdico se contraía como cuero curtido, bloqueando el avance de la espada y protegiendo sus órganos vitales. Tras una ráfaga de cincuenta cortes rápidos, el Kan saltó hacia atrás, deslizándose por la tierra con su Dao ensangrentado. Jadeaba, pero su mirada permanecía fija en el coloso.

Egil estaba cubierto de finos cortes que goteaban sangre de la cabeza a los pies. Parecía una estatua pintada de rojo. Todo el coliseo contuvo la respiración, esperando un estallido de furia berserker...

Pero lo que sucedió a continuación heló la sangre de todos.

La mirada vacía y perturbada de Egil pareció enfocarse. Sus hombros, tensos por la batalla, se relajaron por completo. El vikingo dejó escapar un largo, profundo y casi apacible suspiro. Su rostro ensangrentado ya no mostraba ira, sino una calma sepulcral, como la de un lago helado en invierno.

—Qué divertido es esto... —murmuró Egil con una voz suave, casi melodiosa. El gigante alzó la mirada hacia el cielo del coliseo y, con un tono lento y solemne, comenzó a recitar un poema en nórdico antiguo, dejando que sus palabras resonaran con la oscura belleza de un bardo:

«La tierra de las estepas hoy bebe del río rojo, el lobo del desierto aúlla ante el oso del frío. No hay oro en este viaje, ni templos que quemar, solo dos almas antiguas que el acero debe unir».

Gengis Kan sintió un escalofrío que nada tenía que ver con la temperatura del coliseo. Aquel monstruo que un segundo antes intentaba pisotearlo con la fuerza de un animal salvaje, ahora hablaba como un sabio anciano en una corte real.

Egil bajó la mirada, uniendo sus ojos con los del emperador. Con pasos lentos, pesados ​​y extrañamente apacibles, comenzó a caminar hacia el lugar donde había arrojado su gran espada vikinga al inicio del asalto.

—¿Sabes algo, mongol? —dijo Egil, con la voz cargada de una profunda tristeza, mientras se agachaba sin apartar la vista del Kan y envolvía con sus enormes dedos la empuñadura de cuero de su arma—. Morí de viejo. En una maldita cama de paja, ciego, sordo y rodeado de sábanas limpias. El peor castigo para un hombre del norte.

Egil alzó la colosal espada con una mano, como si no pesara nada, y apoyó el filo plano de la hoja de acero sobre su hombro ensangrentado. De repente, la calma se rompió. El aire a su alrededor comenzó a vibrar con una violencia sin precedentes. Los músculos de su cuello se tensaron, sus pupilas se dilataron y aquella tristeza poética desapareció en una fracción de segundo, reemplazada por un aura de absoluta locura que hizo que el polvo del suelo comenzara a levantarse a su alrededor.

— ¡Y NO PIENSO MORIR ASÍ OTRA VEZ, MALDITA SEA! —rugió Egil, con una explosión de rabia tan violenta que la onda sonora golpeó el pecho del Kan como una maza.

El Kan retrocedió un paso, con los ojos muy abiertos y un sudor frío corriéndole por la sien.

«¿Qué demonios...?», pensó el conquistador, completamente desorientado. Su mente táctica, capaz de predecir el ángulo de cualquier espada, se estrelló contra un muro invisible. «Este hombre está completamente demente. Pasa de la calma absoluta a la locura en un instante... ¡No hay lógica en sus emociones!» Mientras el Kan retrocedía un paso, intentando asimilar el drástico cambio de temperamento del nórdico, una explosión de risas brutales, estridentes y cargadas de alcohol sacudió la sección norte de las gradas. Los vikingos y los contemporáneos de Egil se desternillaban de risa, golpeando sus escudos de madera y copas de metal con auténtico deleite.

Para ellos, ver la expresión de desconcierto del estratega mongol era el mejor entretenimiento del Purgatorio. Abriéndose paso entre la multitud de guerreros de distintas épocas con la sutileza de un toro salvaje, Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson dio un paso al frente con una enorme jarra de hidromiel en la mano. Sin pedir permiso ni mostrar el menor respeto por la realeza, el corpulento vikingo saltó directamente a la primera fila y se sentó de golpe justo al lado de Alejandro Magno.

El joven macedonio parpadeó sorprendido, mirando de reojo al gigantesco bárbaro de pelo gris que acababa de invadir su espacio personal y cuyo aliento apestaba a alcohol y sudor.

— ¡Jajajajaja! ¡Ese bastardo no ha cambiado nada! —bramó Skalla-Grímr, soltando una carcajada tan fuerte que salpicó hidromiel sobre la túnica de Alejandro—. ¡Un segundo te está escribiendo una oda al viento y al siguiente te está arrancando los dientes con una piedra! ¡Ese es mi hijo!

Alejandro, lejos de ofenderse, miró la jarra del nórdico, luego al vikingo, y esbozó una sonrisa divertida, encontrando sumamente fascinante la total falta de modales del guerrero.

— Así que esa es su verdadera naturaleza... —murmuró Alejandro, cruzándose de brazos con interés—. Un poeta que oculta un demonio, o un demonio que se hace pasar por poeta.

— Ninguna de las dos, muchacho —respondió Skalla-Grímr, dando un largo trago a su bebida antes de limpiarse la espuma de la barba con el dorso de la mano—. En nuestra tierra, la poesía y la locura sanguinaria provienen del mismo dios, Odín. Egil no finge nada. Es ambas cosas a la vez. Un bardo frío que mide cada palabra y un berserker explosivo que solo quiere ver arder el mundo. ¡El Khan intenta jugar al ajedrez con un tipo que prefiere comerse las piezas! ¡Ja, ja!

Abajo, en la arena, las palabras del padre de Egil se materializaron con una violencia física aterradora. Con la gran espada vikinga sobre su hombro y esa sonrisa desquiciada partida por la mitad debido a su labio cortado, Egil dio un paso adelante. Pero esta vez, sus dedos se aferraron a la empuñadura con una fuerza que hizo que el cuero se agrietara. Sus músculos no solo se movieron; se contrajeron y vibraron, acumulando una tensión monstruosa que deformó sus brazos y hombros.

El Khan, aún a varios metros de distancia, sintió que su cerebro se activaba a máxima velocidad. En su mente, proyectó la postura del vikingo. Intentó calcular la trayectoria, el ángulo de caída, el vector de fuerza... pero sus ecuaciones fallaron. Lo que veían sus ojos desafiaba toda lógica del combate humano. La masa muscular de Egil se comportaba de una manera que hacía imposible predecir el punto de impacto. No había ningún patrón físico que su mente pudiera descifrar.

—Estilo Devorador de Mundos...—susurró Egil, con una voz que vibraba con un tono cavernoso que erizaba la piel de los dioses.

El vikingo alzó su colosal acero con ambas manos, llevando el peso por encima de su cabeza, y desató un tajo descendente con una violencia apocalíptica.

— ¡JÖRMUNGANDR! —rugió.

El golpe no fue un simple tajo de espada; fue una catástrofe. La onda expansiva de presión de aire comprimido que se desprendió del filo de Egil tomó la forma de una serpiente colosal que devoró el suelo de la arena.

¡

En el epicentro, Gengis Kan vio venir las fauces de la serpiente. Incapaz de predecir su trayectoria exacta debido a la distorsión del aire, lo único que pudo hacer fue cruzar los brazos y colocar la hoja de su Dao horizontalmente frente a su pecho, intentando bloquear el impacto con el filo plano del acero. Pero intentar detener el Jörmungandr de Egil era como intentar detener un meteorito con una rama de madera.

¡PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!, ¡BUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

La onda expansiva impactó el pecho del Kan con una fuerza tremenda. Sus botas se hundieron en el suelo y el peso de la espada de Egil comenzó a arrastrarlo hacia atrás sin que pudiera hacer nada para evitarlo. Sus pies dejaron dos profundos surcos humeantes en la roca de la arena mientras intentaba resistir la presión. Finalmente, la fricción no fue suficiente. El cuerpo del Khan salió disparado como un proyectil, surcando los aires hasta estrellarse con un estruendo ensordecedor contra el muro de piedra de las gradas.

¡¡¡ BOOOOOOM!!!

El impacto fue tan titánico que la imponente estructura de piedra de la primera fila no pudo resistir. Se abrieron grietas como telarañas y, con un estruendo ensordecedor, una enorme sección de las gradas se derrumbó por completo sobre el Khan, sepultando su cuerpo ensangrentado bajo toneladas de escombros y polvo gris. Un silencio sepulcral, denso y polvoriento, se apoderó del coliseo del Purgatorio. Egil Skallagrímsson exhaló una bocanada de vapor caliente, apoyando la espada sobre su hombro una vez más, esperando a ver si su rival seguía respirando bajo la montaña de roca.

​

Chapter 10: Two-Faced Demon

Egil Skallagrímsson's first step was not fast, but it had the weight of a crumbling glacier over the coliseum. Beneath the sole of his boot, the arena tiles cracked and turned into fine dust. The air immediately grew dense, charged with a humid cold that evoked the frozen mist of the Norwegian fjords.

Genghis Khan did not step back, but his body tensed with a rigidity his generals on Earth would have never believed possible. His mind, that perfect prediction machine, worked at full throttle to readjust the variables after the clash against that anvil skull.

 

However, Egil gave him no time to recalculate.

 

In the human stands, the silence was broken by a murmur of astonishment and horror. Warriors from different eras —from Spartan hoplitas and Roman legionnaires with dented armor, to medieval knights and soldiers of the world wars— watched the arena with wide eyes.

 

— Look at his arms! —shouted a Roman centurion, pointing his hand toward the Norseman— That's not normal! His flesh is twisting!

— It's like he has snakes moving under his skin... —murmured a samurai of the Sengoku period, resting his hand on his katana with a cold sweat running down the back of his neck.

 

It was no illusion. Egil Skallagrímsson's muscles began to shift and accumulate with a violent sway. Just like the legendary muscle control of the combat colossi, the Norseman's fibers contracted and grouped toward his shoulder and right arm, expanding their volume until his forearm became as thick and dense as the trunk of a centennial oak.

In the section reserved for the men of the north, surrounded by barrels of mead and warriors covered in furs, a tall man with a sharp gaze, gray hair, and a smile that mixed melancholy with fierce pride, crossed his arms. It was Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson, Egil's father, a feared berserker in his time who knew the monstrous nature of his lineage better than anyone.

 

— He's still the same intractable bastard... —bellowed Skalla-Grímr, his raspy laughter echoing among his companions—. Look at him! Death has done nothing more than cool his blood and harden his flesh! Teach that king of the plains how the true Bear of the North roars!

 

Below, the "Bear" rushed forward. The ground vibrated under his heavy charge, an attack that combined the mass of sumo with the wild roughness of Norse wrestling. Egil didn't use his sword; he dropped it with disdain, letting it fall to the side, and extended his massive right forearm in a direct clothesline movement toward the Khan's neck.

The air emitted a violent and crushing whistle. Genghis Khan, reading the trajectory a millisecond earlier, tried to dodge the blow by pivoting on his left foot, but the shockwave of Egil's muscular arm was too wide. The Viking's colossal forearm impacted squarely against the Khan's laminar chest and neck armor, halting his agility dead in its tracks with a deafening metallic screech.

 

CRRRRAAAAACK!!

 

The force of the impact not only cut off his breath, but swept the legs of the Mongol emperor, slamming him backward onto the ground in a dry whip that raised a cloud of dust. Without losing a millisecond, Egil raised his heavy boot with the intention of stepping on his head and bursting it against the tiles. The Khan, with the reflexes of a feline, rolled desperately to the left a fraction of a second before the Norseman's heel impacted. Egil's stomp was so brutal that it sank the stone ground, cracking the arena in a three-meter radius. But Egil was relentless.

Before the Khan could fully get back up, the Norseman's hand descended like a claw, gripping the emperor firmly by the hair. With inhuman strength, Egil lifted him off the ground as if he were a rag doll and, with a downward and violent movement, slammed the Khan's face directly against the floor.

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOM!!

 

The brutal blow echoed throughout the arena. The skin of the Khan's forehead split open and blood gushed out instantly, staining the tiles red. Dazed, with double vision, his temple throbbing with pain, and Egil's grip still latched onto his hair ready for a second impact, Genghis Khan knew that if he didn't break free at that very instant, his skull would be reduced to rubble.

Displaying a flexibility and a savage survival instinct, the Khan pulled his knees toward his chest and, using all the strength of his abdomen, unleashed a kick with both legs straight to Egil's groin. The double blow connected fully in the giant's most vulnerable zone. Any other man would have collapsed instantly, but Egil only grunted, opening his eyes while his fingers loosened their grip on the Khan's hair for a millisecond due to the muscle spasm. Taking advantage of that split second, the Khan slid backward, breaking free from the grip. But the truce lasted nothing.

With a resistance to pain bordering on the demonic, Egil ignored the impact to his groin. His completely blank eyes flashed with unbridled fury. He stepped forward and, with his open free hand, dealt a single, colossal slap to the side of the Khan's face.

 

The impact sounded like a cannon shot. ZASSS!!

 

The force of the slap was so devastating that Genghis Khan's body was sent flying through the air, crossing half the arena like a human projectile, until violently crashing against the imposing stone wall of the stands. The impact was so strong that it left the Khan's silhouette marked in the cracked rock, causing blood to splash from his broken lips while several human spectators in the front rows jumped in horror.

Silence took over the coliseum again as the Khan slowly slid down the cracked wall, trying to stand up with a trembling arm... With a dull groan, the Mongol emperor slid down the cracked wall until his boots touched the rubble-covered ground again. He was panting heavily, his chest rising and falling erratically. With a sharp movement of his head, he spat a thick jet of blood to his right, staining the gray stones with blood.

«Damn it...», thought the Khan, gritting his teeth as a drop of cold sweat mixed with the blood running down his forehead. «What the hell are his bones made of?»

To the audience in the stands, the Khan had only stood still for a few seconds, catching his breath after the impact. But inside Genghis Khan's mind, time moved at an infinitely different speed. His brain, that perfect machine for prediction and vector calculation, was working to the limit, overheating.

From the Khan's perspective, the arena was no longer an empty space. It was completely saturated. In his mind, dozens of ghostly and translucent projections of himself and Egil crossed in a chaotic intertwining of combat lines.

 

 It was his simulation capacity taken to the extreme:

 

·       In mental projection number 14: The Khan managed to dodge and slide his Dao directly across Egil's neck. But the Viking's hypertrophied muscles contracted like a hydraulic press, trapping the metallic blade inside his own flesh, giving the colossus enough time to crush the Khan's chest with his bare hands. Death!

 

·        In mental projection number 52: The Khan performed a perfect thrust straight to the heart. But Egil's ribs, as dense as tempered steel, splintered the tip of the Dao. The Norseman's counterattack was a headbutt that disintegrated the emperor's face. Death!

 

·         In mental projection number 89: A burst of rapid slashes managed to sever the Viking's left arm, but the berserker simply ignored the loss of the limb, caught the Khan by the legs, and split him in two with his sword. Death!

«That's a hundred times already...», thought the Khan, his gaze lost in that sea of mental phantoms where, no matter what attack vector he chose, his own silhouette ended up dismembered, crushed, or decapitated on the ground. «A hundred damn combat simulations. It doesn't matter how I attack; his muscles are like living armor and his bones are iron harder than any metal I've seen on Earth...»

The Khan slowly raised his head to clear the storm of calculations from his eyes. Looking toward the front row stands, directly above the wall where he had crashed, his gaze met a pair of eyes charged with brilliant arrogance. Sitting cross-legged, lazily resting his chin on his fist and holding a pitcher of golden wine in the other hand, was Alexander the Great.

The young Macedonian conqueror watched the arena with a smile from ear to ear, enjoying the show like no one else. Noticing that the Mongol was looking at him, Alexander raised his cup and, without hesitating, let out a laugh that echoed across that section of the bleachers:

 

— Hahaha! That's one hundred and two times you've died in your head, Mongol! —shouted Alexander, his eyes shining with amusement—. Even from here I can see how your emotions are trembling! That northern barbarian doesn't understand maps or empires, he only knows how to break things!

 

The Mongol generals in the upper stands growled indignantly at the Macedonian's mockery, but Genghis Khan was not bothered. On the contrary. Hearing the words of his historical rival, a spark of pure adrenaline ignited the emperor's chest. The tension in his shoulders decreased, and despite having a bloodied face and a bruised body, the Khan let out a slight smile, tense and nervous, but charged with an insane combat excitement.

 

— One hundred and two... —whispered the Khan to himself, gripping the hilt of his Dao until his knuckles turned white—. You have a good eye, Greek.

 

The Mongol emperor stepped forward, emerging from the rubble. The nervous smile remained drawn on his face, the smile of a man who knows he is standing on the edge of the abyss, but who has never in his life retreated before unexplored territory. Genghis Khan stepped forward, ignoring Alexander the Great's taunts from the bleachers. His dark eyes locked onto the Viking's immense silhouette.

The emperor knew he couldn't win in a clash of brute force, so he decided to change the pace. The Khan took a deep breath, expanding his lungs, and flexed his legs in an almost feline posture. His mental calculation speed translated into footwork so swift that the arena dust seemed to suspend itself around him.

 

— THOUSAND-FOOT DANCE: ZIG-ZAG! —shouted the emperor.

 

In the blink of an eye, Genghis Khan became a blur. He didn't go in a straight line; his body traced sharp, unpredictable angles, appearing to Egil's left, right, and rear in fractions of a second. The clinking of his Dao cutting through the air was all that could be heard. Egil Skallagrímsson stood completely still in the center of the chaos. He didn't raise his arms to defend himself, he didn't try to predict the attack. He just stood there, like an old tree in the middle of a hurricane.

 

ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!! ZAS!!

 

The Khan's curved blade began to slash. With millimeter precision, the Mongol emperor drew dozens of cuts across Egil's torso, arms, and cheeks. However, just as the Khan feared, the steel only managed to slice surface skin. Every time the edge tried to go deeper, the Norseman's dense muscle mass contracted like tanned leather, blocking the sword's advance and protecting his vital organs. After a burst of fifty swift cuts, the Khan leaped backward, sliding across the dirt with his bloodied Dao. He was panting, but his gaze remained fixed on the colossus. Egil was covered in fine cuts dripping blood from head to toe. He looked like a statue painted red. The entire coliseum held its breath, waiting for an outburst of berserker fury...

 

But what happened next froze everyone's blood.

 

Egil's vacant, deranged gaze seemed to focus. His shoulders, tense from battle, completely relaxed. The Viking let out a long, deep, and almost peaceful sigh. His bloodied face no longer showed anger, but a sepulchral calm, like that of a frozen lake in winter.

— How fun this is... —murmured Egil in a soft, almost melodious voice.

The giant raised his gaze to the coliseum sky and, with a slow and solemn tone, began to recite a poem in Old Norse, letting his words resonate with the dark beauty of a bard:

"The land of the steppes today drinks from the red river, the desert wolf howls before the bear of the cold. There is no gold on this journey, nor temples to burn, only two old souls that steel must unite."

Genghis Khan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the coliseum's temperature. That monster who a second ago was trying to step on his head with the strength of a wild animal was now speaking like a wise elder in a royal court. Egil lowered his gaze, connecting his eyes with the emperor's. With slow, heavy, and strangely peaceful steps, he began to walk toward the place where he had thrown his great Viking sword at the start of the assault.

— You know something, Mongol? —said Egil, his voice dragging a deep sadness, as he crouched down without taking his eyes off the Khan and wrapped his huge fingers around the leather hilt of his weapon—. I... died of old age. In a damned straw bed, blind, deaf, and surrounded by clean sheets. The worst punishment for a man of the north.

 

Egil lifted the colossal sword with one hand, as if it weighed nothing, and rested the flat of the steel blade on his blood-covered shoulder. Suddenly, the calm broke. The air around him began to vibrate with unprecedented violence.

The muscles in his neck tensed, his pupils dilated, and that poetic sadness disappeared in a fraction of a second, replaced by an aura of absolute dementia that made the dust on the ground begin to rise around him.

 

— AND I DO NOT PLAN ON DYING LIKE THAT AGAIN, DAMN IT!! —roared Egil, with an explosion of rage so violent that the sound wave struck the Khan's chest like a mace.

 

The Khan took a step back, eyes wide open and cold sweat running down his temple.

 

«What the hell...?», thought the conqueror, completely disoriented. His tactical mind, capable of predicting the angle of any sword, crashed against an invisible wall. «This man is completely demented. He goes from absolute calm to madness in an instant... There is no logic to his emotions!»

 

While the Khan took a step back trying to assimilate the Norseman's drastic change of temperament, an outburst of brutal, harsh, and alcohol-laden laughter shook the northern section of the human stands. The Vikings and Egil's contemporaries were splitting their sides with laughter, banging their wooden shields and metal cups with genuine delight.

For them, seeing the Mongol strategist's look of bewilderment was the best entertainment in Purgatory. Plowing through the crowd of multi-era warriors with the subtlety of a wild bull, Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson stepped forward with a huge pitcher of mead in hand. Without asking permission or showing the slightest respect for royalty, the massive Viking jumped straight into the front row and sat down with a thud right next to Alexander the Great.

 

 The young Macedonian blinked in surprise, glancing sideways at the gigantic gray-haired barbarian who had just invaded his personal space and whose breath stank of alcohol and sweat.

— Hahahahaha! That bastard hasn't changed at all! —bellowed Skalla-Grímr, letting out a laugh so loud it splashed some mead onto Alexander's tunic—. One damn second he's writing you an ode to the wind and the next he's tearing your teeth out with a rock! That's my son!

 

Alexander, far from being offended, looked at the Norseman's pitcher, then at the Viking, and let out an amused smile, finding the warrior's total lack of etiquette supremely fascinating.

 

— So that is his true nature... —murmured Alexander, crossing his arms with interest—. A poet hiding a demon, or a demon playing at being a poet.

 

— Neither one, boy —replied Skalla-Grímr, taking a long swig of his drink before wiping the foam from his beard with the back of his hand—. In our land, poetry and blood-madness come from the same god, Odin. Egil isn't faking anything. He is both things at the same time. A cold bard who measures every word and an explosive berserker who only wants to watch the world burn. The Khan is trying to play chess with a guy who prefers to eat the pieces! Hahahahsha!

 

Down in the arena, the words of Egil's father materialized with terrifying physical violence. With the great Viking sword resting on his shoulder and that deranged smile split in half due to his cut lip, Egil took a single step forward. But this time, his fingers gripped the hilt with a force that made the leather of the grip crack. His muscles didn't just shift; they compacted and vibrated, accumulating a monstrous tension that deformed his arms and shoulders.

 

The Khan, still standing several meters away, felt his brain activate at maximum speed. In his mind, he projected the Viking's stance. He tried to calculate the trajectory, the falling angle, the force vector... but his equations broke. What his eyes saw defied any logic of human combat. Egil's muscle mass was behaving in a way that made it impossible to predict the impact point. There was no physical pattern his mind could decipher.

 

— World Devourer Style... —whispered Egil, his voice vibrating with a cavernous tone that made the gods' skin crawl.

 

The Viking raised his colossal steel with both hands, bringing the weight behind his head, and unleashed a downward slash with apocalyptic violence.

 

— JÖRMUNGANDR!! —he roared.

 

The blow was not a simple sword slash; it was a catastrophe. The compressed air pressure shockwave that broke off Egil's edge took the form of a colossal snake that devoured the arena floor.

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!

 

The marble floor split in two, opening a deep trench that extended like a black scar across the entire coliseum. The expansive wave was so devastating that it crashed directly against the divine energy barriers protecting the stands.

The invisible shield shone with a golden and violent light, vibrating under a pressure so brutal that the spectators in the front rows threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads, aware that if that barrier gave way by a single millimeter, everyone would have been sliced in half by the sword's wind.

 

In the middle of the epicenter, Genghis Khan saw the snake's jaws coming. Unable to predict its exact trajectory due to air distortion, all he could do was cross his arms and place the blade of his Dao horizontally in front of his chest, trying to block the impact with the flat of the steel. But trying to stop Egil's Jörmungandr was like trying to stop a meteorite with a wooden branch.

 

PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!!, BUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

The shockwave impact struck the Khan's chest with tons of force. His boots sank into the ground and the weight of Egil's sword began to drag him backward without him being able to do anything to prevent it. His feet left two deep, smoking furrows in the arena rock as he tried to resist the pressure. Finally, friction was not enough. The Khan's body was sent flying like a projectile, soaring through the air until crashing with a deafening impact against the stone wall of the human stands.

 

COOOOLASH!!!

 

The crash was so titanic that the imposing stone structure of the front row couldn't hold. Cracks spread like spiderwebs and, with a collapsing rumble, a massive section of the stone stands completely collapsed over the Khan, burying his bloodied body under tons of rubble and gray dust. A sepulchral silence, thick and dust-laden, fell upon Purgatory's coliseum. Egil Skallagrímsson exhaled a puff of hot vapor from his lungs, resting his sword on his shoulder once more, waiting to see if his rival was still breathing under the mountain of rock.

​

Capítulo 10: El demonio de dos caras

El primer paso de Egil Skallagrímsson no fue rápido, pero tuvo el peso de un glaciar desmoronándose sobre el coliseo. Bajo la suela de su bota, las baldosas de la arena se agrietaron y se convirtieron en polvo fino. El aire se volvió denso al instante, cargado de un frío húmedo que evocaba la niebla helada de los fiordos noruegos. Gengis Kan no retrocedió, pero su cuerpo se tensó con una rigidez que sus generales en la Tierra jamás habrían creído posible.

Su mente, esa máquina de predicción perfecta, trabajaba a toda máquina para reajustar las variables tras el choque contra aquel cráneo de yunque.

Sin embargo, Egil no le dio tiempo a recalcular. En las gradas, el silencio se rompió con un murmullo de asombro y horror. Guerreros de distintas épocas —desde hoplitas espartanos y legionarios romanos con armaduras abolladas, hasta caballeros medievales y soldados de las guerras mundiales— observaban la arena con los ojos muy abiertos.

—¡Miren sus brazos! —gritó un centurión romano, señalando al nórdico—. ¡Eso no es normal! ¡Su carne se retuerce!

—Es como si tuviera serpientes moviéndose bajo la piel… —murmuró un samurái del período Sengoku, apoyando la mano en su katana mientras un sudor frío le recorría la nuca.

No era una ilusión. Los músculos de Egil Skallagrímsson comenzaron a moverse y contraerse con un violento balanceo. Al igual que el legendario control muscular de los colosos de combate, las fibras del nórdico se contrajeron y agruparon hacia su hombro y brazo derecho, expandiendo su volumen hasta que su antebrazo se volvió tan grueso y denso como el tronco de un roble centenario.

En la sección reservada para los hombres del norte, rodeado de barriles de hidromiel y guerreros cubiertos de pieles, un hombre alto de mirada penetrante, cabello gris y una sonrisa que mezclaba melancolía con feroz orgullo, se cruzó de brazos. Era Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson, padre de Egil, un temido berserker en su época que conocía la naturaleza monstruosa de su linaje mejor que nadie.

—Sigue siendo el mismo bastardo incorregible… —bramó Skalla-Grímr, cuya risa ronca resonó entre sus compañeros—. ¡Mírenlo! ¡La muerte no ha hecho más que enfriar su sangre y endurecer su carne! ¡Enséñale a ese rey de las llanuras cómo ruge el verdadero Oso del Norte!

Abajo, el "Oso" se abalanzó. El suelo vibró bajo su potente embestida, un ataque que combinaba la fuerza del sumo con la ferocidad de la lucha nórdica. Egil no usó su espada; la soltó con desdén, dejándola caer a un lado, y extendió su enorme antebrazo derecho con un movimiento directo, como un lazo, hacia el cuello del Kan. El aire emitió un silbido violento y ensordecedor. Gengis Kan, que había anticipado la trayectoria una milésima de segundo, intentó esquivar el golpe pivotando sobre su pie izquierdo, pero la onda expansiva del musculoso brazo de Egil fue demasiado amplia. El colosal antebrazo del vikingo impactó de lleno contra la armadura laminar del pecho y el cuello del Kan, deteniendo su agilidad en seco con un chirrido metálico ensordecedor.

¡CRRRRAAAAACK!

La fuerza del impacto no solo le cortó el aliento, sino que barrió las piernas del emperador mongol, estrellándolo contra el suelo con un latigazo seco que levantó una nube de polvo. Sin perder un milisegundo, Egil alzó su pesada bota con la intención de pisotearlo y estamparlo contra las baldosas. El Kan, con los reflejos de un felino, rodó desesperadamente hacia la izquierda una fracción de segundo antes de que el talón del nórdico impactara. El pisotón de Egil fue tan brutal que hundió el suelo de piedra, agrietando la arena en un radio de tres metros. Pero Egil era implacable. Antes de que el Kan pudiera levantarse por completo, la mano del nórdico descendió como una garra, agarrando al emperador firmemente por el cabello. Con una fuerza sobrehumana, Egil lo levantó del suelo como si fuera un muñeco de trapo y, con un movimiento descendente y violento, estrelló el rostro del Kan directamente contra el suelo.

¡¡¡BOOOOOOOOOOOM!!

El brutal golpe resonó por toda la arena. La frente del Kan se abrió y la sangre brotó al instante, tiñendo de rojo las baldosas. Aturdido, con visión doble, la sien palpitando de dolor y Egil aún aferrado a su cabello, listo para un segundo impacto, Gengis Kan sabía que si no se liberaba en ese preciso instante, su cráneo quedaría reducido a escombros.

Haciendo gala de flexibilidad y un instinto de supervivencia salvaje, el Kan encogió las rodillas hacia el pecho y, usando toda la fuerza de su abdomen, lanzó una patada con ambas piernas directamente a la ingle de Egil. El doble golpe impactó de lleno en la zona más vulnerable del gigante. Cualquier otro hombre se habría desplomado al instante, pero Egil solo gruñó, abriendo los ojos mientras sus dedos aflojaban el agarre del cabello del Kan por una fracción de segundo debido al espasmo muscular. Aprovechando ese instante, el Kan se deslizó hacia atrás, liberándose del agarre. Pero la tregua no duró nada.

Con una resistencia al dolor casi demoníaca, Egil ignoró el impacto en la ingle. Sus ojos, completamente vacíos, brillaban con furia desatada. Dio un paso al frente y, con la mano libre, le propinó una bofetada colosal en el costado del rostro al Kan.

El impacto sonó como un cañonazo. ¡ZASSS!

La fuerza de la bofetada fue tan devastadora que el cuerpo de Gengis Kan salió disparado por los aires, cruzando la mitad de la arena como un proyectil humano, hasta estrellarse violentamente contra el imponente muro de piedra de las gradas. El impacto fue tan fuerte que dejó la silueta del Kan marcada en la roca agrietada, haciendo que la sangre salpicara de sus labios rotos mientras varios espectadores en las primeras filas saltaban horrorizados. El silencio volvió a apoderarse del coliseo mientras el Kan se deslizaba lentamente por la pared agrietada, intentando incorporarse con un brazo tembloroso... Con un gemido sordo, el emperador mongol se deslizó por la pared hasta que sus botas volvieron a tocar el suelo cubierto de escombros. Jadeaba con dificultad, su pecho subía y bajaba de forma irregular. Con un movimiento brusco de cabeza, escupió un chorro espeso de sangre hacia su derecha, manchando las piedras grises.

«Maldita sea...», pensó el Kan, apretando los dientes mientras una gota de sudor frío se mezclaba con la sangre que le corría por la frente. «¿De qué demonios están hechos sus huesos?»

Para el público en las gradas, el Kan solo se había quedado quieto unos segundos, recuperando el aliento tras el impacto. Pero en la mente de Gengis Kan, el tiempo transcurría a una velocidad infinitamente diferente. Su cerebro, esa máquina perfecta para la predicción y el cálculo vectorial, estaba trabajando al límite, sobrecalentándose. Desde la perspectiva del Khan, la arena ya no era un espacio vacío. Estaba completamente saturada. En su mente, docenas de proyecciones fantasmales y translúcidas de sí mismo y de Egil se entrecruzaban en un caótico entrelazamiento de líneas de combate.

Era su capacidad de simulación llevada al extremo:

·    En la proyección mental número 14: El Khan logró esquivar y deslizar su Dao directamente sobre el cuello de Egil. Pero los músculos hipertrofiados del vikingo se contrajeron como una prensa hidráulica, atrapando la hoja metálica dentro de su propia carne, dándole al coloso tiempo suficiente para aplastar el pecho del Khan con sus propias manos. ¡Muerte!

·        En la proyección mental número 52: El Khan realizó una estocada perfecta directa al corazón. Pero las costillas de Egil, densas como el acero templado, astillaron la punta del Dao. El contraataque del nórdico fue un cabezazo que desintegró el rostro del emperador. ¡Muerte!

·         En la proyección mental número 89: Una ráfaga de tajos rápidos logró cercenar el brazo izquierdo del vikingo, pero el berserker simplemente ignoró la pérdida de la extremidad, agarró al Khan por las piernas y lo partió en dos con su espada. ¡Muerte!

«Ya van cien veces...», pensó el Khan, con la mirada perdida en ese mar de fantasmas mentales donde, sin importar qué vector de ataque eligiera, su propia silueta terminaba desmembrada, aplastada o decapitada en el suelo. «Cien malditas simulaciones de combate. No importa cómo ataque; «Sus músculos son como una armadura viviente y sus huesos son de hierro, más duros que cualquier metal que haya visto en la Tierra...»

El Kan levantó lentamente la cabeza para despejar la tormenta de cálculos de sus ojos. Mirando hacia las gradas de la primera fila, justo encima del muro donde se había estrellado, su mirada se encontró con un par de ojos cargados de brillante arrogancia. Sentado con las piernas cruzadas, con la barbilla apoyada en el puño y sosteniendo una jarra de vino dorado en la otra mano, estaba Alejandro Magno. El joven conquistador macedonio observaba la arena con una sonrisa de oreja a oreja, disfrutando del espectáculo como nadie. Al notar que el mongol lo miraba, Alejandro alzó su copa y, sin dudarlo, soltó una carcajada que resonó en esa sección de las gradas:

— ¡Jajaja! ¡Ya te has muerto ciento dos veces en la cabeza, mongol! —gritó Alejandro, con los ojos brillando de diversión—. ¡Incluso desde aquí puedo ver cómo te tiemblan las emociones! Ese bárbaro del norte no entiende de mapas ni de imperios, ¡solo sabe destrozar cosas!

Los generales mongoles en las gradas superiores gruñeron indignados ante la burla del macedonio, pero a Gengis Kan no le importó. Al contrario. Al oír las palabras de su rival histórico, una chispa de pura adrenalina encendió el pecho del emperador. La tensión en sus hombros disminuyó y, a pesar de tener el rostro ensangrentado y el cuerpo magullado, el Kan esbozó una leve sonrisa, tenso y nervioso, pero cargado de una euforia bélica incontenible.

—Ciento dos… —susurró el Kan para sí mismo, apretando la empuñadura de su Dao hasta que sus nudillos se pusieron blancos—. Tienes buen ojo, griego.

El emperador mongol dio un paso al frente, emergiendo de entre los escombros. La sonrisa nerviosa permaneció dibujada en su rostro, la sonrisa de un hombre que sabe que está al borde del abismo, pero que jamás en su vida ha retrocedido ante territorio desconocido. Gengis Kan dio un paso al frente, ignorando las burlas de Alejandro Magno desde las gradas. Sus ojos oscuros se clavaron en la inmensa silueta del vikingo. El emperador sabía que no podía ganar en un choque de fuerza bruta, así que decidió cambiar el ritmo. El Kan respiró hondo, expandiendo sus pulmones, y flexionó las piernas en una postura casi felina. La velocidad de su cálculo mental se tradujo en un juego de pies tan veloz que el polvo de la arena pareció suspenderse a su alrededor.

— ¡DANZA DE MIL PIES: ZIGZAG! —gritó el emperador.

En un abrir y cerrar de ojos, Gengis Kan se convirtió en una mancha borrosa. No fue en línea recta; Su cuerpo describía ángulos agudos e impredecibles, apareciendo a la izquierda, derecha y espalda de Egil en fracciones de segundo. El tintineo de su Dao al cortar el aire era lo único que se oía. Egil Skallagrímsson permanecía completamente inmóvil en medio del caos. No levantó los brazos para defenderse, no intentó predecir el ataque. Simplemente se quedó allí, como un viejo árbol en medio de un huracán.

¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS! ¡ZAS!

La hoja curva del Khan comenzó a cortar. Con precisión milimétrica, el emperador mongol trazó docenas de cortes en el torso, los brazos y las mejillas de Egil. Sin embargo, tal como temía el Khan, el acero solo logró rozar la piel. Cada vez que el filo intentaba penetrar más profundamente, la densa masa muscular del vikingo se contraía como cuero curtido, bloqueando el avance de la espada y protegiendo sus órganos vitales. Tras una ráfaga de cincuenta cortes rápidos, el Kan saltó hacia atrás, deslizándose por la tierra con su Dao ensangrentado. Jadeaba, pero su mirada permanecía fija en el coloso. Egil estaba cubierto de finos cortes que goteaban sangre de pies a cabeza. Parecía una estatua pintada de rojo. Todo el coliseo contuvo la respiración, esperando un estallido de furia berserker...

Pero lo que sucedió a continuación heló la sangre de todos.

La mirada vacía y perturbada de Egil pareció enfocarse. Sus hombros, tensos por la batalla, se relajaron por completo. El vikingo dejó escapar un largo, profundo y casi apacible suspiro. Su rostro ensangrentado ya no mostraba ira, sino una calma sepulcral, como la de un lago helado en invierno. —Qué divertido es esto… —murmuró Egil con voz suave, casi melodiosa. El gigante alzó la vista hacia el cielo del coliseo y, con tono lento y solemne, comenzó a recitar un poema en nórdico antiguo, dejando que sus palabras resonaran con la oscura belleza de un bardo: «La tierra de las estepas bebe hoy del río rojo, el lobo del desierto aúlla ante el oso del frío. No hay oro en este viaje, ni templos que quemar, solo dos almas antiguas que el acero debe unir».

Gengis Kan sintió un escalofrío que nada tenía que ver con la temperatura del coliseo. Aquel monstruo que un segundo antes intentaba pisotearlo con la fuerza de un animal salvaje ahora hablaba como un sabio anciano en una corte real. Egil bajó la mirada, encontrándose con la del emperador. Con pasos lentos, pesados ​​y extrañamente apacibles, comenzó a caminar hacia el lugar donde había arrojado su gran espada vikinga al inicio del asalto.

—¿Sabes algo, mongol? —dijo Egil, con la voz cargada de una profunda tristeza, mientras se agachaba sin apartar la vista del Kan y envolvía con sus enormes dedos la empuñadura de cuero de su arma—. Morí de viejo. En una maldita cama de paja, ciego, sordo y rodeado de sábanas limpias. El peor castigo para un hombre del norte.

Egil alzó la colosal espada con una mano, como si no pesara nada, y apoyó el filo plano de la hoja de acero sobre su hombro ensangrentado. De repente, la calma se rompió. El aire a su alrededor comenzó a vibrar con una violencia sin precedentes. Los músculos de su cuello se tensaron, sus pupilas se dilataron y aquella tristeza poética desapareció en una fracción de segundo, reemplazada por un aura de absoluta locura que hizo que el polvo del suelo comenzara a levantarse a su alrededor.

— ¡Y NO PIENSO MORIR ASÍ OTRA VEZ, MALDITA SEA! —rugió Egil, con una explosión de rabia tan violenta que la onda sonora golpeó el pecho del Kan como una maza.

El Kan retrocedió un paso, con los ojos muy abiertos y un sudor frío corriéndole por la sien.

«¿Qué demonios...?», pensó el conquistador, completamente desorientado. Su mente táctica, capaz de predecir el ángulo de cualquier espada, se estrelló contra un muro invisible. «Este hombre está completamente demente. Pasa de la calma absoluta a la locura en un instante... ¡No hay lógica en sus emociones!» Mientras el Kan retrocedía un paso, intentando asimilar el drástico cambio de temperamento del nórdico, una explosión de risas brutales, ásperas y cargadas de alcohol sacudió la sección norte de las gradas. Los vikingos y los contemporáneos de Egil se desternillaban de risa, golpeando sus escudos de madera y copas de metal con auténtico deleite. Para ellos, ver la expresión de desconcierto del estratega mongol era el mejor entretenimiento del Purgatorio. Abriéndose paso entre la multitud de guerreros de distintas épocas con la sutileza de un toro salvaje, Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson dio un paso al frente con una enorme jarra de hidromiel en la mano. Sin pedir permiso ni mostrar el menor respeto por la realeza, el corpulento vikingo saltó directamente a la primera fila y se sentó de golpe justo al lado de Alejandro Magno.

El joven macedonio parpadeó sorprendido, mirando de reojo al gigantesco bárbaro de pelo gris que acababa de invadir su espacio personal y cuyo aliento apestaba a alcohol y sudor.

— ¡Jajajajaja! ¡Ese bastardo no ha cambiado nada! —bramó Skalla-Grímr, soltando una carcajada tan fuerte que salpicó hidromiel sobre la túnica de Alejandro—. ¡Un segundo te está escribiendo una oda al viento y al siguiente te está arrancando los dientes con una piedra! ¡Ese es mi hijo!

Alejandro, lejos de ofenderse, miró la jarra del nórdico, luego al vikingo, y esbozó una sonrisa divertida, encontrando sumamente fascinante la total falta de modales del guerrero.

— Así que esa es su verdadera naturaleza... —murmuró Alejandro, cruzándose de brazos con interés—. Un poeta que oculta un demonio, o un demonio que se hace pasar por poeta.

— Ninguna de las dos, muchacho —respondió Skalla-Grímr, dando un largo trago a su bebida antes de limpiarse la espuma de la barba con el dorso de la mano—. En nuestra tierra, la poesía y la locura sanguinaria provienen del mismo dios, Odín. Egil no finge nada. Es ambas cosas a la vez. Un bardo frío que mide cada palabra y un berserker explosivo que solo quiere ver arder el mundo. ¡El Khan intenta jugar al ajedrez con un tipo que prefiere comerse las piezas! ¡Ja, ja!

Abajo, en la arena, las palabras del padre de Egil se materializaron con una violencia física aterradora. Con la gran espada vikinga sobre su hombro y esa sonrisa desquiciada partida por la mitad debido a su labio cortado, Egil dio un paso adelante. Pero esta vez, sus dedos se aferraron a la empuñadura con una fuerza que hizo que el cuero se agrietara. Sus músculos no solo se movieron; se contrajeron y vibraron, acumulando una tensión monstruosa que deformó sus brazos y hombros.

El Khan, aún a varios metros de distancia, sintió que su cerebro se activaba a máxima velocidad. En su mente, proyectó la postura del vikingo. Intentó calcular la trayectoria, el ángulo de caída, el vector de fuerza... pero sus ecuaciones fallaron. Lo que veían sus ojos desafiaba toda lógica del combate humano. La masa muscular de Egil se comportaba de una manera que hacía imposible predecir el punto de impacto. No había ningún patrón físico que su mente pudiera descifrar.

—Estilo Devorador de Mundos...—susurró Egil, con una voz que vibraba con un tono cavernoso que erizaba la piel de los dioses.

El vikingo alzó su colosal acero con ambas manos, llevando el peso por encima de su cabeza, y desató un tajo descendente con una violencia apocalíptica.

— ¡JÖRMUNGANDR! —rugió.

El golpe no fue un simple tajo de espada; fue una catástrofe. La onda expansiva de presión de aire comprimido que se desprendió del filo de Egil tomó la forma de una serpiente colosal que devoró el suelo de la arena.

¡

En el epicentro, Gengis Kan vio venir las fauces de la serpiente. Incapaz de predecir su trayectoria exacta debido a la distorsión del aire, lo único que pudo hacer fue cruzar los brazos y colocar la hoja de su Dao horizontalmente frente a su pecho, intentando bloquear el impacto con el filo plano del acero. Pero intentar detener el Jörmungandr de Egil era como intentar detener un meteorito con una rama de madera.

¡PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!, ¡BUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

La onda expansiva impactó el pecho del Kan con una fuerza tremenda. Sus botas se hundieron en el suelo y el peso de la espada de Egil comenzó a arrastrarlo hacia atrás sin que pudiera hacer nada para evitarlo. Sus pies dejaron dos profundos surcos humeantes en la roca de la arena mientras intentaba resistir la presión. Finalmente, la fricción no fue suficiente. El cuerpo del Khan salió disparado como un proyectil, surcando los aires hasta estrellarse con un estruendo ensordecedor contra el muro de piedra de las gradas.

¡¡¡BOOOOOOM!!!

El impacto fue tan titánico que la imponente estructura de piedra de la primera fila no pudo resistir. Se abrieron grietas como telarañas y, con un estruendo ensordecedor, una enorme sección de las gradas se derrumbó por completo sobre el Khan, sepultando su cuerpo ensangrentado bajo toneladas de escombros y polvo gris. Un silencio sepulcral, denso y polvoriento, se apoderó del coliseo del Purgatorio. Egil Skallagrímsson exhaló una bocanada de vapor caliente, apoyando la espada sobre su hombro una vez más, esperando a ver si su rival seguía respirando bajo la montaña de roca.

​

Chapter 9: Blank Canvases

Niké froze at the zenith of the coliseum. With the golden microphone halfway to her lips and her chest still heaving from the energy she had expended, her eyes widened.

— But... what the hell...? —the goddess managed to murmur, completely losing her royal composure.

Below, in the reconstructed arena, the ground was already trembling. Without waiting for the sound of the bell, without receiving permission from the heavens, and casting aside any trace of divine protocol, the crimson blur of Genghis Khan and the imposing Nordic mass of Egil Skallagrímsson collided head-on in the very center. The brutal impact between the curved Dao and the great Viking sword generated a metallic roar so deafening that it swept away the smoke from the fireworks.

Seeing sparks fly and noticing that neither of the two warriors had raised their guard to defend themselves, Niké’s astonishment instantly transformed into a wild, deranged smile. That was the human impetus that made Purgatory vibrate! Clutching the microphone tightly, the Goddess of Victory launched herself in a dynamic flight directly toward her floating platform above the arena, her voice resonating with completely electrifying adrenaline through the speakers:

— WHAT A WAY TO START THIS SECOND ROUND, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! —Niké shouted, spreading the frenzy to the stands—. These two predators don’t care about the laws of the gods or the formalities of the sky! They dictate their own rules with the edge of their blades!

THE COMBAT HAS BEGUN!!!!

Below, completely oblivious to the roaring of the stadium, the deadly dance became frantic in the blink of an eye. Genghis Khan, moving with surprising agility for the weight of his laminar armor, began to trace swift and precise arcs with his Dao. His movements were fluid, deceptive, like a gust of icy wind from the steppes seeking any opening in the Norseman's flesh. Egil, for his part, handled the heavy runic broadsword with Herculean strength, blocking the strikes with rough but highly effective turns. Metal clashed one, two, three times per second, creating a brutal symphony that kept the crowd on the verge of collapse.

Suddenly, Egil’s gaze changed completely… His eyes turned completely white, void of any trace of humanity, while a maniacal smile spread across his face.

The Viking unleashed a massive horizontal swing. The air emitted a deafening and violent ¡¡WUUUSH!!, a sonic whistle so sharp that it caused a buzzing in the ears of the spectators in the first rows. The great sword moved with a mass of colossal impact.

Genghis Khan, reacting on pure instinct, crouched drastically, almost touching the tiles. The runic blade passed millimeters above his head, raising the wind and ruffling his hair. However, the pressure of the air compressed by the blow was so devastating that, despite having dodged the steel, a thin red line appeared on the Khan’s cheek, letting a trickle of blood escape.

But the destruction didn't end there. Behind the Khan, ten meters away, the remaining cutting wind impacted fully against the arena walls, leaving a deep, massive crack carved into the coliseum rock.

Genghis Khan jumped backward, stabilizing his stance. He touched his cheek with two fingers, observing the blood, and his dark eyes narrowed with cold, millimeter calculation.

— Interesting... —spoke the Khan, with a measured voice that cut through the murmur of the arena— A dead weight of approximately six kilograms of forged iron, displaced in an arc of one hundred and eighty degrees.

To generate a cutting shockwave at that distance, your angular velocity had to exceed three hundred meters per second at the point of impact. It wasn’t simple brute force... it’s perfect kinetic acceleration in a massive body.

The gallery fell silent at the emperor’s meticulous analysis, but the silence didn't last long.

Egil Skallagrímsson let out a clean, loud laugh that resonated throughout the stadium. Keeping his eyes white and that sly smile, he rested the heavy sword on his shoulders with total ease.

— An impeccable calculation, Mongol Emperor —replied Egil, his voice tinged with surprising and cultured sophistication—. But you forgot one variable in your equation: the friction of my muscle mass against the air reduces resistance by four percent, optimizing the force vector. Physics is also an art when sculpted with blood.

HAHAHAHAHA !!! …

The entire coliseum, including the gods' boxes, was stunned. The berserker from the north was no wild animal; he understood the science of combat to perfection!

Before the Khan could respond, Egil lowered the sword elegantly, turned his back for an instant to his opponent, ignoring the danger, and extended his free arm toward the coliseum audience. With his chest puffed out and in a rhythmic, deep, and theatrical voice that made everyone’s skin crawl, he recited an ancient Norse poem:

"Sharpened iron in the storm of the sea, my steel sings where souls go to break! There is no calculation on earth, nor law in the sky, that stops the hammer of my icy longing. Let the stands roar, let the rhyme run, for the Bear of the North claims the top!"

The Purgatory stands erupted into absolute, chaotic climax. It wasn’t just a slaughter; it was an exhibition of wit, poetry, and pure lethality.

Genghis Khan observed the colossus with a mixture of fascination and coldness. He let out a short, almost inaudible sigh.

— Wow... —the Khan uttered, balancing his Dao with a subtle flick of his wrist—. Turning your back on an enemy in the middle of the arena... I don’t know whether to call it excessive pride, or simply suicidal stupidity.

Egil Skallagrímsson, keeping his eyes completely white, let out a hoarse laugh that sprouted from deep within his chest. Little by little, the sophistication of his voice faded, transforming into a cavernous, thick, and terrifyingly deep tone that chilled the blood of the first rows:

— It is neither, Mongol Emperor... —hissed Egil, and his voice vibrated like a heavy thunder—. It is my calling card... And my verdict that I will take that head!

Genghis Khan did not flinch. Instead of responding with words, a sharp, challenging smile played on his lips. In a blink, the Khan launched his attack. In his mind, the vectors and probabilities were traced at the speed of light, forcing the Norseman to move exactly where he wanted:

«First he will move to the right...», he calculated coldly while taking an explosive step. Indeed, just as the emperor had foreseen, Egil’s bulk reacted by shifting his weight and moving to the right.

«Now, he will be forced to jump and swing to the left», the Khan anticipated in his mind a fraction of a second before executing his own movement.

And the mathematical prediction of the Strategy Incarnate became reality before the eyes of the coliseum: Egil, following the invisible script the Khan had drawn in the air, jumped and swung his body to the left, remaining completely exposed and trapped in the trajectory calculated by the Mongol. The Khan had him cornered in his own web!

With the rival exactly where he wanted him, the emperor unleashed his finishing blow.

While still in the air, Genghis Khan executed an unforeseen movement with his arm. The speed of the strike was so absurdly high that the physics of the weapon collapsed; the curved metal of the Dao seemed to lose its rigidity, visually transforming into a steel lash that sought to wrap around the Viking’s neck.

Egil’s eyes widened at the change of trajectory and, forcing his muscles to the limit, he managed to throw his torso back, letting the metal lash graze his skin.

— ¿...?! —the Khan stifled an expression of surprise to see that his hidden technique had been evaded.

Without losing a millisecond upon touching the ground, Genghis Khan read his rival’s imminent counterattack and shouted aloud, alerting his own senses:

— TO THE RIGHT!

Egil was already charging a blind axe-blow with his great runic sword exactly on that flank. Upon hearing the Khan’s exclamation, the Norseman did not stop the swing of his weapon, but the Mongol emperor had already pivoted on his axis, dodging the edge by a hair. Taking advantage of the inertia of the Viking’s overextension, the Khan saw the perfect opening. With a quick and lethal transition, he gripped the hilt of his Dao with both hands, applying the full force of his torso in a fulminating vertical slash that descended like lightning directly onto Egil’s unprotected head. It was going to be the final blow. The Mongol steel aimed squarely at the Norse colossus’s skull. In that millisecond, a brutal shockwave was born from the center of the reconstructed arena.

The consecutive force of the impact was so devastating that it swept the floor in a radius of several meters, raising a dense, massive, and suffocating curtain of dust that completely enveloped both warriors, hiding them from everyone’s view.

However, what froze the coliseum’s heart was not the blindness, but the sound…

There was no tearing of flesh. There was no crunching of bones. Through the speakers and bouncing off every corner of the stadium, a deafening, metallic, and dry roar echoed. A massive ¡¡CHAAANG!! that vibrated in the chests of the spectators, exactly like the sound of a heavy war sword being struck with Herculean fury against an anvil of solid iron.

The entire coliseum fell into a sepulchral silence, devoured by uncertainty and the dense cloud of dust that would not move. The spectators leaned forward in their seats, rubbing their eyes, trying to decipher the mystery of that blacksmithing echo.

On her floating platform, Niké pressed the microphone to her lips with hands trembling from pure adrenaline, breaking the silence with a voice choked by confusion:

— W-WHAT WAS THAT SOUND?! —exclaimed the Goddess of Victory, eyes fixed on the smoke—. The Mongol Emperor’s slash descended with the power of a meteor!

We should be looking at an execution! But why did the arena sound as if someone had struck a block of metal forged in Hephaestus’s divine forges?! What the hell is happening in there?!

The coliseum wind began to blow slowly, undoing the edges of the dust curtain, ready to reveal the macabre and impossible scene...

Genghis Khan, the Strategy Incarnate, the man who had conquered half the world without blinking, had his eyes wide open. An incredulous, almost unhinged smile was drawn on his face while cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His arms remained tense, applying all his body’s pressure with both hands, sinking the blade of his Dao directly against Egil’s unprotected skull.

But the steel did not advance. The Norseman’s head was completely intact. The brutal impact had only managed to open a tiny and insignificant superficial wound on his forehead. A single drop of blood began to slide slowly down the Viking’s nose, reaching his upper lip.

Egil Skallagrímsson, keeping his eyes completely white, stuck out his tongue with macabre slowness and licked that drop of blood. His smile widened inhumanly.

— I have you... —hissed Egil with a thread of a cavernous voice.

Genghis Khan’s survival instinct triggered to the max, setting off all his alarms. He knew the Norseman was going to duck, but his strategic mind could never have foreseen the physical aberration he would see next. Egil did not duck; his body bent backward violently, breaking anatomical logic by arching his spine into a perfect bridge, causing the back of his indestructible head to impact directly against the floor tiles.

The Khan didn’t wait to see more and jumped backward in desperation. It was his salvation.

Using the ground like a mechanical spring, Egil’s spine shot forward in a terrifying span of barely 0.3 seconds. The Viking executed a colossal ascending headbutt directly to the place where the Khan had been standing a millisecond before.

The blow missed the Khan, but impacted fully against nothingness. The air compressed by the speed of Egil’s skull generated a sonic boom that shook the foundations of the entire coliseum. The shockwave hit the arena with violence so colossal that solid rock cracked and disintegrated completely, leaving a deep, shattered crater around him.

Genghis Khan landed several meters away, his breath labored and his heart racing a mile a minute, seeing the level of destruction that anvil-head could cause.

In the middle of the crater, Egil slowly recovered. The remaining dust floated around him while he fixed his empty gaze on the Mongol emperor. With a rhythmic and deep voice that seemed to freeze the coliseum air and chill the very blood of the Khan, he recited his macabre poem:

"Anvil bone, mind of gall, steel breaks against my skin. You flee the strike, your law trembles, the steppes do not save a pale king. My forehead is the tomb where the world will fall, and your cunning head... will go with me."

In the Gods' stand, the gods’ silence was broken abruptly. Hades, who until a moment ago was watching with sepulchral calm, leaned forward abruptly, genuinely surprised and enthusiastic about the scene. He moved his cup slightly, seeking his nephew’s perspective.

— Ares... —commented Hades with a tone of cautious astonishment—. What just happened down there? The Mongol’s slash carried perfect force with two hands... It should have claimed that life.

Ares, far from showing violent or crude emotion, watched the arena with a brilliant, almost poetic gaze. In his eyes, there was no bloodlust, but an absolute fascination for the spectacle. Upon hearing his uncle, he turned to him with a charismatic and highly respectful smile, modulating his voice with enthusiasm.

— It’s a marvel, uncle —replied Ares, slightly tilting his head in a sign of reverence—. What we have just witnessed is biology pushed to the absolute limit here in the underworld. In the ancient lands of the north, men already spoke of Egil Skallagrímsson’s skull being as dense as a blacksmith’s anvil. Apparently, death did not weaken his bone structure... it perfected it.

The God of War looked back toward the crater in the arena, contemplating the trace of the shockwave and the nuances that were shed from the clash. To him, the battle was starting to shine with its own light.

— It’s not simple bestiality, uncle... This is beautiful. It is the beginning of a true painting on the battlefield. When two souls of this caliber give it their all, the nuances and colors of their determination begin to tint the air. Khan has deployed an impeccable strategy, but Egil has just responded with the pure essence of his being. Seeing their wills collide with that intensity... that is what makes a battle a perfect work of art!

Hades watched his nephew for a brief moment, processing the passion and eloquence of his words. Then, a subtle but genuine smile was drawn on the God of the Underworld’s face, who took a small sip of his cup before responding with his characteristic dry, but affectionate tone:

— I must admit, Ares, that your words hold a strange truth... and they even provoke a small pinch of jealousy in me —commented Hades, without looking away from the charismatic God of War—. While I only see how strategies crumble and civilization gives way to the crudest nature, you are able to find art and color in the most violent canvas. You have a unique gift for appreciating the value of mortals.

Ares smiled with gratitude at his uncle’s praise, immediately turning his eyes back to the front. The moment of contemplation had ended in the box, because below, in the arena, the colors of the battle were about to become much brighter.

Back at the epicenter of the coliseum, the words of Egil’s macabre poem still floated in the air, chilling the atmosphere.

Genghis Khan, maintaining his combat stance despite the cold sweat running down his back, readjusted his grip on his Dao. His brilliant mind was already discarding the initial shock and recalculating the variables: his opponent’s skull was an immutable factor, an absolute defense that defied logic. He could not attack there again.

In front of him, in the middle of the crater destroyed by his own headbutt, Egil Skallagrímsson exhaled a dense sigh, heavy like the northern fog. His eyes, fixed on the Mongol emperor, flashed again with that maniacal and disturbing fixation. The Bear of the North was not going to give him time to design a new strategy. His body, powered by pure adrenaline and the berserker’s malice, tensed like a spring ready to burst.

The deadly dance would no longer be played under the rules of chess or poetry. What was coming next was the definitive collision between human ingenuity and indestructible resistance. With a guttural roar that made the tiles vibrate, Egil took the first step forward, unleashing the most critical and savage phase of the encounter...

Chapter 9: Blank Canvases

Niké froze at the zenith of the coliseum. With the golden microphone halfway to her lips and her chest still heaving from the energy she had expended, her eyes widened.

— But... what the hell...? —the goddess managed to murmur, completely losing her royal composure.

Below, in the reconstructed arena, the ground was already trembling. Without waiting for the sound of the bell, without receiving permission from the heavens, and casting aside any trace of divine protocol, the crimson blur of Genghis Khan and the imposing Nordic mass of Egil Skallagrímsson collided head-on in the very center. The brutal impact between the curved Dao and the great Viking sword generated a metallic roar so deafening that it swept away the smoke from the fireworks.

Seeing sparks fly and noticing that neither of the two warriors had raised their guard to defend themselves, Niké’s astonishment instantly transformed into a wild, deranged smile. That was the human impetus that made Purgatory vibrate! Clutching the microphone tightly, the Goddess of Victory launched herself in a dynamic flight directly toward her floating platform above the arena, her voice resonating with completely electrifying adrenaline through the speakers:

— WHAT A WAY TO START THIS SECOND ROUND, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! —Niké shouted, spreading the frenzy to the stands—. These two predators don’t care about the laws of the gods or the formalities of the sky! They dictate their own rules with the edge of their blades!...

THE COMBAT HAS BEGUN!

Below, completely oblivious to the roaring of the stadium, the deadly dance became frantic in the blink of an eye. Genghis Khan, moving with surprising agility for the weight of his laminar armor, began to trace swift and precise arcs with his Dao. His movements were fluid, deceptive, like a gust of icy wind from the steppes seeking any opening in the Norseman's flesh. Egil, for his part, handled the heavy runic broadsword with Herculean strength, blocking the strikes with rough but highly effective turns. Metal clashed one, two, three times per second, creating a brutal symphony that kept the crowd on the verge of collapse.

Suddenly, Egil’s gaze changed completely… His eyes turned completely white, void of any trace of humanity, while a maniacal smile spread across his face.

The Viking unleashed a massive horizontal swing. The air emitted a deafening and violent ¡¡WUUUSH!!, a sonic whistle so sharp that it caused a buzzing in the ears of the spectators in the first rows. The great sword moved with a mass of colossal impact.

Genghis Khan, reacting on pure instinct, crouched drastically, almost touching the tiles. The runic blade passed millimeters above his head, raising the wind and ruffling his hair. However, the pressure of the air compressed by the blow was so devastating that, despite having dodged the steel, a thin red line appeared on the Khan’s cheek, letting a trickle of blood escape.

But the destruction didn't end there. Behind the Khan, ten meters away, the remaining cutting wind impacted fully against the arena walls, leaving a deep, massive crack carved into the coliseum rock.

Genghis Khan jumped backward, stabilizing his stance. He touched his cheek with two fingers, observing the blood, and his dark eyes narrowed with cold, millimeter calculation.

— Interesting... —spoke the Khan, with a measured voice that cut through the murmur of the arena— A dead weight of approximately six kilograms of forged iron, displaced in an arc of one hundred and eighty degrees.

To generate a cutting shockwave at that distance, your angular velocity had to exceed three hundred meters per second at the point of impact. It wasn’t simple brute force... it’s perfect kinetic acceleration in a massive body.

The gallery fell silent at the emperor’s meticulous analysis, but the silence didn't last long.

Egil Skallagrímsson let out a clean, loud laugh that resonated throughout the stadium. Keeping his eyes white and that sly smile, he rested the heavy sword on his shoulders with total ease.

— An impeccable calculation, Mongol Emperor —replied Egil, his voice tinged with surprising and cultured sophistication—. But you forgot one variable in your equation: the friction of my muscle mass against the air reduces resistance by four percent, optimizing the force vector. Physics is also an art when sculpted with blood. HAHAHA…

The entire coliseum, including the gods' boxes, was stunned. The berserker from the north was no wild animal; he understood the science of combat to perfection!

Before the Khan could respond, Egil lowered the sword elegantly, turned his back for an instant to his opponent, ignoring the danger, and extended his free arm toward the coliseum audience. With his chest puffed out and in a rhythmic, deep, and theatrical voice that made everyone’s skin crawl, he recited an ancient Norse poem:

"Sharpened iron in the storm of the sea, my steel sings where souls go to break! There is no calculation on earth, nor law in the sky, that stops the hammer of my icy longing. Let the stands roar, let the rhyme run, for the Bear of the North claims the top!"

The Purgatory stands erupted into absolute, chaotic climax. It wasn’t just a slaughter; it was an exhibition of wit, poetry, and pure lethality.

Genghis Khan observed the colossus with a mixture of fascination and coldness. He let out a short, almost inaudible sigh.

— Wow... —the Khan uttered, balancing his Dao with a subtle flick of his wrist—. Turning your back on an enemy in the middle of the arena... I don’t know whether to call it excessive pride, or simply suicidal stupidity.

Egil Skallagrímsson, keeping his eyes completely white, let out a hoarse laugh that sprouted from deep within his chest. Little by little, the sophistication of his voice faded, transforming into a cavernous, thick, and terrifyingly deep tone that chilled the blood of the first rows:

— It is neither, Mongol Emperor... —hissed Egil, and his voice vibrated like a heavy thunder—. It is my calling card... And my verdict that I will take that head!

Genghis Khan did not flinch. Instead of responding with words, a sharp, challenging smile played on his lips. In a blink, the Khan launched his attack. In his mind, the vectors and probabilities were traced at the speed of light, forcing the Norseman to move exactly where he wanted:

«First he will move to the right...», he calculated coldly while taking an explosive step. Indeed, just as the emperor had foreseen, Egil’s bulk reacted by shifting his weight and moving to the right.

«Now, he will be forced to jump and swing to the left», the Khan anticipated in his mind a fraction of a second before executing his own movement.

And the mathematical prediction of the Strategy Incarnate became reality before the eyes of the coliseum: Egil, following the invisible script the Khan had drawn in the air, jumped and swung his body to the left, remaining completely exposed and trapped in the trajectory calculated by the Mongol. The Khan had him cornered in his own web!

With the rival exactly where he wanted him, the emperor unleashed his finishing blow.

While still in the air, Genghis Khan executed an unforeseen movement with his arm. The speed of the strike was so absurdly high that the physics of the weapon collapsed; the curved metal of the Dao seemed to lose its rigidity, visually transforming into a steel lash that sought to wrap around the Viking’s neck.

Egil’s eyes widened at the change of trajectory and, forcing his muscles to the limit, he managed to throw his torso back, letting the metal lash graze his skin.

— ¿...?! —the Khan stifled an expression of surprise to see that his hidden technique had been evaded.

Without losing a millisecond upon touching the ground, Genghis Khan read his rival’s imminent counterattack and shouted aloud, alerting his own senses:

— TO THE RIGHT!

Egil was already charging a blind axe-blow with his great runic sword exactly on that flank. Upon hearing the Khan’s exclamation, the Norseman did not stop the swing of his weapon, but the Mongol emperor had already pivoted on his axis, dodging the edge by a hair. Taking advantage of the inertia of the Viking’s overextension, the Khan saw the perfect opening. With a quick and lethal transition, he gripped the hilt of his Dao with both hands, applying the full force of his torso in a fulminating vertical slash that descended like lightning directly onto Egil’s unprotected head. It was going to be the final blow. The Mongol steel aimed squarely at the Norse colossus’s skull. In that millisecond, a brutal shockwave was born from the center of the reconstructed arena. The consecutive force of the impact was so devastating that it swept the floor in a radius of several meters, raising a dense, massive, and suffocating curtain of dust that completely enveloped both warriors, hiding them from everyone’s view.

However, what froze the coliseum’s heart was not the blindness, but the sound…

There was no tearing of flesh. There was no crunching of bones. Through the speakers and bouncing off every corner of the stadium, a deafening, metallic, and dry roar echoed. A massive ¡¡CHAAANG!! that vibrated in the chests of the spectators, exactly like the sound of a heavy war sword being struck with Herculean fury against an anvil of solid iron.

The entire coliseum fell into a sepulchral silence, devoured by uncertainty and the dense cloud of dust that would not move. The spectators leaned forward in their seats, rubbing their eyes, trying to decipher the mystery of that blacksmithing echo.

On her floating platform, Niké pressed the microphone to her lips with hands trembling from pure adrenaline, breaking the silence with a voice choked by confusion:

— W-WHAT WAS THAT SOUND?! —exclaimed the Goddess of Victory, eyes fixed on the smoke—. The Mongol Emperor’s slash descended with the power of a meteor!

We should be looking at an execution! But why did the arena sound as if someone had struck a block of metal forged in Hephaestus’s divine forges?! What the hell is happening in there?!

The coliseum wind began to blow slowly, undoing the edges of the dust curtain, ready to reveal the macabre and impossible scene...

Genghis Khan, the Strategy Incarnate, the man who had conquered half the world without blinking, had his eyes wide open. An incredulous, almost unhinged smile was drawn on his face while cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His arms remained tense, applying all his body’s pressure with both hands, sinking the blade of his Dao directly against Egil’s unprotected skull.

But the steel did not advance. The Norseman’s head was completely intact. The brutal impact had only managed to open a tiny and insignificant superficial wound on his forehead. A single drop of blood began to slide slowly down the Viking’s nose, reaching his upper lip.

Egil Skallagrímsson, keeping his eyes completely white, stuck out his tongue with macabre slowness and licked that drop of blood. His smile widened inhumanly.

— I have you... —hissed Egil with a thread of a cavernous voice.

Genghis Khan’s survival instinct triggered to the max, setting off all his alarms. He knew the Norseman was going to duck, but his strategic mind could never have foreseen the physical aberration he would see next. Egil did not duck; his body bent backward violently, breaking anatomical logic by arching his spine into a perfect bridge, causing the back of his indestructible head to impact directly against the floor tiles.

The Khan didn’t wait to see more and jumped backward in desperation. It was his salvation.

Using the ground like a mechanical spring, Egil’s spine shot forward in a terrifying span of barely 0.3 seconds. The Viking executed a colossal ascending headbutt directly to the place where the Khan had been standing a millisecond before.

The blow missed the Khan, but impacted fully against nothingness. The air compressed by the speed of Egil’s skull generated a sonic boom that shook the foundations of the entire coliseum. The shockwave hit the arena with violence so colossal that solid rock cracked and disintegrated completely, leaving a deep, shattered crater around him.

Genghis Khan landed several meters away, his breath labored and his heart racing a mile a minute, seeing the level of destruction that anvil-head could cause.

In the middle of the crater, Egil slowly recovered. The remaining dust floated around him while he fixed his empty gaze on the Mongol emperor. With a rhythmic and deep voice that seemed to freeze the coliseum air and chill the very blood of the Khan, he recited his macabre poem:

"Anvil bone, mind of gall, steel breaks against my skin. You flee the strike, your law trembles, the steppes do not save a pale king. My forehead is the tomb where the world will fall, and your cunning head... will go with me."

In the Gods' stand, the gods’ silence was broken abruptly. Hades, who until a moment ago was watching with sepulchral calm, leaned forward abruptly, genuinely surprised and enthusiastic about the scene. He moved his cup slightly, seeking his nephew’s perspective.

— Ares... —commented Hades with a tone of cautious astonishment—. What just happened down there? The Mongol’s slash carried perfect force with two hands... It should have claimed that life.

Ares, far from showing violent or crude emotion, watched the arena with a brilliant, almost poetic gaze. In his eyes, there was no bloodlust, but an absolute fascination for the spectacle. Upon hearing his uncle, he turned to him with a charismatic and highly respectful smile, modulating his voice with enthusiasm.

— It’s a marvel, uncle —replied Ares, slightly tilting his head in a sign of reverence—. What we have just witnessed is biology pushed to the absolute limit here in the underworld. In the ancient lands of the north, men already spoke of Egil Skallagrímsson’s skull being as dense as a blacksmith’s anvil. Apparently, death did not weaken his bone structure... it perfected it.

The God of War looked back toward the crater in the arena, contemplating the trace of the shockwave and the nuances that were shed from the clash. To him, the battle was starting to shine with its own light.

— It’s not simple bestiality, uncle... This is beautiful. It is the beginning of a true painting on the battlefield. When two souls of this caliber give it their all, the nuances and colors of their determination begin to tint the air. Khan has deployed an impeccable strategy, but Egil has just responded with the pure essence of his being. Seeing their wills collide with that intensity... that is what makes a battle a perfect work of art!

Hades watched his nephew for a brief moment, processing the passion and eloquence of his words. Then, a subtle but genuine smile was drawn on the God of the Underworld’s face, who took a small sip of his cup before responding with his characteristic dry, but affectionate tone:

— I must admit, Ares, that your words hold a strange truth... and they even provoke a small pinch of jealousy in me —commented Hades, without looking away from the charismatic God of War—. While I only see how strategies crumble and civilization gives way to the crudest nature, you are able to find art and color in the most violent canvas. You have a unique gift for appreciating the value of mortals.

Ares smiled with gratitude at his uncle’s praise, immediately turning his eyes back to the front. The moment of contemplation had ended in the box, because below, in the arena, the colors of the battle were about to become much brighter.

Back at the epicenter of the coliseum, the words of Egil’s macabre poem still floated in the air, chilling the atmosphere.

Genghis Khan, maintaining his combat stance despite the cold sweat running down his back, readjusted his grip on his Dao. His brilliant mind was already discarding the initial shock and recalculating the variables: his opponent’s skull was an immutable factor, an absolute defense that defied logic. He could not attack there again.

In front of him, in the middle of the crater destroyed by his own headbutt, Egil Skallagrímsson exhaled a dense sigh, heavy like the northern fog. His eyes, fixed on the Mongol emperor, flashed again with that maniacal and disturbing fixation. The Bear of the North was not going to give him time to design a new strategy. His body, powered by pure adrenaline and the berserker’s malice, tensed like a spring ready to burst.

The deadly dance would no longer be played under the rules of chess or poetry. What was coming next was the definitive collision between human ingenuity and indestructible resistance. With a guttural roar that made the tiles vibrate, Egil took the first step forward, unleashing the most critical and savage phase of the encounter.

​

Chapter 9: Blank Canvases

Niké froze at the zenith of the coliseum. With the golden microphone halfway to her lips and her chest still heaving from the energy she had expended, her eyes widened.

— But... what the hell...? —the goddess managed to murmur, completely losing her royal composure.

 

Below, in the reconstructed arena, the ground was already trembling. Without waiting for the sound of the bell, without receiving permission from the heavens, and casting aside any trace of divine protocol, the crimson blur of Genghis Khan and the imposing Nordic mass of Egil Skallagrímsson collided head-on in the very center.

The brutal impact between the curved Dao and the great Viking sword generated a metallic roar so deafening that it swept away the smoke from the fireworks.

Seeing sparks fly and noticing that neither of the two warriors had raised their guard to defend themselves, Niké’s astonishment instantly transformed into a wild, deranged smile. That was the human impetus that made Purgatory vibrate! Clutching the microphone tightly, the Goddess of Victory launched herself in a dynamic flight directly toward her floating platform above the arena, her voice resonating with completely electrifying adrenaline through the speakers:

 

 — WHAT A WAY TO START THIS SECOND ROUND, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! —Niké shouted, spreading the frenzy to the stands—. These two predators don’t care about the laws of the gods or the formalities of the sky! They dictate their own rules with the edge of their blades!     THE COMBAT HAS BEGUN!

Below, completely oblivious to the roaring of the stadium, the deadly dance became frantic in the blink of an eye. Genghis Khan, moving with surprising agility for the weight of his laminar armor, began to trace swift and precise arcs with his Dao. His movements were fluid, deceptive, like a gust of icy wind from the steppes seeking any opening in the Norseman's flesh. Egil, for his part, handled the heavy runic broadsword with Herculean strength, blocking the strikes with rough but highly effective turns. Metal clashed one, two, three times per second, creating a brutal symphony that kept the crowd on the verge of collapse.

Suddenly, Egil’s gaze changed completely… His eyes turned completely white, void of any trace of humanity, while a maniacal smile spread across his face.

The Viking unleashed a massive horizontal swing. The air emitted a deafening and violent ¡¡WUUUSH!!, a sonic whistle so sharp that it caused a buzzing in the ears of the spectators in the first rows. The great sword moved with a mass of colossal impact.

Genghis Khan, reacting on pure instinct, crouched drastically, almost touching the tiles. The runic blade passed millimeters above his head, raising the wind and ruffling his hair. However, the pressure of the air compressed by the blow was so devastating that, despite having dodged the steel, a thin red line appeared on the Khan’s cheek, letting a trickle of blood escape.

 But the destruction didn't end there. Behind the Khan, ten meters away, the remaining cutting wind impacted fully against the arena walls, leaving a deep, massive crack carved into the coliseum rock.

Genghis Khan jumped backward, stabilizing his stance. He touched his cheek with two fingers, observing the blood, and his dark eyes narrowed with cold, millimeter calculation.

 — Interesting... —spoke the Khan, with a measured voice that cut through the murmur of the arena— A dead weight of approximately six kilograms of forged iron, displaced in an arc of one hundred and eighty degrees. To generate a cutting shockwave at that distance, your angular velocity had to exceed three hundred meters per second at the point of impact. It wasn’t simple brute force... it’s perfect kinetic acceleration in a massive body.

 

The gallery fell silent at the emperor’s meticulous analysis, but the silence didn't last long.

 

 Egil Skallagrímsson let out a clean, loud laugh that resonated throughout the stadium. Keeping his eyes white and that sly smile, he rested the heavy sword on his shoulders with total ease.

— An impeccable calculation, Mongol Emperor —replied Egil, his voice tinged with surprising and cultured sophistication—. But you forgot one variable in your equation: the friction of my muscle mass against the air reduces resistance by four percent, optimizing the force vector. Physics is also an art when sculpted with blood. HAHAHA…

 The entire coliseum, including the gods' boxes, was stunned. The berserker from the north was no wild animal; he understood the science of combat to perfection!

 Before the Khan could respond, Egil lowered the sword elegantly, turned his back for an instant to his opponent, ignoring the danger, and extended his free arm toward the coliseum audience. With his chest puffed out and in a rhythmic, deep, and theatrical voice that made everyone’s skin crawl, he recited an ancient Norse poem:

"Sharpened iron in the storm of the sea, my steel sings where souls go to break! There is no calculation on earth, nor law in the sky, that stops the hammer of my icy longing. Let the stands roar, let the rhyme run, for the Bear of the North claims the top!"

 

The Purgatory stands erupted into absolute, chaotic climax. It wasn’t just a slaughter; it was an exhibition of wit, poetry, and pure lethality.

Genghis Khan observed the colossus with a mixture of fascination and coldness. He let out a short, almost inaudible sigh.

— Wow... —the Khan uttered, balancing his Dao with a subtle flick of his wrist—. Turning your back on an enemy in the middle of the arena... I don’t know whether to call it excessive pride, or simply suicidal stupidity.

Egil Skallagrímsson, keeping his eyes completely white, let out a hoarse laugh that sprouted from deep within his chest. Little by little, the sophistication of his voice faded, transforming into a cavernous, thick, and terrifyingly deep tone that chilled the blood of the first rows:

 — It is neither, Mongol Emperor... —hissed Egil, and his voice vibrated like a heavy thunder—. It is my calling card... And my verdict that I will take that head!

Genghis Khan did not flinch. Instead of responding with words, a sharp, challenging smile played on his lips. In a blink, the Khan launched his attack. In his mind, the vectors and probabilities were traced at the speed of light, forcing the Norseman to move exactly where he wanted:

«First he will move to the right...», he calculated coldly while taking an explosive step. Indeed, just as the emperor had foreseen, Egil’s bulk reacted by shifting his weight and moving to the right.

«Now, he will be forced to jump and swing to the left», the Khan anticipated in his mind a fraction of a second before executing his own movement.

 

And the mathematical prediction of the Strategy Incarnate became reality before the eyes of the coliseum: Egil, following the invisible script the Khan had drawn in the air, jumped and swung his body to the left, remaining completely exposed and trapped in the trajectory calculated by the Mongol. The Khan had him cornered in his own web!

With the rival exactly where he wanted him, the emperor unleashed his finishing blow.

 While still in the air, Genghis Khan executed an unforeseen movement with his arm. The speed of the strike was so absurdly high that the physics of the weapon collapsed; the curved metal of the Dao seemed to lose its rigidity, visually transforming into a steel lash that sought to wrap around the Viking’s neck.

 Egil’s eyes widened at the change of trajectory and, forcing his muscles to the limit, he managed to throw his torso back, letting the metal lash graze his skin.

 

— ¿...?! —the Khan stifled an expression of surprise to see that his hidden technique had been evaded.

 

 Without losing a millisecond upon touching the ground, Genghis Khan read his rival’s imminent counterattack and shouted aloud, alerting his own senses:

— TO THE RIGHT!

 Egil was already charging a blind axe-blow with his great runic sword exactly on that flank. Upon hearing the Khan’s exclamation, the Norseman did not stop the swing of his weapon, but the Mongol emperor had already pivoted on his axis, dodging the edge by a hair. Taking advantage of the inertia of the Viking’s overextension, the Khan saw the perfect opening. With a quick and lethal transition, he gripped the hilt of his Dao with both hands, applying the full force of his torso in a fulminating vertical slash that descended like lightning directly onto Egil’s unprotected head. It was going to be the final blow. The Mongol steel aimed squarely at the Norse colossus’s skull. In that millisecond, a brutal shockwave was born from the center of the reconstructed arena. The consecutive force of the impact was so devastating that it swept the floor in a radius of several meters, raising a dense, massive, and suffocating curtain of dust that completely enveloped both warriors, hiding them from everyone’s view.

However, what froze the coliseum’s heart was not the blindness, but the sound…

There was no tearing of flesh. There was no crunching of bones. Through the speakers and bouncing off every corner of the stadium, a deafening, metallic, and dry roar echoed. A massive ¡¡CHAAANG!! that vibrated in the chests of the spectators, exactly like the sound of a heavy war sword being struck with Herculean fury against an anvil of solid iron.

The entire coliseum fell into a sepulchral silence, devoured by uncertainty and the dense cloud of dust that would not move. The spectators leaned forward in their seats, rubbing their eyes, trying to decipher the mystery of that blacksmithing echo.

On her floating platform, Niké pressed the microphone to her lips with hands trembling from pure adrenaline, breaking the silence with a voice choked by confusion:

 — W-WHAT WAS THAT SOUND?! —exclaimed the Goddess of Victory, eyes fixed on the smoke—. The Mongol Emperor’s slash descended with the power of a meteor!

We should be looking at an execution! But why did the arena sound as if someone had struck a block of metal forged in Hephaestus’s divine forges?! What the hell is happening in there?!

The coliseum wind began to blow slowly, undoing the edges of the dust curtain, ready to reveal the macabre and impossible scene...

Genghis Khan, the Strategy Incarnate, the man who had conquered half the world without blinking, had his eyes wide open. An incredulous, almost unhinged smile was drawn on his face while cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His arms remained tense, applying all his body’s pressure with both hands, sinking the blade of his Dao directly against Egil’s unprotected skull.

But the steel did not advance. The Norseman’s head was completely intact. The brutal impact had only managed to open a tiny and insignificant superficial wound on his forehead. A single drop of blood began to slide slowly down the Viking’s nose, reaching his upper lip.

Egil Skallagrímsson, keeping his eyes completely white, stuck out his tongue with macabre slowness and licked that drop of blood. His smile widened inhumanly.

— I have you... —hissed Egil with a thread of a cavernous voice.

 Genghis Khan’s survival instinct triggered to the max, setting off all his alarms. He knew the Norseman was going to duck, but his strategic mind could never have foreseen the physical aberration he would see next. Egil did not duck; his body bent backward violently, breaking anatomical logic by arching his spine into a perfect bridge, causing the back of his indestructible head to impact directly against the floor tiles.

The Khan didn’t wait to see more and jumped backward in desperation. It was his salvation.

Using the ground like a mechanical spring, Egil’s spine shot forward in a terrifying span of barely 0.3 seconds. The Viking executed a colossal ascending headbutt directly to the place where the Khan had been standing a millisecond before.

 

 The blow missed the Khan, but impacted fully against nothingness. The air compressed by the speed of Egil’s skull generated a sonic boom that shook the foundations of the entire coliseum. The shockwave hit the arena with violence so colossal that solid rock cracked and disintegrated completely, leaving a deep, shattered crater around him.

 

Genghis Khan landed several meters away, his breath labored and his heart racing a mile a minute, seeing the level of destruction that anvil-head could cause.

In the middle of the crater, Egil slowly recovered. The remaining dust floated around him while he fixed his empty gaze on the Mongol emperor. With a rhythmic and deep voice that seemed to freeze the coliseum air and chill the very blood of the Khan, he recited his macabre poem:

"Anvil bone, mind of gall, steel breaks against my skin. You flee the strike, your law trembles, the steppes do not save a pale king. My forehead is the tomb where the world will fall, and your cunning head... will go with me."

 

 

In the Gods' stand, the gods’ silence was broken abruptly. Hades, who until a moment ago was watching with sepulchral calm, leaned forward abruptly, genuinely surprised and enthusiastic about the scene. He moved his cup slightly, seeking his nephew’s perspective.

 

 — Ares... —commented Hades with a tone of cautious astonishment—. What just happened down there? The Mongol’s slash carried perfect force with two hands... It should have claimed that life.

Ares, far from showing violent or crude emotion, watched the arena with a brilliant, almost poetic gaze. In his eyes, there was no bloodlust, but an absolute fascination for the spectacle. Upon hearing his uncle, he turned to him with a charismatic and highly respectful smile, modulating his voice with enthusiasm.

— It’s a marvel, uncle —replied Ares, slightly tilting his head in a sign of reverence—. What we have just witnessed is biology pushed to the absolute limit here in the underworld. In the ancient lands of the north, men already spoke of Egil Skallagrímsson’s skull being as dense as a blacksmith’s anvil. Apparently, death did not weaken his bone structure... it perfected it.

 

The God of War looked back toward the crater in the arena, contemplating the trace of the shockwave and the nuances that were shed from the clash. To him, the battle was starting to shine with its own light.

 

 — It’s not simple bestiality, uncle... This is beautiful. It is the beginning of a true painting on the battlefield. When two souls of this caliber give it their all, the nuances and colors of their determination begin to tint the air. Khan has deployed an impeccable strategy, but Egil has just responded with the pure essence of his being. Seeing their wills collide with that intensity... that is what makes a battle a perfect work of art!

 

 Hades watched his nephew for a brief moment, processing the passion and eloquence of his words. Then, a subtle but genuine smile was drawn on the God of the Underworld’s face, who took a small sip of his cup before responding with his characteristic dry, but affectionate tone:

— I must admit, Ares, that your words hold a strange truth... and they even provoke a small pinch of jealousy in me —commented Hades, without looking away from the charismatic God of War—. While I only see how strategies crumble and civilization gives way to the crudest nature, you are able to find art and color in the most violent canvas. You have a unique gift for appreciating the value of mortals.

 

Ares smiled with gratitude at his uncle’s praise, immediately turning his eyes back to the front. The moment of contemplation had ended in the box, because below, in the arena, the colors of the battle were about to become much brighter.

 

Back at the epicenter of the coliseum, the words of Egil’s macabre poem still floated in the air, chilling the atmosphere.

Genghis Khan, maintaining his combat stance despite the cold sweat running down his back, readjusted his grip on his Dao. His brilliant mind was already discarding the initial shock and recalculating the variables: his opponent’s skull was an immutable factor, an absolute defense that defied logic. He could not attack there again.

In front of him, in the middle of the crater destroyed by his own headbutt, Egil Skallagrímsson exhaled a dense sigh, heavy like the northern fog. His eyes, fixed on the Mongol emperor, flashed again with that maniacal and disturbing fixation. The Bear of the North was not going to give him time to design a new strategy. His body, powered by pure adrenaline and the berserker’s malice, tensed like a spring ready to burst.

 The deadly dance would no longer be played under the rules of chess or poetry. What was coming next was the definitive collision between human ingenuity and indestructible resistance. With a guttural roar that made the tiles vibrate, Egil took the first step forward, unleashing the most critical and savage phase of the encounter.

 

 

​

Chapter 8: Sword vs Pen

Before the presenter's voice could resonate again, the coliseum underwent a radical change. The heavy gates on the sides of the arena opened and dozens of Seraphim entered at a hurried pace, sweeping away the remains of mud, washing the blood of Flamma, and repairing the tiles. In a matter of minutes, the arena was impeccably clean, almost unreal, leaving the ground ready and cleared for the next clash of legends.

It was then that the silence was broken by a golden light. Niké, the Goddess of Victory, did not walk toward the microphone; her body began to rise spectacularly, levitating without the need for wings, floating with supernatural grace toward the zenith of the coliseum. Her face overflowed with a giant smile, her eyes shining with a wild and pure emotion that emanated from her like a wave of energy. That emotion was so vivid and real that it instantly became contagious, making even the calmest spectator feel their heart jump and begin to scream.

Niké spun her golden microphone in the air, pointing at the stands with overwhelming energy:

— I KNOW YOU MISSED MY VOICE, LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND DEITIES PRESENT! —the goddess shouted, and her voice made the chests of the tide of souls vibrate—. Master Kamiizumi showed us an unprecedented spectacle in the first round, but this... this is just the beginning of everything! The arena has been rebuilt and the ultimate reward is still waiting for an owner! THE DIVINE DESIRE WITHOUT LIMITS, the opportunity to fulfill any will before the heavens, is still at stake! Ladies and gentlemen, warriors and gods... WE OFFICIALLY START THE SECOND ROUND!

In the millisecond she finished her sentence, the Underworld sky erupted in a visual feast. Right behind Niké, while she levitated at the highest point spreading her frenzy, thousands of crimson and golden fireworks exploded in unison, creating a deafening roar that shook the foundations of the coliseum.

Meanwhile, in the deities' tribune, the atmosphere was less noisy, but infinitely denser.

Ares, the God of War, was so extremely ecstatic by Niké's announcement and the outburst of the fireworks that he had stuffed a handful of grapes into his mouth to calm his anxiety. Upon hearing the concepts of the warriors to come, his eyes burned with wild anticipation. He tried to shout with euphoria, but the emotion played against him: he choked loudly in the middle of the box.

— Agh—! Cough, cough! T-these... cough... are the names...! —Ares tried to say, with his face red and punching his chest.

Upon seeing him, one of the nymphs from Hades' retinue, her face pale with pure worry from being before the God of War, approached running and began to give him quick and frightened blows on the back to help him breathe, creating a most comical scene in the divine box.

Behind them, oblivious to his nephew's commotion, Hades, the God of the Underworld, gently swayed his glass of wine, watching the crimson liquid swirl against the glass. The spark of genuine curiosity that had been born in his eyes after witnessing the end of Kamiizumi and Flamma was still completely lit. He was fascinated by the potential of mortals. He took an elegant sip of his drink and, without looking away from the rebuilt arena, spoke in his deep, slow voice:

— Ares... once you stop fighting your own food, inform me —the King of the Dead requested, with a subtle tone of interest in his voice—. A conqueror who unified the steppes and a berserker who masters the word as much as the sword. Tell me, nephew... what kind of records do these two souls have in the books of Heaven? I want to see how far they can push their limits this time.

Ares, finally recovering his breath after one last blow from the nymph, bared his teeth in a fierce smile and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning back on the marble railing.

— I assure you, uncle! This is going to be a damn work of art! —Ares exclaimed, his eyes bloodshot with emotion—. We are about to see the clash between the most implacable military calculation of the East and the most brutal blood poetry of the North! Neither of them knows what it means to back down!

Back in the center of the arena…

Niké, floating in the air, began to descend dynamically toward the center of the arena. Far from maintaining a rigid posture, the Goddess of Victory did a couple of happy and rhythmic turns in the air, executing extroverted and fluid dance steps while holding her golden microphone. Her face radiated such overflowing emotion that it was impossible not to catch it. She landed floating a few meters from the ground, closed her eyes for an instant, and took a huge breath of air, expanding her lungs to give the final announcement.

In that precise second, the environment of the coliseum transformed. The massive holographic screens of Purgatory came to life, projecting sharp images of infinite steppes and mountains covered by a dense layer of snow whipped by freezing winds.

Before Niké could utter a word, an ancient and chilling sound emerged from the stands on the Mongol side. The gigantic war drums, decorated with skins, began to rumble with a heavy rhythm that made the tiles tremble. In unison, thousands of nomadic warriors stood up, joining their voices in a unanimous and chilling clamor:

— UUKHAI! UUKHAI!! UUKHAI! UUKHAI!! —they roared with a tribal force that froze the blood, while the shamans began the Khuummii, that deep and resonant throat singing that imitated the whistling of the steppe wind and the roar of wild beasts. The atmosphere became so dense that you could feel the vibration in the air. While the throat singing enveloped the stands, the holographic screens showed glimpses of the Khan's life: steel clashing under snowstorms, the unification of divided tribes, and endless hordes of horsemen riding toward glory.

Niké, with her eyes wide open from adrenaline, exclaimed at the top of her lungs through the microphone, her voice cutting through the drums with an electrifying energy:

— WHO IS THE MAN CAPABLE OF SUBDUING THE VERY EARTH FROM THE SADDLE OF HIS HORSE?! WHO IS THE ONE WHOSE MENTION ALONE MADE THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE MOST POWERFUL DYNASTIES IN HISTORY TREMBLE?! COMING FROM THE COLD OF THE FROZEN STEPPES, THE ABSOLUTE UNIFIER OF NATIONS, THE STRATEGIST WHOSE COLD MIND NEVER KNEW DEFEAT!...

The holographic screens flickered, showing colossal maps painting themselves red while Niké ascended a couple more meters, gesticulating with total euphoria:

— He not only unified the nomadic tribes of Mongolia under an iron fist, but he created a political and military structure so solid and implacable that it defied all logic of his era! He led successful military campaigns that swept from East Asia to the gates of Eastern Europe... An implacable conqueror whose passage through history was so devastating that it claimed the lives of nearly ten percent of the world's population in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries!! A force of nature that rewrote geography with blood! Prepare yourselves for strategy incarnate, the terror of mortal kings...! THEINDOMITABLE WOLF!!....

GENGHIS KHAN!!!

The left tunnel seemed to exhale a gust of freezing wind the instant the conqueror took his first step into the light, unleashing total madness in the coliseum as the throat chants reached their climax.

Accompanied by the deafening climax of the Khuummii and the rumble of the drums, the figure of the Conqueror finally emerged from the shadows of the left corridor. Genghis Khan advanced toward the light with a firm, silent, and predatory stride, as if his boots were accustomed to treading the earth of freshly subdued battlefields. There was no exaggerated ostentation in him, but an innate and heavy presence of imperial authority that silenced the nearby boxes.

His build was robust and strong, a body forged by decades on horseback and in the mud of war. His face, implacably weathered by the sun and the frozen wind of the steppe, showed sharp cheekbones and a rigid jaw, wrapped in an expression of absolute calm. However, in his dark and penetrating eyes, a faint glimmer of icy, bluish ferocity shone; the spark of the wolf that devoured a continent.

His clothing honored his legends: he wore an imposing armor of red and golden lamellar plates perfectly fitted. A heavy wolf skin hung majestically over his left shoulder, the design of which integrated perfectly with the pauldron and the bracer, where the head of the animal carved with fierce detail stood out, a clear reverence to the "Blue Wolf" of Mongol mythology. From his waist hung a Dao with a curved blade and formidable appearance; the hilt looked visibly worn by the friction and sweat of countless battles, the perfect symbol of his lethality in close combat. His mere presence seemed to cool the air of the arena as if he brought with him the eternal winter of the steppes.

The entire coliseum held its breath when the freezing atmosphere of the Mongol emperor collided head-on against a burning pressure that began to emanate from the opposite tunnel.

Niké, floating at the zenith of the arena, felt the change in temperature and her behavior completely transformed. Her jovial elegance evaporated, being replaced by a violent frenzy. A completely wild, deranged, and bloodthirsty smile was drawn on her divine face. Her eyes shone with a golden and dangerous light as she squeezed the microphone with a force that made the metal creak, adopting a hunched, almost predatory posture, infected one hundred percent by the berserker spirit.

— AND FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD...!!! —Niké roared at the top of her lungs, her voice losing all finesse to become a torn and electrifying scream—. PREPARE FOR THE MOST BRUTAL CLASH YOUR SOULS HAVE EVER WITNESSED!!!

On the giant holographic screens, the images of the snowy steppes shattered, being replaced by fierce fragments of the new contestant's life: Viking drakkars defying storms with monstrous waves, axes splitting wooden shields on foreign shores, and a man drinking mead among the corpses of his enemies while writing verses with the same hand that held the steel.

The heavy right gates began to open slowly, emitting a metallic screech that made the skin crawl. However, before the light of the coliseum could illuminate the hallway, the only thing that could be distinguished in the deepest darkness of the tunnel were two bloodshot eyes. Two flashes of brilliant crimson red, full of homicidal madness and an unquenchable thirst for combat, fixed directly on the figure of Genghis Khan.

The goddess leaned forward, laughing with a wild frenzy that made the skin of the stands crawl:

— Do not be fooled by his intellect!! This man composed his first lyrical poem at the tender age of three, but at seven... at seven years old he had already sunk his first axe into the skull of another child in a fit of rage! A prodigy of poetry and a monster of violence! A warrior with a skull so thick and indestructible that enemy swords would blunt upon striking his head... The berserker of the fjords who plundered entire kingdoms and defied the very king of Norway with verses of blood! Ladies and gentlemen, deities present, let us receive the terror of the seas...!! THE DEVASTATING BEAR OF THE NORTH!!!...

EGIL SKALLAGRÍMSSON!!!

When the gigantic silhouette finally crossed the threshold of the right tunnel, the entire Purgatory felt the weight of a living legend. Egil Skallagrímsson advanced like a force of indomitable nature, an absolute contrast to the military neatness of the Khan. His mere presence radiated the smell of mead, mud, and the fierce winds of the North Sea.

He was a massive hunk of muscle, a man whose stature and shoulder width dwarfed the coliseum guards. He did not possess the athletic figure of the gladiators, but the brutal physiognomy of an authentic Nordic warrior: a chest as wide as an oak shield and a weathered belly that betrayed both his nights of feasting and his years on the front line in the shield wall. His skin was marked by pale scars, memories of swords that had barely managed to scratch his flesh.

His face was the living image of ferocity. A long, braided beard, unkempt and speckled with gray, framed a rustic jaw. His skull, famous for being as thick as a rock, was crowned by a wild, chestnut mane that fell onto his shoulders. On his back, he wore an imposing and rough cape made from the skin of a giant black bear, whose head rested on his right shoulder, giving him the exact appearance of his new title.

In his hands, Egil held a large Viking sword with a wide blade. The metal, heavy and worn by years of looting, lacked the refined ornaments of royalty, having instead the crudeness of iron forged for killing. Along the imposing blade, the edges were engraved with ancient Nordic runes that seemed to vibrate with each of his heavy breaths. Every step he took made the ground rumble, and that wild smile, with clenched teeth, showed that he did not see the Khan as an emperor, but as the perfect prey for his next poem of blood.

Niké, floating at mid-height in the center of the arena, breathed heavily with her chest heaving due to the colossal amount of energy she had spent to ignite the crowd with her presentations. With a smile still drawn on her face, she brought the golden microphone back to her lips, preparing to shout the official order for the fight to begin.

But she couldn't. The words froze in her throat...

Without warning, without any bell ringing, and without receiving permission from the deities, the Wolf of the Steppe and the Devastating Bear of the North stared directly into each other's eyes. There was no need for provocations. For the two greatest predators in human history, the formalities of the gods were an insult. They did not obey foreign laws; they dictated their own with the edge of steel.

In a blink, both figures vanished from their starting positions. The crimson silhouette of the Khan and the imposing Nordic bulk of Egil transformed into two blurs of pure destructive speed that closed the distance in a flash.

The wolf and the bear ran to meet the other with absolute and dirty certainty. Neither raised their guard. Neither feinted to dodge or seek an advantageous position. It was a suicide charge, a frontal collision where the millimeter calculation of the Mongol and the berserker fury of the Viking were reduced to a single, primitive instinct: tear the rival's head off before the opponent did the same. Chaos broke out in Purgatory without asking for permission, leaving the gods and Niké herself mute from pure shock.

​

Chapter 8: Sword vs Pen

Before the presenter's voice could resonate again, the coliseum underwent a radical change. The heavy gates on the sides of the arena opened and dozens of Seraphim entered at a hurried pace, sweeping away the remains of mud, washing the blood of Flamma, and repairing the tiles. In a matter of minutes, the arena was impeccably clean, almost unreal, leaving the ground ready and cleared for the next clash of legends.

It was then that the silence was broken by a golden light. Niké, the Goddess of Victory, did not walk toward the microphone; her body began to rise spectacularly, levitating without the need for wings, floating with supernatural grace toward the zenith of the coliseum. Her face overflowed with a giant smile, her eyes shining with a wild and pure emotion that emanated from her like a wave of energy. That emotion was so vivid and real that it instantly became contagious, making even the calmest spectator feel their heart jump and begin to scream.

Niké spun her golden microphone in the air, pointing at the stands with overwhelming energy:

— I KNOW YOU MISSED MY VOICE, LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND DEITIES PRESENT! —the goddess shouted, and her voice made the chests of the tide of souls vibrate—. Master Kamiizumi showed us an unprecedented spectacle in the first round, but this... this is just the beginning of everything! The arena has been rebuilt and the ultimate reward is still waiting for an owner! THE DIVINE DESIRE WITHOUT LIMITS, the opportunity to fulfill any will before the heavens, is still at stake! Ladies and gentlemen, warriors and gods... WE OFFICIALLY START THE SECOND ROUND!

In the millisecond she finished her sentence, the Underworld sky erupted in a visual feast. Right behind Niké, while she levitated at the highest point spreading her frenzy, thousands of crimson and golden fireworks exploded in unison, creating a deafening roar that shook the foundations of the coliseum.

Meanwhile, in the deities' tribune, the atmosphere was less noisy, but infinitely denser.

Ares, the God of War, was so extremely ecstatic by Niké's announcement and the outburst of the fireworks that he had stuffed a handful of grapes into his mouth to calm his anxiety. Upon hearing the concepts of the warriors to come, his eyes burned with wild anticipation. He tried to shout with euphoria, but the emotion played against him: he choked loudly in the middle of the box.

— Agh—! Cough, cough! T-these... cough... are the names...! —Ares tried to say, with his face red and punching his chest.

Upon seeing him, one of the nymphs from Hades' retinue, her face pale with pure worry from being before the God of War, approached running and began to give him quick and frightened blows on the back to help him breathe, creating a most comical scene in the divine box.

Behind them, oblivious to his nephew's commotion, Hades, the God of the Underworld, gently swayed his glass of wine, watching the crimson liquid swirl against the glass. The spark of genuine curiosity that had been born in his eyes after witnessing the end of Kamiizumi and Flamma was still completely lit. He was fascinated by the potential of mortals. He took an elegant sip of his drink and, without looking away from the rebuilt arena, spoke in his deep, slow voice:

— Ares... once you stop fighting your own food, inform me —the King of the Dead requested, with a subtle tone of interest in his voice—. A conqueror who unified the steppes and a berserker who masters the word as much as the sword. Tell me, nephew... what kind of records do these two souls have in the books of Heaven? I want to see how far they can push their limits this time.

Ares, finally recovering his breath after one last blow from the nymph, bared his teeth in a fierce smile and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning back on the marble railing.

— I assure you, uncle! This is going to be a damn work of art! —Ares exclaimed, his eyes bloodshot with emotion—. We are about to see the clash between the most implacable military calculation of the East and the most brutal blood poetry of the North! Neither of them knows what it means to back down!

Back in the center of the arena…

Niké, floating in the air, began to descend dynamically toward the center of the arena. Far from maintaining a rigid posture, the Goddess of Victory did a couple of happy and rhythmic turns in the air, executing extroverted and fluid dance steps while holding her golden microphone. Her face radiated such overflowing emotion that it was impossible not to catch it. She landed floating a few meters from the ground, closed her eyes for an instant, and took a huge breath of air, expanding her lungs to give the final announcement.

In that precise second, the environment of the coliseum transformed. The massive holographic screens of Purgatory came to life, projecting sharp images of infinite steppes and mountains covered by a dense layer of snow whipped by freezing winds.

Before Niké could utter a word, an ancient and chilling sound emerged from the stands on the Mongol side. The gigantic war drums, decorated with skins, began to rumble with a heavy rhythm that made the tiles tremble. In unison, thousands of nomadic warriors stood up, joining their voices in a unanimous and chilling clamor:

— UUKHAI! UUKHAI!! UUKHAI! UUKHAI!! —they roared with a tribal force that froze the blood, while the shamans began the Khuummii, that deep and resonant throat singing that imitated the whistling of the steppe wind and the roar of wild beasts. The atmosphere became so dense that you could feel the vibration in the air. While the throat singing enveloped the stands, the holographic screens showed glimpses of the Khan's life: steel clashing under snowstorms, the unification of divided tribes, and endless hordes of horsemen riding toward glory.

Niké, with her eyes wide open from adrenaline, exclaimed at the top of her lungs through the microphone, her voice cutting through the drums with an electrifying energy:

— WHO IS THE MAN CAPABLE OF SUBDUING THE VERY EARTH FROM THE SADDLE OF HIS HORSE?! WHO IS THE ONE WHOSE MENTION ALONE MADE THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE MOST POWERFUL DYNASTIES IN HISTORY TREMBLE?! COMING FROM THE COLD OF THE FROZEN STEPPES, THE ABSOLUTE UNIFIER OF NATIONS, THE STRATEGIST WHOSE COLD MIND NEVER KNEW DEFEAT!...

The holographic screens flickered, showing colossal maps painting themselves red while Niké ascended a couple more meters, gesticulating with total euphoria:

— He not only unified the nomadic tribes of Mongolia under an iron fist, but he created a political and military structure so solid and implacable that it defied all logic of his era! He led successful military campaigns that swept from East Asia to the gates of Eastern Europe... An implacable conqueror whose passage through history was so devastating that it claimed the lives of nearly ten percent of the world's population in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries!! A force of nature that rewrote geography with blood! Prepare yourselves for strategy incarnate, the terror of mortal kings...! THEINDOMITABLE WOLF!!....

GENGHIS KHAN!!!

The left tunnel seemed to exhale a gust of freezing wind the instant the conqueror took his first step into the light, unleashing total madness in the coliseum as the throat chants reached their climax.

Accompanied by the deafening climax of the Khuummii and the rumble of the drums, the figure of the Conqueror finally emerged from the shadows of the left corridor. Genghis Khan advanced toward the light with a firm, silent, and predatory stride, as if his boots were accustomed to treading the earth of freshly subdued battlefields. There was no exaggerated ostentation in him, but an innate and heavy presence of imperial authority that silenced the nearby boxes.

His build was robust and strong, a body forged by decades on horseback and in the mud of war. His face, implacably weathered by the sun and the frozen wind of the steppe, showed sharp cheekbones and a rigid jaw, wrapped in an expression of absolute calm. However, in his dark and penetrating eyes, a faint glimmer of icy, bluish ferocity shone; the spark of the wolf that devoured a continent.

His clothing honored his legends: he wore an imposing armor of red and golden lamellar plates perfectly fitted. A heavy wolf skin hung majestically over his left shoulder, the design of which integrated perfectly with the pauldron and the bracer, where the head of the animal carved with fierce detail stood out, a clear reverence to the "Blue Wolf" of Mongol mythology. From his waist hung a Dao with a curved blade and formidable appearance; the hilt looked visibly worn by the friction and sweat of countless battles, the perfect symbol of his lethality in close combat. His mere presence seemed to cool the air of the arena as if he brought with him the eternal winter of the steppes.

The entire coliseum held its breath when the freezing atmosphere of the Mongol emperor collided head-on against a burning pressure that began to emanate from the opposite tunnel.

Niké, floating at the zenith of the arena, felt the change in temperature and her behavior completely transformed. Her jovial elegance evaporated, being replaced by a violent frenzy. A completely wild, deranged, and bloodthirsty smile was drawn on her divine face. Her eyes shone with a golden and dangerous light as she squeezed the microphone with a force that made the metal creak, adopting a hunched, almost predatory posture, infected one hundred percent by the berserker spirit.

— AND FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD...!!! —Niké roared at the top of her lungs, her voice losing all finesse to become a torn and electrifying scream—. PREPARE FOR THE MOST BRUTAL CLASH YOUR SOULS HAVE EVER WITNESSED!!!

On the giant holographic screens, the images of the snowy steppes shattered, being replaced by fierce fragments of the new contestant's life: Viking drakkars defying storms with monstrous waves, axes splitting wooden shields on foreign shores, and a man drinking mead among the corpses of his enemies while writing verses with the same hand that held the steel.

The heavy right gates began to open slowly, emitting a metallic screech that made the skin crawl. However, before the light of the coliseum could illuminate the hallway, the only thing that could be distinguished in the deepest darkness of the tunnel were two bloodshot eyes. Two flashes of brilliant crimson red, full of homicidal madness and an unquenchable thirst for combat, fixed directly on the figure of Genghis Khan.

The goddess leaned forward, laughing with a wild frenzy that made the skin of the stands crawl:

— Do not be fooled by his intellect!! This man composed his first lyrical poem at the tender age of three, but at seven... at seven years old he had already sunk his first axe into the skull of another child in a fit of rage! A prodigy of poetry and a monster of violence! A warrior with a skull so thick and indestructible that enemy swords would blunt upon striking his head... The berserker of the fjords who plundered entire kingdoms and defied the very king of Norway with verses of blood! Ladies and gentlemen, deities present, let us receive the terror of the seas...!! THE DEVASTATING BEAR OF THE NORTH!!!...

EGIL SKALLAGRÍMSSON!!!

When the gigantic silhouette finally crossed the threshold of the right tunnel, the entire Purgatory felt the weight of a living legend. Egil Skallagrímsson advanced like a force of indomitable nature, an absolute contrast to the military neatness of the Khan. His mere presence radiated the smell of mead, mud, and the fierce winds of the North Sea.

He was a massive hunk of muscle, a man whose stature and shoulder width dwarfed the coliseum guards. He did not possess the athletic figure of the gladiators, but the brutal physiognomy of an authentic Nordic warrior: a chest as wide as an oak shield and a weathered belly that betrayed both his nights of feasting and his years on the front line in the shield wall. His skin was marked by pale scars, memories of swords that had barely managed to scratch his flesh.

His face was the living image of ferocity. A long, braided beard, unkempt and speckled with gray, framed a rustic jaw. His skull, famous for being as thick as a rock, was crowned by a wild, chestnut mane that fell onto his shoulders. On his back, he wore an imposing and rough cape made from the skin of a giant black bear, whose head rested on his right shoulder, giving him the exact appearance of his new title.

In his hands, Egil held a large Viking sword with a wide blade. The metal, heavy and worn by years of looting, lacked the refined ornaments of royalty, having instead the crudeness of iron forged for killing. Along the imposing blade, the edges were engraved with ancient Nordic runes that seemed to vibrate with each of his heavy breaths. Every step he took made the ground rumble, and that wild smile, with clenched teeth, showed that he did not see the Khan as an emperor, but as the perfect prey for his next poem of blood.

Niké, floating at mid-height in the center of the arena, breathed heavily with her chest heaving due to the colossal amount of energy she had spent to ignite the crowd with her presentations. With a smile still drawn on her face, she brought the golden microphone back to her lips, preparing to shout the official order for the fight to begin.

But she couldn't. The words froze in her throat...

Without warning, without any bell ringing, and without receiving permission from the deities, the Wolf of the Steppe and the Devastating Bear of the North stared directly into each other's eyes. There was no need for provocations. For the two greatest predators in human history, the formalities of the gods were an insult. They did not obey foreign laws; they dictated their own with the edge of steel.

In a blink, both figures vanished from their starting positions. The crimson silhouette of the Khan and the imposing Nordic bulk of Egil transformed into two blurs of pure destructive speed that closed the distance in a flash.

The wolf and the bear ran to meet the other with absolute and dirty certainty. Neither raised their guard. Neither feinted to dodge or seek an advantageous position. It was a suicide charge, a frontal collision where the millimeter calculation of the Mongol and the berserker fury of the Viking were reduced to a single, primitive instinct: tear the rival's head off before the opponent did the same. Chaos broke out in Purgatory without asking for permission, leaving the gods and Niké herself mute from pure shock.

​

Chapter 8: Sword vs Pen

Before the presenter's voice could resonate again, the coliseum underwent a radical change. The heavy gates on the sides of the arena opened and dozens of Seraphim entered at a hurried pace, sweeping away the remains of mud, washing the blood of Flamma, and repairing the tiles. In a matter of minutes, the arena was impeccably clean, almost unreal, leaving the ground ready and cleared for the next clash of legends.

It was then that the silence was broken by a golden light. Niké, the Goddess of Victory, did not walk toward the microphone; her body began to rise spectacularly, levitating without the need for wings, floating with supernatural grace toward the zenith of the coliseum. Her face overflowed with a giant smile, her eyes shining with a wild and pure emotion that emanated from her like a wave of energy. That emotion was so vivid and real that it instantly became contagious, making even the calmest spectator feel their heart jump and begin to scream.

Niké spun her golden microphone in the air, pointing at the stands with overwhelming energy:

— I KNOW YOU MISSED MY VOICE, LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND DEITIES PRESENT! —the goddess shouted, and her voice made the chests of the tide of souls vibrate—. Master Kamiizumi showed us an unprecedented spectacle in the first round, but this... this is just the beginning of everything! The arena has been rebuilt and the ultimate reward is still waiting for an owner! THE DIVINE DESIRE WITHOUT LIMITS, the opportunity to fulfill any will before the heavens, is still at stake! Ladies and gentlemen, warriors and gods... WE OFFICIALLY START THE SECOND ROUND!

In the millisecond she finished her sentence, the Underworld sky erupted in a visual feast. Right behind Niké, while she levitated at the highest point spreading her frenzy, thousands of crimson and golden fireworks exploded in unison, creating a deafening roar that shook the foundations of the coliseum.

Meanwhile, in the deities' tribune, the atmosphere was less noisy, but infinitely denser.

Ares, the God of War, was so extremely ecstatic by Niké's announcement and the outburst of the fireworks that he had stuffed a handful of grapes into his mouth to calm his anxiety. Upon hearing the concepts of the warriors to come, his eyes burned with wild anticipation. He tried to shout with euphoria, but the emotion played against him: he choked loudly in the middle of the box

— Agh—! Cough, cough! T-these... cough... are the names...! —Ares tried to say, with his face red and punching his chest.

Upon seeing him, one of the nymphs from Hades' retinue, her face pale with pure worry from being before the God of War, approached running and began to give him quick and frightened blows on the back to help him breathe, creating a most comical scene in the divine box.

Behind them, oblivious to his nephew's commotion, Hades, the God of the Underworld, gently swayed his glass of wine, watching the crimson liquid swirl against the glass. The spark of genuine curiosity that had been born in his eyes after witnessing the end of Kamiizumi and Flamma was still completely lit. He was fascinated by the potential of mortals. He took an elegant sip of his drink and, without looking away from the rebuilt arena, spoke in his deep, slow voice:

— Ares... once you stop fighting your own food, inform me —the King of the Dead requested, with a subtle tone of interest in his voice—. A conqueror who unified the steppes and a berserker who masters the word as much as the sword. Tell me, nephew... what kind of records do these two souls have in the books of Heaven? I want to see how far they can push their limits this time.

Ares, finally recovering his breath after one last blow from the nymph, bared his teeth in a fierce smile and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning back on the marble railing.

— I assure you, uncle! This is going to be a damn work of art! —Ares exclaimed, his eyes bloodshot with emotion—. We are about to see the clash between the most implacable military calculation of the East and the most brutal blood poetry of the North! Neither of them knows what it means to back down!

 

Back in the center of the arena…

 

Niké, floating in the air, began to descend dynamically toward the center of the arena. Far from maintaining a rigid posture, the Goddess of Victory did a couple of happy and rhythmic turns in the air, executing extroverted and fluid dance steps while holding her golden microphone. Her face radiated such overflowing emotion that it was impossible not to catch it. She landed floating a few meters from the ground, closed her eyes for an instant, and took a huge breath of air, expanding her lungs to give the final announcement.

In that precise second, the environment of the coliseum transformed. The massive holographic screens of Purgatory came to life, projecting sharp images of infinite steppes and mountains covered by a dense layer of snow whipped by freezing winds.

Before Niké could utter a word, an ancient and chilling sound emerged from the stands on the Mongol side. The gigantic war drums, decorated with skins, began to rumble with a heavy rhythm that made the tiles tremble. In unison, thousands of nomadic warriors stood up, joining their voices in a unanimous and chilling clamor:

 

— UUKHAI! UUKHAI!! UUKHAI! UUKHAI!! —they roared with a tribal force that froze the blood, while the shamans began the Khuummii, that deep and resonant throat singing that imitated the whistling of the steppe wind and the roar of wild beasts. The atmosphere became so dense that you could feel the vibration in the air. While the throat singing enveloped the stands, the holographic screens showed glimpses of the Khan's life: steel clashing under snowstorms, the unification of divided tribes, and endless hordes of horsemen riding toward glory.

Niké, with her eyes wide open from adrenaline, exclaimed at the top of her lungs through the microphone, her voice cutting through the drums with an electrifying energy:

— WHO IS THE MAN CAPABLE OF SUBDUING THE VERY EARTH FROM THE SADDLE OF HIS HORSE?! WHO IS THE ONE WHOSE MENTION ALONE MADE THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE MOST POWERFUL DYNASTIES IN HISTORY TREMBLE?! COMING FROM THE COLD OF THE FROZEN STEPPES, THE ABSOLUTE UNIFIER OF NATIONS, THE STRATEGIST WHOSE COLD MIND NEVER KNEW DEFEAT!...

The holographic screens flickered, showing colossal maps painting themselves red while Niké ascended a couple more meters, gesticulating with total euphoria:

— He not only unified the nomadic tribes of Mongolia under an iron fist, but he created a political and military structure so solid and implacable that it defied all logic of his era! He led successful military campaigns that swept from East Asia to the gates of Eastern Europe... An implacable conqueror whose passage through history was so devastating that it claimed the lives of nearly ten percent of the world's population in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries!! A force of nature that rewrote geography with blood! Prepare yourselves for strategy incarnate, the terror of mortal kings...! ..THE INDOMITABLE WOLF!!....

GENGHIS KHAN!!!

The left tunnel seemed to exhale a gust of freezing wind the instant the conqueror took his first step into the light, unleashing total madness in the coliseum as the throat chants reached their climax.

Accompanied by the deafening climax of the Khuummii and the rumble of the drums, the figure of the Conqueror finally emerged from the shadows of the left corridor. Genghis Khan advanced toward the light with a firm, silent, and predatory stride, as if his boots were accustomed to treading the earth of freshly subdued battlefields. There was no exaggerated ostentation in him, but an innate and heavy presence of imperial authority that silenced the nearby boxes.

His build was robust and strong, a body forged by decades on horseback and in the mud of war. His face, implacably weathered by the sun and the frozen wind of the steppe, showed sharp cheekbones and a rigid jaw, wrapped in an expression of absolute calm. However, in his dark and penetrating eyes, a faint glimmer of icy, bluish ferocity shone; the spark of the wolf that devoured a continent.

His clothing honored his legends: he wore an imposing armor of red and golden lamellar plates perfectly fitted. A heavy wolf skin hung majestically over his left shoulder, the design of which integrated perfectly with the pauldron and the bracer, where the head of the animal carved with fierce detail stood out, a clear reverence to the "Blue Wolf" of Mongol mythology. From his waist hung a Dao with a curved blade and formidable appearance; the hilt looked visibly worn by the friction and sweat of countless battles, the perfect symbol of his lethality in close combat. His mere presence seemed to cool the air of the arena as if he brought with him the eternal winter of the steppes.

The entire coliseum held its breath when the freezing atmosphere of the Mongol emperor collided head-on against a burning pressure that began to emanate from the opposite tunnel.

Niké, floating at the zenith of the arena, felt the change in temperature and her behavior completely transformed. Her jovial elegance evaporated, being replaced by a violent frenzy. A completely wild, deranged, and bloodthirsty smile was drawn on her divine face. Her eyes shone with a golden and dangerous light as she squeezed the microphone with a force that made the metal creak, adopting a hunched, almost predatory posture, infected one hundred percent by the berserker spirit.

— AND FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD...!!! —Niké roared at the top of her lungs, her voice losing all finesse to become a torn and electrifying scream—. PREPARE FOR THE MOST BRUTAL CLASH YOUR SOULS HAVE EVER WITNESSED!!!

On the giant holographic screens, the images of the snowy steppes shattered, being replaced by fierce fragments of the new contestant's life: Viking drakkars defying storms with monstrous waves, axes splitting wooden shields on foreign shores, and a man drinking mead among the corpses of his enemies while writing verses with the same hand that held the steel.

The heavy right gates began to open slowly, emitting a metallic screech that made the skin crawl. However, before the light of the coliseum could illuminate the hallway, the only thing that could be distinguished in the deepest darkness of the tunnel were two bloodshot eyes. Two flashes of brilliant crimson red, full of homicidal madness and an unquenchable thirst for combat, fixed directly on the figure of Genghis Khan.

The goddess leaned forward, laughing with a wild frenzy that made the skin of the stands crawl:

— Do not be fooled by his intellect!! This man composed his first lyrical poem at the tender age of three, but at seven... at seven years old he had already sunk his first axe into the skull of another child in a fit of rage! A prodigy of poetry and a monster of violence! A warrior with a skull so thick and indestructible that enemy swords would blunt upon striking his head... The berserker of the fjords who plundered entire kingdoms and defied the very king of Norway with verses of blood! Ladies and gentlemen, deities present, let us receive the terror of the seas...!! THE DEVASTATING BEAR OF THE NORTH!!!...

EGIL SKALLAGRÍMSSON!!!

When the gigantic silhouette finally crossed the threshold of the right tunnel, the entire Purgatory felt the weight of a living legend. Egil Skallagrímsson advanced like a force of indomitable nature, an absolute contrast to the military neatness of the Khan. His mere presence radiated the smell of mead, mud, and the fierce winds of the North Sea.

He was a massive hunk of muscle, a man whose stature and shoulder width dwarfed the coliseum guards. He did not possess the athletic figure of the gladiators, but the brutal physiognomy of an authentic Nordic warrior: a chest as wide as an oak shield and a weathered belly that betrayed both his nights of feasting and his years on the front line in the shield wall. His skin was marked by pale scars, memories of swords that had barely managed to scratch his flesh.

His face was the living image of ferocity. A long, braided beard, unkempt and speckled with gray, framed a rustic jaw. His skull, famous for being as thick as a rock, was crowned by a wild, chestnut mane that fell onto his shoulders. On his back, he wore an imposing and rough cape made from the skin of a giant black bear, whose head rested on his right shoulder, giving him the exact appearance of his new title.

In his hands, Egil held a large Viking sword with a wide blade. The metal, heavy and worn by years of looting, lacked the refined ornaments of royalty, having instead the crudeness of iron forged for killing. Along the imposing blade, the edges were engraved with ancient Nordic runes that seemed to vibrate with each of his heavy breaths. Every step he took made the ground rumble, and that wild smile, with clenched teeth, showed that he did not see the Khan as an emperor, but as the perfect prey for his next poem of blood.

Niké, floating at mid-height in the center of the arena, breathed heavily with her chest heaving due to the colossal amount of energy she had spent to ignite the crowd with her presentations. With a smile still drawn on her face, she brought the golden microphone back to her lips, preparing to shout the official order for the fight to begin.

But she couldn't. The words froze in her throat.

Without warning, without any bell ringing, and without receiving permission from the deities, the Wolf of the Steppe and the Devastating Bear of the North stared directly into each other's eyes. There was no need for provocations. For the two greatest predators in human history, the formalities of the gods were an insult. They did not obey foreign laws; they dictated their own with the edge of steel.

In a blink, both figures vanished from their starting positions. The crimson silhouette of the Khan and the imposing Nordic bulk of Egil transformed into two blurs of pure destructive speed that closed the distance in a flash.

The wolf and the bear ran to meet the other with absolute and dirty certainty. Neither raised their guard. Neither feinted to dodge or seek an advantageous position. It was a suicide charge, a frontal collision where the millimeter calculation of the Mongol and the berserker fury of the Viking were reduced to a single, primitive instinct: tear the rival's head off before the opponent did the same. Chaos broke out in Purgatory without asking for permission, leaving the gods and Niké herself mute from pure shock.

​

Chapter 7: Colors in the Abyss

The sand-laden wind blew between them, kicking up fine curtains of dust that danced in the space separating them. The scene had become strangely clean, stripped of all the tournament’s noise. Neither the roar of the crowd nor the fate of the world mattered anymore. Only two men remained in their purest state. Two weapons. Two souls. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna held his katana with both hands, blood dripping from his shoulder and from the "X" on his chest, but with a peace in his gaze he hadn’t felt in five hundred years.

Opposite him, Flamma held his gladius steady, his arm raised, his torso open and bathed in blood and sweat, but his eyes were more alive than ever after having discarded his shield. They looked at each other in absolute silence, joined by an invisible bond of gratitude and mutual respect. The man in front of each of them was no longer an enemy; he was the friend and rival they had waited an eternity for.

From the highest point of the deities' stands, the camera focused on the VIP box, where the silence was just as dense. Ares, the God of War, was leaned completely over the marble railing. His hands gripped the stone so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His eyes were wide, bulging, and thick tears of pure euphoria and shock rolled down his cheeks, unchecked. For the God of War, the earthly world had vanished: before his divine sight, the souls of Flamma and Kamiizumi were shining with crimson and golden colors so intense, warm, and wild that they dazzled the entire coliseum.

Behind him, Hades, the God of the Underworld, opened his eyes completely, which until then had remained half-closed in an expression of eternal boredom. Seeing the intensity of the two mortals and his nephew’s reaction, the king of the dead broke his monotony. He leaned forward, widening his somber eyes, intrigued by what he was witnessing.

— Ares... —Hades murmured, with a deep, measured voice that denoted genuine curiosity—. Look at them. Their bodies are shattered, on the verge of collapse. Yet... why? Why did their fighting spirits ignite with such force right at this moment, when they are closest to death?

Ares did not look away from the arena for a single millisecond. The tears kept running down his face, but a smile of absolute pride and self-satisfaction played on his lips as he answered, his voice trembling with emotion:

— That’s it, Uncle. That’s what makes humans such damnably interesting beings —the God of War declared, watching as the colors of the two souls merged in the center of the arena—. It doesn't matter what damage they take or how much strength they have left. When they find their equal, the will to give themselves completely makes their souls explode in a glorious chaos. They are no longer fighting just to survive, Uncle... They are fighting because, at last, they feel alive.

Hades fell silent, assimilating his nephew’s words. For the first time in the entire round, a subtle but perceptible smile, loaded with a joy he rarely showed, appeared on the face of the ruler of Tartarus.

— Yes, it is glorious... —Hades admitted, returning his full attention to the playing field—. But tell me, Ares, under your gaze... who do you think will win this round? The young gladiator who has found a 'why' for his struggle, or the old samurai who has regained his fire?

The question hung in the air, floating over the divine boxes like a decree, as the scene descended abruptly toward the arena, where the air became unbreathable. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna’s aura exploded in all directions in an oppressive and frigid emanation, ready to begin the final dance.

In the center of the arena, time seemed to freeze for one last time. Nobutsuna, with his katana raised, and Flamma, with his gladius forward, remained motionless for a heartbeat. From the samurai’s open shoulder, a dense drop of crimson blood fell; from the Roman’s cracked chest, another one just like it. Both fell in unison, crossing the air in an imaginary slow motion until...

Tock…..

And then, the entire coliseum exploded.

¡BOOOOOOOOM!

There were no announcements or warnings. The exchange began with wild mobility. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna dropped his center of gravity extremely low, almost grazing the ground with his knees, and sprinted at ground level with eerie speed, his katana pointing in a straight line directly toward Flamma’s neck in a deadly lunge.

The Roman reacted by pure instinct: instead of retreating, he threw himself to the ground with a brutal sweep of his right leg to destabilize the samurai’s base, forcing Kamiizumi to perform an acrobatic leap into the air to avoid losing his balance. While floating, the old man spun on his own axis, descending with a whirlwind of slashes.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: KAGE MUSUBI (Shadow Knot)! —

The katana moved with such absurd fluidity that it seemed to create dark replicas in the air, invisible slashes that lurked from every angle. But Flamma, on the ground, rolled to one side and sprang back up, unleashing his counterattack with blind fury.

— ¡GLADIATOR STYLE: RUBER FLAMEN (Crimson Burst)! —

His gladius traced arcs of violent, heavy, and burning light, intercepting the shadowy attacks in a display of brute force. Sparks flew like fireworks between the two, illuminating their faces. And in the middle of that whirlwind of death, both were smiling.

— Faster, Roman! Faster! —Nobutsuna laughed, his eyes shining with pure regained youth.

— Don't you dare die on me ahead of time, old man! Hahaha! —Flamma roared, teeth clenched in a grimace of pure euphoria.

Kamiizumi flowed like water, tilting his body to slide past Flamma’s unprotected flank. With an impeccable flick of his wrist, the katana left a silver trace in the air that deeply tore the Roman’s back, drawing a jet of blood. Any other man would have fallen to his knees, but Flamma was a gladiator. Taking advantage of the short distance after the impact, Flamma let out a guttural roar, spun on his heels, and, in the purest, dirtiest style of a mud-caked street fight, threw a brutal punch with his bare left hand, straight at the samurai’s face.

¡POOOOOW!

Flamma’s iron fist hit Nobutsuna square on the cheek. The blow was so tremendous it knocked several of the old man’s teeth out and sent him reeling backward, dragging his feet across the sand. Blood and saliva splattered the ground.

In the stands, the human sector was completely out of control. Humans screamed with fists held high, infected by the madness unfolding below. Meanwhile, in the more VIP and secluded areas of the coliseum, away from the crowd, several dark figures remained seated in the gloom. They did not scream, they did not applaud. They only stared fixedly at the holographic screens installed in their seats, analyzing every drop of blood, every technique, and every millisecond of that clash between the Lion of Rome and the Saint of the Sword with a cold and mysterious interest.

Below, Kamiizumi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His smile became even more unhinged, floating in the ecstasy of the combat. The exchange did not stop. Kamiizumi began to switch styles at a vertiginous speed: he went from a downward slash to an oblique lunge, mutating the trajectory of his blade mid-air. Flamma, his torso bathed in sweat and blood, was forced to calculate to the millimeter. He knew perfectly well that the samurai was much faster than him; he could not compete in pure speed. His only option was to predict the deadliest slashes, taking the superficial cuts on his shoulders and arms to protect his neck and heart.

— "He is too fast..." — Flamma thought, as the steel whistled millimeters from his eyes—. "His sword has no weight, it flows like the wind. If I just keep defending, he’s going to dismember me any second. I have to stop his rhythm... I have to force him to stop at any cost!"

Nobutsuna, for his part, felt astonishing pressure. The gladiator was not moving with refined technique, but with a primitive instinct so pure that it managed to counter his divine swordsmanship, responding to the samurai’s ecstasy with unshakable euphoria. Determined to end the siege, the Saint of the Sword stepped forward, unleashing the storm.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: SOKOKU NO ARASHI (Overwhelming Fog Storm)! —

The katana turned into a silver whirlwind that fell with an implacable downward trajectory toward the Roman’s skull. But Flamma did not dodge. He did something that left the entire coliseum in shock. He opened his jaws and, with a horrific crunch, caught the edge of the katana straight between his teeth.

¡CRACK!

Nobutsuna’s steel stopped dead, wedged between the gladiator’s jaw. The momentum of the sword was so brutal that the edge began to deeply tear Flamma’s left cheek, causing blood to spurt from the corners of his mouth, staining his teeth red. Yet, despite the agonizing pain, the Roman’s eyes shone with a demonic light.

— I... got you...! —Flamma articulated gutturally between the steel and the blood, with a look of pure insanity.

Kamiizumi Nobutsuna’s eyes widened, losing all composure from the surprise.

At that very instant, Flamma concentrated all the energy of his spirit into his left arm, which firmly held the gladius. Remembering the internal pressure with which he had deformed his legs in his first great attack, he replicated the process in his upper extremity: he drove the — DEVOURER OF SKIES — into his arm, hardening every muscle fiber to such an extreme level that the muscles began to tear and break internally, inflating his veins like exposed roots.

Seeing that monstrous hypertrophy and the colossal pressure concentrated in the weapon, the wrinkles on Kamiizumi’s face tightened. He instantly remembered the weight of the first wound on his chest.

— "Is he going to use that technique again...?!" — the old man thought, his heart pounding against his chest with wild violence.

Sensing danger, Kamiizumi used all his strength to pull on his katana’s hilt, seeking to free it. The steel completely tore through the flesh of the Roman’s cheek as it pulled free, but the Lion of Rome had already initiated his arc. With a roar that shook the foundations of Purgatory, Flamma unleashed a devastating horizontal slash with his sword.

— ¡GLADIATOR STYLE: SOL ARDENS AESTATIS: MOLES INVICTA (Burning Summer Sun: Invincible Force)! —

Nobutsuna, in a desperate reflex act, crossed his katana with both hands overhead to cushion the colossally trajectory of the impact.

¡¡¡BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The clash of metals was so massive that the katana’s blade vibrated and shook violently under the Roman’s tectonic pressure. The block stopped the gladius’s direct edge, but the shockwave and the residual air pressure of the attack were so sharp and destructive that they passed right through, deeply cutting Kamiizumi in the sides of his torso and shattering the flesh of his left shoulder.

The tremendous collision created a gigantic curtain of smoke and dust. When the wind began to dissipate the fog, the scene became macabre.

Kamiizumi was still standing, but his left arm, left completely useless and bathed in blood, slumped heavily to his side, hanging limp and inert. The old master fixed his gaze on the gray sky of Purgatory while a large mouthful of crimson blood escaped his lips, staining his beard and chest.

However, after spitting out the thread of life he had left, his eyes filled with an infinite peace. He lowered his gaze toward the gladiator and, with his only useful arm holding the katana, performed a slow, deep bow, charged with a solemn weight. The Saint of the Sword was bowing before the Roman.

— Jojo... —he let out a soft, hoarse laugh, full of absolute respect, as he sheathed his katana back into its scabbard with a clean click—. You truly are an impressive boy, Flamma-dono... Jojo.

In the human stands, the samurai from the 15th and 16th centuries widened their eyes, murmuring to each other in disbelief:

— Did you hear that...? The master... has bowed to the foreigner and called him "-dono". He is treating him with the highest honor that exists in our land...

Below, Kamiizumi glanced toward the box where Hades watched the battle in silence.

— I do not regret in the absolute having listened to that beautiful nymph they sent to fetch me from the afterlife... Jojo. So... I thank you infinitely, Flamma-dono. You have cleared the boredom from my soul. And as a show of my most sincere appreciation... I will show you the pinnacle of my path of the sword.

Opposite him, Flamma, with his left cheek completely torn where the katana had exited and his left arm trembling from the destructive effort, smiled back. With his right hand, he tightened his grip on his gladius, wiping the mixture of sweat and blood from his face.

— I suppose... the time has come to end this... Isn't that right, Saint of the Sword? —replied the Lion of Rome, planting his caligae firmly in the sand for the final exchange.

The atmosphere in the coliseum became solid, heavy, almost mystical. The macabre wounds deforming their bodies no longer mattered; in the middle of the pain and the limits of the flesh, both warriors were smiling with their eyes more alive and ignited than ever. On the threshold of death, they felt more awake than in all their centuries of rest.

Flamma took a step back, planting his caligae in the sand. His left arm was damaged, covered in wounds that dripped threads of blood, but it responded to his will. With his right hand fused to the gladius’s hilt, the Lion of Rome pushed the — DEVOURER OF SKIES — to the absolute limit of existence, spreading the pressure throughout his being.

Every muscle in his anatomy began to contract and move with violent spasms, devouring the air around him. The internal pressure of the technique became so massive that the wounds on his chest and back tore open even further, letting out spurts of fresh blood that covered his skin like crimson armor. The Roman’s arm creaked under the effort, tearing itself apart from its own strength. His eyes turned an absolute white, stripping away any trace of humanity to become the brute force of the universe concentrated in one man.

Opposite him, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna assimilated the immensity of that energy. With his left arm shattered and limp at his side, the old man adjusted his center of gravity. Keeping his katana sheathed in the saya, he placed his right hand on the hilt. He settled his feet into a perfect drawing stance, a monolithic base that did not require his injured limb. The Saint of the Sword closed his eyes, concentrating the entire universe into the millimeter of steel that rested hidden.

— ¡¡¡DEVOURER OF SKIES!!! —Flamma roared with his entire soul, cracking the arena’s foundations as he propelled himself forward like a meteorite of blood.

At the very same millisecond, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna charged from his drawing stance. In that supreme instant, both of their minds emptied completely. There was no hatred in that last blow; there were no doubts, nor contempt, nor sorrow. To the spectators in the stands, what was about to occur was a mutual execution, but to those two, the universe had reduced itself to a sacred canvas.

They were two titans facing destiny, two spirits who knew no fear. In that infinitesimal space where force met its mirror, there was no room for cruelty, only for absolute respect. And so, between the steel and the blood splattering the ground, on both of their faces a final smile full of gratitude was born.

Flamma advanced with his soul burning, discharging the gladius with all the seismic power of his body in a blow capable of splitting an ocean in half.

Nobutsuna waited. He waited until the last and impossible millisecond, maintaining an imperturbable calm even when he felt Flamma’s blade already tearing the skin of his forehead, making a thread of fresh blood run down his face. Right there, on the exact edge between life and death, the Saint of the Sword unleashed the pinnacle of his existence. His right hand moved in a divine flash.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: TENKAKU NO MON (Gate of Celestial Ascension)! —

The frontal slash flawlessly cut the air, stopping the wind currents and slicing the grains of sand that floated suspended in space. With terrifying, geometric precision, Kamiizumi’s steel split Flamma’s gladius in half; without losing force, the blade penetrated the webbing between his fingers and forced its way from his knuckles in a diagonal slash that completely detached the Roman’s arm. Without stopping the inertia, Nobutsuna performed a perfect pivot on his heels, drawing exact circles with his feet on the arena floor while his sword completed the trajectory: a horizontal blow that traversed Flamma’s torso, severing his armor from one shoulder guard to the other.

A massive amount of crimson blood spurted from the gladiator’s chest, staining the air red. Upon the impact, Flamma clenched his teeth with wild fury, trying to force his muscles to move for a following attack, wanting to keep fighting out of pure survival instinct. But his body no longer responded. His fighting spirit, taken beyond the absolute limit, was exhausted first.

The Lion of Rome fell heavily backward onto the ground, his eyes completely blank and fixed on nothing. He was totally unconscious long before having received the final slash to his chest. His mind had simply shut down from the superhuman effort.

The wind blew, dissipating the dust. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna, standing a few steps away, lowered his bloodied katana. Upon looking at the Roman’s sprawled body and noticing the smile of pure happiness that had remained etched on his face, the old samurai’s eyes widened with electrifying astonishment. A vibration of pure ecstasy ran through Kamiizumi’s body, who immediately realized: Flamma was no longer conscious when the sword crossed his flesh.

The Lion of Rome had fought with a naked soul until his own spirit ran out of fuel, extinguishing itself at the pinnacle of glory. Nobutsuna felt no sorrow, nor pity, nor a single gram of sadness. His own smile widened, reflecting the same unhinged and grateful joy as the gladiator’s. They had crossed the abyss together, and both had found what they were looking for.

The silence that had frozen Purgatory shattered into a thousand pieces when the commentator’s floating VIP station descended at full speed, stopping just above the arena crater.

Nike, the Goddess of Victory, adjusted her glasses and spun her golden microphone in her hand, overflowing with a wild and fun energy.

— ¡¡¡AND THERE YOU HAVE IT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, GODS AND MORTALS!!! —Nike’s voice resonated through the speakers, making the stands vibrate—. ¡¡WHAT A FUCKING SPECTACLE TO OPEN THIS TOURNAMENT!! ¡Divine swordsmanship against Roman brute force! ..

¡¡The official time for this first and destructive combat has been 23 minutes and 47 seconds of pure ecstasy!!...

¡The Lion of Rome, Flamma, has been left lying in the arena after pushing his body beyond the human, but the Saint of the Sword opened the gates of heaven itself with his incomparable TENKAKU NO MON! ¡What a way to inaugurate the first round, by the gods!.

¡¡THE UNDISPUTED WINNER OF THIS ROUND IS...

KAMIIZUMI ISE-NO-KAMI NOBUTSUNA!!

At the goddess’s shout, the coliseum’s sky exploded in a massive display of crimson and golden fireworks. The human crowd erupted in a deafening roar of cheers and applause that shook the structure.

Below, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna exhaled a long sigh and began to turn around, adjusting his katana at his waist with his only useful arm, ready to walk back toward the tunnel. However, before taking the first step, a faint sound behind him stopped him. The samurai looked over his shoulder. Flamma, his eyes barely slitted and a grimace of annoyance painted on his bloodied face, watched the sparkle of the fireworks.

— ahh... those damn lights... they won’t let me die in peace... —the Roman articulated with a thread of harsh voice, letting out a small laugh that made him cough up a bit of blood.

Kamiizumi did not say a single word. He simply turned his face fully toward him and offered him a gentle, complicit smile charged with infinite respect.

At that instant, the arena’s main gates opened wide. From the back of the tunnel, Purgatory’s advanced medical squad entered at full speed: the Seraphim.

Both men and women advanced in crisp white nursing uniforms, wearing a large emblem of two crossed serpents on their chests, making a clear reference to the god of medicine. Their appearance was disturbingly beautiful: they did not wear cloth masks, but instead, from the sides of their heads sprouted majestic white, feathered wings that curved forward, completely covering their faces in a celestial and hermetic design.

The squad divided with precision. Three Seraphim deployed a floating stretcher that emitted a soft technological hum and attempted, with gentle but firm movements, to get Kamiizumi to sit on it to treat his shattered arm and the cuts on his sides. However, the old master simply ignored them with a gentle smile. He passed right by the angelic nurses and continued his slow and steady walk toward the gloom of the human tunnel, until his silhouette was completely lost in the darkness, remaining standing as the Saint of the Sword that he was.

Meanwhile, the rest of the squad surrounded Flamma’s body as it lay on the ground. Two nurses applied Coagulant gels immediately over his open chest and shattered cheek to stabilize his vital signs, while another Seraph, with utmost delicacy and respect for the fallen warrior, knelt a few meters away to lift the Roman’s amputated arm from the sand, placing it in a floating cryogenic container. They knew Purgatory’s technology could still save him, but the Lion of Rome had already left his eternal mark on the arena.

​

Chapter 7: Colors in the Abyss

The sand-laden wind blew between them, kicking up fine curtains of dust that danced in the space separating them. The scene had become strangely clean, stripped of all the tournament’s noise. Neither the roar of the crowd nor the fate of the world mattered anymore. Only two men remained in their purest state. Two weapons. Two souls. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna held his katana with both hands, blood dripping from his shoulder and from the "X" on his chest, but with a peace in his gaze he hadn’t felt in five hundred years.

Opposite him, Flamma held his gladius steady, his arm raised, his torso open and bathed in blood and sweat, but his eyes were more alive than ever after having discarded his shield. They looked at each other in absolute silence, joined by an invisible bond of gratitude and mutual respect. The man in front of each of them was no longer an enemy; he was the friend and rival they had waited an eternity for.

From the highest point of the deities' stands, the camera focused on the VIP box, where the silence was just as dense. Ares, the God of War, was leaned completely over the marble railing. His hands gripped the stone so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His eyes were wide, bulging, and thick tears of pure euphoria and shock rolled down his cheeks, unchecked. For the God of War, the earthly world had vanished: before his divine sight, the souls of Flamma and Kamiizumi were shining with crimson and golden colors so intense, warm, and wild that they dazzled the entire coliseum.

Behind him, Hades, the God of the Underworld, opened his eyes completely, which until then had remained half-closed in an expression of eternal boredom. Seeing the intensity of the two mortals and his nephew’s reaction, the king of the dead broke his monotony. He leaned forward, widening his somber eyes, intrigued by what he was witnessing.

— Ares... —Hades murmured, with a deep, measured voice that denoted genuine curiosity—. Look at them. Their bodies are shattered, on the verge of collapse. Yet... why? Why did their fighting spirits ignite with such force right at this moment, when they are closest to death?

Ares did not look away from the arena for a single millisecond. The tears kept running down his face, but a smile of absolute pride and self-satisfaction played on his lips as he answered, his voice trembling with emotion:

— That’s it, Uncle. That’s what makes humans such damnably interesting beings —the God of War declared, watching as the colors of the two souls merged in the center of the arena—.

It doesn't matter what damage they take or how much strength they have left. When they find their equal, the will to give themselves completely makes their souls explode in a glorious chaos. They are no longer fighting just to survive, Uncle... They are fighting because, at last, they feel alive.

Hades fell silent, assimilating his nephew’s words. For the first time in the entire round, a subtle but perceptible smile, loaded with a joy he rarely showed, appeared on the face of the ruler of Tartarus.

— Yes, it is glorious... —Hades admitted, returning his full attention to the playing field—. But tell me, Ares, under your gaze... who do you think will win this round? The young gladiator who has found a 'why' for his struggle, or the old samurai who has regained his fire?

The question hung in the air, floating over the divine boxes like a decree, as the scene descended abruptly toward the arena, where the air became unbreathable. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna’s aura exploded in all directions in an oppressive and frigid emanation, ready to begin the final dance.

In the center of the arena, time seemed to freeze for one last time. Nobutsuna, with his katana raised, and Flamma, with his gladius forward, remained motionless for a heartbeat. From the samurai’s open shoulder, a dense drop of crimson blood fell; from the Roman’s cracked chest, another one just like it. Both fell in unison, crossing the air in an imaginary slow motion until...

Tock…..

And then, the entire coliseum exploded.

¡BOOOOOOOOM!

There were no announcements or warnings. The exchange began with wild mobility. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna dropped his center of gravity extremely low, almost grazing the ground with his knees, and sprinted at ground level with eerie speed, his katana pointing in a straight line directly toward Flamma’s neck in a deadly lunge.

The Roman reacted by pure instinct: instead of retreating, he threw himself to the ground with a brutal sweep of his right leg to destabilize the samurai’s base, forcing Kamiizumi to perform an acrobatic leap into the air to avoid losing his balance. While floating, the old man spun on his own axis, descending with a whirlwind of slashes.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: KAGE MUSUBI (Shadow Knot)!—

The katana moved with such absurd fluidity that it seemed to create dark replicas in the air, invisible slashes that lurked from every angle. But Flamma, on the ground, rolled to one side and sprang back up, unleashing his counterattack with blind fury.

— ¡GLADIATOR STYLE: RUBER FLAMEN (Crimson Burst)!—

His gladius traced arcs of violent, heavy, and burning light, intercepting the shadowy attacks in a display of brute force. Sparks flew like fireworks between the two, illuminating their faces. And in the middle of that whirlwind of death, both were smiling.

— Faster, Roman! Faster! —Nobutsuna laughed, his eyes shining with pure regained youth.

— Don't you dare die on me ahead of time, old man! Hahaha! —Flamma roared, teeth clenched in a grimace of pure euphoria.

Kamiizumi flowed like water, tilting his body to slide past Flamma’s unprotected flank. With an impeccable flick of his wrist, the katana left a silver trace in the air that deeply tore the Roman’s back, drawing a jet of blood. Any other man would have fallen to his knees, but Flamma was a gladiator. Taking advantage of the short distance after the impact, Flamma let out a guttural roar, spun on his heels, and, in the purest, dirtiest style of a mud-caked street fight, threw a brutal punch with his bare left hand, straight at the samurai’s face.

¡POOOOW!

Flamma’s iron fist hit Nobutsuna square on the cheek. The blow was so tremendous it knocked several of the old man’s teeth out and sent him reeling backward, dragging his feet across the sand. Blood and saliva splattered the ground.

In the stands, the human sector was completely out of control. Humans screamed with fists held high, infected by the madness unfolding below. Meanwhile, in the more VIP and secluded areas of the coliseum, away from the crowd, several dark figures remained seated in the gloom. They did not scream, they did not applaud. They only stared fixedly at the holographic screens installed in their seats, analyzing every drop of blood, every technique, and every millisecond of that clash between the Lion of Rome and the Saint of the Sword with a cold and mysterious interest.

Below, Kamiizumi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His smile became even more unhinged, floating in the ecstasy of the combat. The exchange did not stop. Kamiizumi began to switch styles at a vertiginous speed: he went from a downward slash to an oblique lunge, mutating the trajectory of his blade mid-air. Flamma, his torso bathed in sweat and blood, was forced to calculate to the millimeter. He knew perfectly well that the samurai was much faster than him; he could not compete in pure speed. His only option was to predict the deadliest slashes, taking the superficial cuts on his shoulders and arms to protect his neck and heart.

— "He is too fast..." — Flamma thought, as the steel whistled millimeters from his eyes—. "His sword has no weight, it flows like the wind. If I just keep defending, he’s going to dismember me any second. I have to stop his rhythm... I have to force him to stop at any cost!"

Nobutsuna, for his part, felt astonishing pressure. The gladiator was not moving with refined technique, but with a primitive instinct so pure that it managed to counter his divine swordsmanship, responding to the samurai’s ecstasy with unshakable euphoria. Determined to end the siege, the Saint of the Sword stepped forward, unleashing the storm.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: SOKOKU NO ARASHI (Overwhelming Fog Storm)! —

The katana turned into a silver whirlwind that fell with an implacable downward trajectory toward the Roman’s skull. But Flamma did not dodge. He did something that left the entire coliseum in shock. He opened his jaws and, with a horrific crunch, caught the edge of the katana straight between his teeth.

¡CRACK!

Nobutsuna’s steel stopped dead, wedged between the gladiator’s jaw. The momentum of the sword was so brutal that the edge began to deeply tear Flamma’s left cheek, causing blood to spurt from the corners of his mouth, staining his teeth red. Yet, despite the agonizing pain, the Roman’s eyes shone with a demonic light.

— I... got you...! —Flamma articulated gutturally between the steel and the blood, with a look of pure insanity.

Kamiizumi Nobutsuna’s eyes widened, losing all composure from the surprise. At that very instant, Flamma concentrated all the energy of his spirit into his left arm, which firmly held the gladius. Remembering the internal pressure with which he had deformed his legs in his first great attack, he replicated the process in his upper extremity: he drove the — DEVOURER OF SKIES — into his arm, hardening every muscle fiber to such an extreme level that the muscles began to tear and break internally, inflating his veins like exposed roots.

Seeing that monstrous hypertrophy and the colossal pressure concentrated in the weapon, the wrinkles on Kamiizumi’s face tightened. He instantly remembered the weight of the first wound on his chest.

— "Is he going to use that technique again...?!" — the old man thought, his heart pounding against his chest with wild violence.

Sensing danger, Kamiizumi used all his strength to pull on his katana’s hilt, seeking to free it. The steel completely tore through the flesh of the Roman’s cheek as it pulled free, but the Lion of Rome had already initiated his arc. With a roar that shook the foundations of Purgatory, Flamma unleashed a devastating horizontal slash with his sword.

— ¡GLADIATOR STYLE: SOL ARDENS AESTATIS: MOLES INVICTA (Burning Summer Sun: Invincible Force)! —

Nobutsuna, in a desperate reflex act, crossed his katana with both hands overhead to cushion the colossally trajectory of the impact.

¡¡¡BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The clash of metals was so massive that the katana’s blade vibrated and shook violently under the Roman’s tectonic pressure. The block stopped the gladius’s direct edge, but the shockwave and the residual air pressure of the attack were so sharp and destructive that they passed right through, deeply cutting Kamiizumi in the sides of his torso and shattering the flesh of his left shoulder.

The tremendous collision created a gigantic curtain of smoke and dust. When the wind began to dissipate the fog, the scene became macabre.

Kamiizumi was still standing, but his left arm, left completely useless and bathed in blood, slumped heavily to his side, hanging limp and inert. The old master fixed his gaze on the gray sky of Purgatory while a large mouthful of crimson blood escaped his lips, staining his beard and chest.

However, after spitting out the thread of life he had left, his eyes filled with an infinite peace. He lowered his gaze toward the gladiator and, with his only useful arm holding the katana, performed a slow, deep bow, charged with a solemn weight. The Saint of the Sword was bowing before the Roman.

— Jojo... —he let out a soft, hoarse laugh, full of absolute respect, as he sheathed his katana back into its scabbard with a clean click—. You truly are an impressive boy, Flamma-dono... Jojo.

In the human stands, the samurai from the 15th and 16th centuries widened their eyes, murmuring to each other in disbelief:

— Did you hear that...? The master... has bowed to the foreigner and called him "-dono". He is treating him with the highest honor that exists in our land...

Below, Kamiizumi glanced toward the box where Hades watched the battle in silence.

— I do not regret in the absolute having listened to that beautiful nymph they sent to fetch me from the afterlife... Jojo. So... I thank you infinitely, Flamma-dono. You have cleared the boredom from my soul. And as a show of my most sincere appreciation... I will show you the pinnacle of my path of the sword.

Opposite him, Flamma, with his left cheek completely torn where the katana had exited and his left arm trembling from the destructive effort, smiled back. With his right hand, he tightened his grip on his gladius, wiping the mixture of sweat and blood from his face.

— I suppose... the time has come to end this... Isn't that right, Saint of the Sword? —replied the Lion of Rome, planting his caligae firmly in the sand for the final exchange.

The atmosphere in the coliseum became solid, heavy, almost mystical. The macabre wounds deforming their bodies no longer mattered; in the middle of the pain and the limits of the flesh, both warriors were smiling with their eyes more alive and ignited than ever. On the threshold of death, they felt more awake than in all their centuries of rest.

Flamma took a step back, planting his caligae in the sand. His left arm was damaged, covered in wounds that dripped threads of blood, but it responded to his will. With his right hand fused to the gladius’s hilt, the Lion of Rome pushed the — DEVOURER OF SKIES — to the absolute limit of existence, spreading the pressure throughout his being.

Every muscle in his anatomy began to contract and move with violent spasms, devouring the air around him. The internal pressure of the technique became so massive that the wounds on his chest and back tore open even further, letting out spurts of fresh blood that covered his skin like crimson armor. The Roman’s arm creaked under the effort, tearing itself apart from its own strength. His eyes turned an absolute white, stripping away any trace of humanity to become the brute force of the universe concentrated in one man.

Opposite him, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna assimilated the immensity of that energy. With his left arm shattered and limp at his side, the old man adjusted his center of gravity. Keeping his katana sheathed in the saya, he placed his right hand on the hilt. He settled his feet into a perfect drawing stance, a monolithic base that did not require his injured limb. The Saint of the Sword closed his eyes, concentrating the entire universe into the millimeter of steel that rested hidden.

— ¡¡¡DEVOURER OF SKIES!!! —Flamma roared with his entire soul, cracking the arena’s foundations as he propelled himself forward like a meteorite of blood.

At the very same millisecond, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna charged from his drawing stance. In that supreme instant, both of their minds emptied completely. There was no hatred in that last blow; there were no doubts, nor contempt, nor sorrow. To the spectators in the stands, what was about to occur was a mutual execution, but to those two, the universe had reduced itself to a sacred canvas.

They were two titans facing destiny, two spirits who knew no fear. In that infinitesimal space where force met its mirror, there was no room for cruelty, only for absolute respect. And so, between the steel and the blood splattering the ground, on both of their faces a final smile full of gratitude was born.

Flamma advanced with his soul burning, discharging the gladius with all the seismic power of his body in a blow capable of splitting an ocean in half.

Nobutsuna waited. He waited until the last and impossible millisecond, maintaining an imperturbable calm even when he felt Flamma’s blade already tearing the skin of his forehead, making a thread of fresh blood run down his face. Right there, on the exact edge between life and death, the Saint of the Sword unleashed the pinnacle of his existence. His right hand moved in a divine flash.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: TENKAKU NO MON (Gate of Celestial Ascension)! —

The frontal slash flawlessly cut the air, stopping the wind currents and slicing the grains of sand that floated suspended in space. With terrifying, geometric precision, Kamiizumi’s steel split Flamma’s gladius in half; without losing force, the blade penetrated the webbing between his fingers and forced its way from his knuckles in a diagonal slash that completely detached the Roman’s arm. Without stopping the inertia, Nobutsuna performed a perfect pivot on his heels, drawing exact circles with his feet on the arena floor while his sword completed the trajectory: a horizontal blow that traversed Flamma’s torso, severing his armor from one shoulder guard to the other.

A massive amount of crimson blood spurted from the gladiator’s chest, staining the air red. Upon the impact, Flamma clenched his teeth with wild fury, trying to force his muscles to move for a following attack, wanting to keep fighting out of pure survival instinct. But his body no longer responded. His fighting spirit, taken beyond the absolute limit, was exhausted first.

The Lion of Rome fell heavily backward onto the ground, his eyes completely blank and fixed on nothing. He was totally unconscious long before having received the final slash to his chest. His mind had simply shut down from the superhuman effort.

The wind blew, dissipating the dust. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna, standing a few steps away, lowered his bloodied katana. Upon looking at the Roman’s sprawled body and noticing the smile of pure happiness that had remained etched on his face, the old samurai’s eyes widened with electrifying astonishment. A vibration of pure ecstasy ran through Kamiizumi’s body, who immediately realized: Flamma was no longer conscious when the sword crossed his flesh.

The Lion of Rome had fought with a naked soul until his own spirit ran out of fuel, extinguishing itself at the pinnacle of glory. Nobutsuna felt no sorrow, nor pity, nor a single gram of sadness. His own smile widened, reflecting the same unhinged and grateful joy as the gladiator’s. They had crossed the abyss together, and both had found what they were looking for.

The silence that had frozen Purgatory shattered into a thousand pieces when the commentator’s floating VIP station descended at full speed, stopping just above the arena crater.

Nike, the Goddess of Victory, adjusted her glasses and spun her golden microphone in her hand, overflowing with a wild and fun energy.

— ¡¡¡AND THERE YOU HAVE IT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, GODS AND MORTALS!!! —Nike’s voice resonated through the speakers, making the stands vibrate—. ¡¡WHAT A FUCKING SPECTACLE TO OPEN THIS TOURNAMENT!! ¡Divine swordsmanship against Roman brute force! ¡¡The official time for this first and destructive combat has been 23 minutes and 47 seconds of pure ecstasy!!

¡The Lion of Rome, Flamma, has been left lying in the arena after pushing his body beyond the human, but the Saint of the Sword opened the gates of heaven itself with his incomparable TENKAKU NO MON! ¡What a way to inaugurate the first round, by the gods!.

¡¡THE UNDISPUTED WINNER OF THIS ROUND IS...

KAMIIZUMI ISE-NO-KAMI NOBUTSUNA!!

At the goddess’s shout, the coliseum’s sky exploded in a massive display of crimson and golden fireworks. The human crowd erupted in a deafening roar of cheers and applause that shook the structure.

Below, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna exhaled a long sigh and began to turn around, adjusting his katana at his waist with his only useful arm, ready to walk back toward the tunnel. However, before taking the first step, a faint sound behind him stopped him. The samurai looked over his shoulder. Flamma, his eyes barely slitted and a grimace of annoyance painted on his bloodied face, watched the sparkle of the fireworks.

— ahh... those damn lights... they won’t let me die in peace... —the Roman articulated with a thread of harsh voice, letting out a small laugh that made him cough up a bit of blood.

Kamiizumi did not say a single word. He simply turned his face fully toward him and offered him a gentle, complicit smile charged with infinite respect.

At that instant, the arena’s main gates opened wide. From the back of the tunnel, Purgatory’s advanced medical squad entered at full speed: the Seraphim.

Both men and women advanced in crisp white nursing uniforms, wearing a large emblem of two crossed serpents on their chests, making a clear reference to the god of medicine. Their appearance was disturbingly beautiful: they did not wear cloth masks, but instead, from the sides of their heads sprouted majestic white, feathered wings that curved forward, completely covering their faces in a celestial and hermetic design.

The squad divided with precision. Three Seraphim deployed a floating stretcher that emitted a soft technological hum and attempted, with gentle but firm movements, to get Kamiizumi to sit on it to treat his shattered arm and the cuts on his sides. However, the old master simply ignored them with a gentle smile. He passed right by the angelic nurses and continued his slow and steady walk toward the gloom of the human tunnel, until his silhouette was completely lost in the darkness, remaining standing as the Saint of the Sword that he was.

Meanwhile, the rest of the squad surrounded Flamma’s body as it lay on the ground. Two nurses applied Coagulant gels immediately over his open chest and shattered cheek to stabilize his vital signs, while another Seraph, with utmost delicacy and respect for the fallen warrior, knelt a few meters away to lift the Roman’s amputated arm from the sand, placing it in a floating cryogenic container. They knew Purgatory’s technology could still save him, but the Lion of Rome had already left his eternal mark on the arena.

​

Chapter 7: Colors in the Abyss

The sand-laden wind blew between them, kicking up fine curtains of dust that danced in the space separating them. The scene had become strangely clean, stripped of all the tournament’s noise. Neither the roar of the crowd nor the fate of the world mattered anymore. Only two men remained in their purest state. Two weapons. Two souls. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna held his katana with both hands, blood dripping from his shoulder and from the "X" on his chest, but with a peace in his gaze he hadn’t felt in five hundred years.

Opposite him, Flamma held his gladius steady, his arm raised, his torso open and bathed in blood and sweat, but his eyes were more alive than ever after having discarded his shield. They looked at each other in absolute silence, joined by an invisible bond of gratitude and mutual respect. The man in front of each of them was no longer an enemy; he was the friend and rival they had waited an eternity for.

From the highest point of the deities' stands, the camera focused on the VIP box, where the silence was just as dense. Ares, the God of War, was leaned completely over the marble railing. His hands gripped the stone so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His eyes were wide, bulging, and thick tears of pure euphoria and shock rolled down his cheeks, unchecked. For the God of War, the earthly world had vanished: before his divine sight, the souls of Flamma and Kamiizumi were shining with crimson and golden colors so intense, warm, and wild that they dazzled the entire coliseum.

Behind him, Hades, the God of the Underworld, opened his eyes completely, which until then had remained half-closed in an expression of eternal boredom. Seeing the intensity of the two mortals and his nephew’s reaction, the king of the dead broke his monotony. He leaned forward, widening his somber eyes, intrigued by what he was witnessing.

— Ares... —Hades murmured, with a deep, measured voice that denoted genuine curiosity—. Look at them. Their bodies are shattered, on the verge of collapse. Yet... why? Why did their fighting spirits ignite with such force right at this moment, when they are closest to death?

Ares did not look away from the arena for a single millisecond. The tears kept running down his face, but a smile of absolute pride and self-satisfaction played on his lips as he answered, his voice trembling with emotion:

— That’s it, Uncle. That’s what makes humans such damnably interesting beings —the God of War declared, watching as the colors of the two souls merged in the center of the arena—. It doesn't matter what damage they take or how much strength they have left. When they find their equal, the will to give themselves completely makes their souls explode in a glorious chaos. They are no longer fighting just to survive, Uncle... They are fighting because, at last, they feel alive.

Hades fell silent, assimilating his nephew’s words. For the first time in the entire round, a subtle but perceptible smile, loaded with a joy he rarely showed, appeared on the face of the ruler of Tartarus.

— Yes, it is glorious... —Hades admitted, returning his full attention to the playing field—. But tell me, Ares, under your gaze... who do you think will win this round? The young gladiator who has found a 'why' for his struggle, or the old samurai who has regained his fire?

The question hung in the air, floating over the divine boxes like a decree, as the scene descended abruptly toward the arena, where the air became unbreathable. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna’s aura exploded in all directions in an oppressive and frigid emanation, ready to begin the final dance.

In the center of the arena, time seemed to freeze for one last time. Nobutsuna, with his katana raised, and Flamma, with his gladius forward, remained motionless for a heartbeat. From the samurai’s open shoulder, a dense drop of crimson blood fell; from the Roman’s cracked chest, another one just like it. Both fell in unison, crossing the air in an imaginary slow motion until...

Tock…..

And then, the entire coliseum exploded.

¡BOOOOOOOOM!

There were no announcements or warnings. The exchange began with wild mobility. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna dropped his center of gravity extremely low, almost grazing the ground with his knees, and sprinted at ground level with eerie speed, his katana pointing in a straight line directly toward Flamma’s neck in a deadly lunge.

The Roman reacted by pure instinct: instead of retreating, he threw himself to the ground with a brutal sweep of his right leg to destabilize the samurai’s base, forcing Kamiizumi to perform an acrobatic leap into the air to avoid losing his balance. While floating, the old man spun on his own axis, descending with a whirlwind of slashes.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: KAGE MUSUBI (Shadow Knot)! —

The katana moved with such absurd fluidity that it seemed to create dark replicas in the air, invisible slashes that lurked from every angle. But Flamma, on the ground, rolled to one side and sprang back up, unleashing his counterattack with blind fury.

— ¡GLADIATOR STYLE: RUBER FLAMEN (Crimson Burst)! —

His gladius traced arcs of violent, heavy, and burning light, intercepting the shadowy attacks in a display of brute force. Sparks flew like fireworks between the two, illuminating their faces. And in the middle of that whirlwind of death, both were smiling.

— Faster, Roman! Faster! —Nobutsuna laughed, his eyes shining with pure regained youth.

— Don't you dare die on me ahead of time, old man! Hahaha! —Flamma roared, teeth clenched in a grimace of pure euphoria.

Kamiizumi flowed like water, tilting his body to slide past Flamma’s unprotected flank. With an impeccable flick of his wrist, the katana left a silver trace in the air that deeply tore the Roman’s back, drawing a jet of blood. Any other man would have fallen to his knees, but Flamma was a gladiator. Taking advantage of the short distance after the impact, Flamma let out a guttural roar, spun on his heels, and, in the purest, dirtiest style of a mud-caked street fight, threw a brutal punch with his bare left hand, straight at the samurai’s face.

¡POOOOOW!

Flamma’s iron fist hit Nobutsuna square on the cheek. The blow was so tremendous it knocked several of the old man’s teeth out and sent him reeling backward, dragging his feet across the sand. Blood and saliva splattered the ground.

In the stands, the human sector was completely out of control. Humans screamed with fists held high, infected by the madness unfolding below. Meanwhile, in the more VIP and secluded areas of the coliseum, away from the crowd, several dark figures remained seated in the gloom. They did not scream, they did not applaud. They only stared fixedly at the holographic screens installed in their seats, analyzing every drop of blood, every technique, and every millisecond of that clash between the Lion of Rome and the Saint of the Sword with a cold and mysterious interest.

Below, Kamiizumi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His smile became even more unhinged, floating in the ecstasy of the combat. The exchange did not stop. Kamiizumi began to switch styles at a vertiginous speed: he went from a downward slash to an oblique lunge, mutating the trajectory of his blade mid-air. Flamma, his torso bathed in sweat and blood, was forced to calculate to the millimeter. He knew perfectly well that the samurai was much faster than him; he could not compete in pure speed. His only option was to predict the deadliest slashes, taking the superficial cuts on his shoulders and arms to protect his neck and heart.

— "He is too fast..." — Flamma thought, as the steel whistled millimeters from his eyes—. "His sword has no weight, it flows like the wind. If I just keep defending, he’s going to dismember me any second. I have to stop his rhythm... I have to force him to stop at any cost!"

Nobutsuna, for his part, felt astonishing pressure. The gladiator was not moving with refined technique, but with a primitive instinct so pure that it managed to counter his divine swordsmanship, responding to the samurai’s ecstasy with unshakable euphoria. Determined to end the siege, the Saint of the Sword stepped forward, unleashing the storm.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: SOKOKU NO ARASHI (Overwhelming Fog Storm)! —

The katana turned into a silver whirlwind that fell with an implacable downward trajectory toward the Roman’s skull. But Flamma did not dodge. He did something that left the entire coliseum in shock. He opened his jaws and, with a horrific crunch, caught the edge of the katana straight between his teeth.

¡CRACK!

Nobutsuna’s steel stopped dead, wedged between the gladiator’s jaw. The momentum of the sword was so brutal that the edge began to deeply tear Flamma’s left cheek, causing blood to spurt from the corners of his mouth, staining his teeth red. Yet, despite the agonizing pain, the Roman’s eyes shone with a demonic light.

— I... got you...! —Flamma articulated gutturally between the steel and the blood, with a look of pure insanity.

Kamiizumi Nobutsuna’s eyes widened, losing all composure from the surprise.

At that very instant, Flamma concentrated all the energy of his spirit into his left arm, which firmly held the gladius. Remembering the internal pressure with which he had deformed his legs in his first great attack, he replicated the process in his upper extremity: he drove the — DEVOURER OF SKIES — into his arm, hardening every muscle fiber to such an extreme level that the muscles began to tear and break internally, inflating his veins like exposed roots.

Seeing that monstrous hypertrophy and the colossal pressure concentrated in the weapon, the wrinkles on Kamiizumi’s face tightened. He instantly remembered the weight of the first wound on his chest.

— "Is he going to use that technique again...?!" — the old man thought, his heart pounding against his chest with wild violence.

Sensing danger, Kamiizumi used all his strength to pull on his katana’s hilt, seeking to free it. The steel completely tore through the flesh of the Roman’s cheek as it pulled free, but the Lion of Rome had already initiated his arc. With a roar that shook the foundations of Purgatory, Flamma unleashed a devastating horizontal slash with his sword.

— ¡GLADIATOR STYLE: SOL ARDENS AESTATIS: MOLES INVICTA (Burning Summer Sun: Invincible Force)! —

Nobutsuna, in a desperate reflex act, crossed his katana with both hands overhead to cushion the colossally trajectory of the impact.

¡¡¡BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The clash of metals was so massive that the katana’s blade vibrated and shook violently under the Roman’s tectonic pressure. The block stopped the gladius’s direct edge, but the shockwave and the residual air pressure of the attack were so sharp and destructive that they passed right through, deeply cutting Kamiizumi in the sides of his torso and shattering the flesh of his left shoulder.

The tremendous collision created a gigantic curtain of smoke and dust. When the wind began to dissipate the fog, the scene became macabre.

Kamiizumi was still standing, but his left arm, left completely useless and bathed in blood, slumped heavily to his side, hanging limp and inert. The old master fixed his gaze on the gray sky of Purgatory while a large mouthful of crimson blood escaped his lips, staining his beard and chest.

However, after spitting out the thread of life he had left, his eyes filled with an infinite peace. He lowered his gaze toward the gladiator and, with his only useful arm holding the katana, performed a slow, deep bow, charged with a solemn weight. The Saint of the Sword was bowing before the Roman.

— Jojo... —he let out a soft, hoarse laugh, full of absolute respect, as he sheathed his katana back into its scabbard with a clean click—. You truly are an impressive boy, Flamma-dono... Jojo.

In the human stands, the samurai from the 15th and 16th centuries widened their eyes, murmuring to each other in disbelief:

— Did you hear that...? The master... has bowed to the foreigner and called him "-dono". He is treating him with the highest honor that exists in our land...

Below, Kamiizumi glanced toward the box where Hades watched the battle in silence.

— I do not regret in the absolute having listened to that beautiful nymph they sent to fetch me from the afterlife... Jojo. So... I thank you infinitely, Flamma-dono. You have cleared the boredom from my soul. And as a show of my most sincere appreciation... I will show you the pinnacle of my path of the sword.

Opposite him, Flamma, with his left cheek completely torn where the katana had exited and his left arm trembling from the destructive effort, smiled back. With his right hand, he tightened his grip on his gladius, wiping the mixture of sweat and blood from his face.

— I suppose... the time has come to end this... Isn't that right, Saint of the Sword? —replied the Lion of Rome, planting his caligae firmly in the sand for the final exchange.

The atmosphere in the coliseum became solid, heavy, almost mystical. The macabre wounds deforming their bodies no longer mattered; in the middle of the pain and the limits of the flesh, both warriors were smiling with their eyes more alive and ignited than ever. On the threshold of death, they felt more awake than in all their centuries of rest.

Flamma took a step back, planting his caligae in the sand. His left arm was damaged, covered in wounds that dripped threads of blood, but it responded to his will. With his right hand fused to the gladius’s hilt, the Lion of Rome pushed the — DEVOURER OF SKIES — to the absolute limit of existence, spreading the pressure throughout his being.

Every muscle in his anatomy began to contract and move with violent spasms, devouring the air around him. The internal pressure of the technique became so massive that the wounds on his chest and back tore open even further, letting out spurts of fresh blood that covered his skin like crimson armor. The Roman’s arm creaked under the effort, tearing itself apart from its own strength. His eyes turned an absolute white, stripping away any trace of humanity to become the brute force of the universe concentrated in one man.

Opposite him, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna assimilated the immensity of that energy. With his left arm shattered and limp at his side, the old man adjusted his center of gravity. Keeping his katana sheathed in the saya, he placed his right hand on the hilt. He settled his feet into a perfect drawing stance, a monolithic base that did not require his injured limb. The Saint of the Sword closed his eyes, concentrating the entire universe into the millimeter of steel that rested hidden.

— ¡¡¡DEVOURER OF SKIES!!! —Flamma roared with his entire soul, cracking the arena’s foundations as he propelled himself forward like a meteorite of blood.

At the very same millisecond, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna charged from his drawing stance. In that supreme instant, both of their minds emptied completely. There was no hatred in that last blow; there were no doubts, nor contempt, nor sorrow. To the spectators in the stands, what was about to occur was a mutual execution, but to those two, the universe had reduced itself to a sacred canvas.

They were two titans facing destiny, two spirits who knew no fear. In that infinitesimal space where force met its mirror, there was no room for cruelty, only for absolute respect. And so, between the steel and the blood splattering the ground, on both of their faces a final smile full of gratitude was born.

Flamma advanced with his soul burning, discharging the gladius with all the seismic power of his body in a blow capable of splitting an ocean in half.

Nobutsuna waited. He waited until the last and impossible millisecond, maintaining an imperturbable calm even when he felt Flamma’s blade already tearing the skin of his forehead, making a thread of fresh blood run down his face. Right there, on the exact edge between life and death, the Saint of the Sword unleashed the pinnacle of his existence. His right hand moved in a divine flash.

— ¡SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: TENKAKU NO MON (Gate of Celestial Ascension)! —

The frontal slash flawlessly cut the air, stopping the wind currents and slicing the grains of sand that floated suspended in space. With terrifying, geometric precision, Kamiizumi’s steel split Flamma’s gladius in half; without losing force, the blade penetrated the webbing between his fingers and forced its way from his knuckles in a diagonal slash that completely detached the Roman’s arm. Without stopping the inertia, Nobutsuna performed a perfect pivot on his heels, drawing exact circles with his feet on the arena floor while his sword completed the trajectory: a horizontal blow that traversed Flamma’s torso, severing his armor from one shoulder guard to the other.

A massive amount of crimson blood spurted from the gladiator’s chest, staining the air red. Upon the impact, Flamma clenched his teeth with wild fury, trying to force his muscles to move for a following attack, wanting to keep fighting out of pure survival instinct. But his body no longer responded. His fighting spirit, taken beyond the absolute limit, was exhausted first.

The Lion of Rome fell heavily backward onto the ground, his eyes completely blank and fixed on nothing. He was totally unconscious long before having received the final slash to his chest. His mind had simply shut down from the superhuman effort.

The wind blew, dissipating the dust. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna, standing a few steps away, lowered his bloodied katana. Upon looking at the Roman’s sprawled body and noticing the smile of pure happiness that had remained etched on his face, the old samurai’s eyes widened with electrifying astonishment. A vibration of pure ecstasy ran through Kamiizumi’s body, who immediately realized: Flamma was no longer conscious when the sword crossed his flesh.

The Lion of Rome had fought with a naked soul until his own spirit ran out of fuel, extinguishing itself at the pinnacle of glory. Nobutsuna felt no sorrow, nor pity, nor a single gram of sadness. His own smile widened, reflecting the same unhinged and grateful joy as the gladiator’s. They had crossed the abyss together, and both had found what they were looking for.

The silence that had frozen Purgatory shattered into a thousand pieces when the commentator’s floating VIP station descended at full speed, stopping just above the arena crater.

Nike, the Goddess of Victory, adjusted her glasses and spun her golden microphone in her hand, overflowing with a wild and fun energy.

— ¡¡¡AND THERE YOU HAVE IT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, GODS AND MORTALS!!! —Nike’s voice resonated through the speakers, making the stands vibrate—. ¡¡WHAT A FUCKING SPECTACLE TO OPEN THIS TOURNAMENT!! ¡Divine swordsmanship against Roman brute force!..

¡¡The official time for this first and destructive combat has been 23 minutes and 47 seconds of pure ecstasy!!

¡The Lion of Rome, Flamma, has been left lying in the arena after pushing his body beyond the human, but the Saint of the Sword opened the gates of heaven itself with his incomparable TENKAKU NO MON! ¡What a way to inaugurate the first round, by the gods!.

¡¡THE UNDISPUTED WINNER OF THIS ROUND IS...

KAMIIZUMI ISE-NO-KAMI NOBUTSUNA!!

¡

At the goddess’s shout, the coliseum’s sky exploded in a massive display of crimson and golden fireworks. The human crowd erupted in a deafening roar of cheers and applause that shook the structure.

Below, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna exhaled a long sigh and began to turn around, adjusting his katana at his waist with his only useful arm, ready to walk back toward the tunnel. However, before taking the first step, a faint sound behind him stopped him. The samurai looked over his shoulder. Flamma, his eyes barely slitted and a grimace of annoyance painted on his bloodied face, watched the sparkle of the fireworks.

— ahh... those damn lights... they won’t let me die in peace... —the Roman articulated with a thread of harsh voice, letting out a small laugh that made him cough up a bit of blood.

Kamiizumi did not say a single word. He simply turned his face fully toward him and offered him a gentle, complicit smile charged with infinite respect.

At that instant, the arena’s main gates opened wide. From the back of the tunnel, Purgatory’s advanced medical squad entered at full speed: the Seraphim.

Both men and women advanced in crisp white nursing uniforms, wearing a large emblem of two crossed serpents on their chests, making a clear reference to the god of medicine. Their appearance was disturbingly beautiful: they did not wear cloth masks, but instead, from the sides of their heads sprouted majestic white, feathered wings that curved forward, completely covering their faces in a celestial and hermetic design.

The squad divided with precision. Three Seraphim deployed a floating stretcher that emitted a soft technological hum and attempted, with gentle but firm movements, to get Kamiizumi to sit on it to treat his shattered arm and the cuts on his sides. However, the old master simply ignored them with a gentle smile. He passed right by the angelic nurses and continued his slow and steady walk toward the gloom of the human tunnel, until his silhouette was completely lost in the darkness, remaining standing as the Saint of the Sword that he was.

Meanwhile, the rest of the squad surrounded Flamma’s body as it lay on the ground. Two nurses applied Coagulant gels immediately over his open chest and shattered cheek to stabilize his vital signs, while another Seraph, with utmost delicacy and respect for the fallen warrior, knelt a few meters away to lift the Roman’s amputated arm from the sand, placing it in a floating cryogenic container. They knew Purgatory’s technology could still save him, but the Lion of Rome had already left his eternal mark on the arena.

​

Chapter 6: The Desolate Peak

1508 AD. Kozuke Province, Japan.

The wind blew through the cherry blossoms of Kozuke, releasing petals that floated in the air. The landscape was beautiful, but for young Hidetsuna—the future Sword Saint—the world lacked grace.

In the estate courtyard, a hummingbird vibrated in front of a flower. To any human eye, the bird's wings were an invisible blur buzzing at high speed. To the boy, they were not. He sat on the wooden porch, resting his chin on his hand, with a look of absolute weariness.

— The rain fell as if it would last an eternity... the leaves descended with laziness... —the old, rasping voice of Nobutsuna resonates from the present in Purgatory, merging with the memory—. The other children's fists reached me with a slowness that was shameful to dodge. I didn't live. I only observed...

At that moment, the seven-year-old reached out his hand with insulting sluggishness. Zap! His fingers closed in the air. When he opened his hand, the hummingbird was trapped between his fingers, flapping its wings clumsily in the boy's eyes.

— How boring... —whispered the child Kamiizumi, in a voice devoid of any childhood emotion, releasing the bird without even looking at it—. Everything is so... slow...

From the dojo hallway, his father, Kamiizumi Hidetsugu, watched him with a mixture of concern and severity.

— Hidetsuna! —the man exclaimed, crossing his arms—. You are wasting your time staring into nothingness again. You seem so distracted. A warrior of our clan must have a focused mind, not wandering in the clouds.

— I'm sorry, father... —the boy replied mechanically, standing up.

— Your mother says you have the eyes of an old man who has already seen it all —sighed Hidetsugu, placing a hand on his son's shoulder—. Come with me to the forge. It is time for you to stop floating in the air.

The memory shifts settings. The sound of the wind through the trees transforms into the rhythmic hammering of metal and the roar of charcoal fire. The heat of the forge painted the walls an orange hue, and the blacksmiths sweated as they struck the iron for the clan's future weapons.

— He was right... —continues the voice of the old Nobutsuna—. There was nothing in this world that could make me feel a heartbeat in my chest. Until that day...

Hidetsugu approached a wooden table and picked up a freshly sharpened wakizashi. The steel shone impeccably, reflecting the furnace fire. He extended it to the boy, more as a game and to test his grip than anything else.

— Take it carefully, son. Feel the weight of the steel. This will be your path —said the father.

Little Hidetsuna stretched out his hands. But his mind, disconnected by chronic boredom, made a mistake. As he grabbed the weapon by the wrong side, the wakizashi's edge deeply slashed his left palm.

ZAP!

Crimson blood gushed instantly, dripping heavily onto the dirt and ash floor. However, the boy didn't even blink in surprise. His eyes widened, but not from pain.

— The pain was fast. So damn fast that my mind couldn't slow it down... —narrates the samurai in Purgatory, while the bloodlust of the present vibrates—. And in that second, I heard something. It wasn't a scream, nor the sound of falling blood. It was an electrifying hum that climbed up my arm, exploded in my chest, and screamed in my ear: "You are alive!". In that very instant, the gray world turned colorful for the first time.

Hidetsugu stepped back, his face completely pale and his eyes unhinged. The blacksmiths in the workshop dropped their hammers to the ground, frightened.

Amidst the sepulchral silence of the forge, the seven-year-old, with his open hand dripping blood, broke his mask of apathy. His mouth opened in a wide grimace, showing his teeth, and he began to laugh. It was an euphoric, disturbing laugh, thirsty for a sensation he had just discovered. It was the first time in his entire life he had emitted such a sound.

— Hahaha... hahahaha! —the boy's laughter resonates in the forge, and that same laughter transforms, echoed, into the unhinged laughter of the old Nobutsuna standing in the Purgatory arena, with blood-stained teeth in front of a terrified Flamma.

— Since that day... I didn't seek money, nor honor, nor a name that would resonate in history —sentences the voice from the present, while the Sword Saint's sickly bright eyes lock onto the Roman-. I only sought that. That electricity. That sacred instant where time stops mocking me... and lets me feel that I am breathing.

Year 1540.

At thirty, the name Kamiizumi Nobutsuna was already synonymous with terrifying talent, but for him, the way of the sword was a constant disappointment. He traveled through the provinces challenging the masters of every dojo, desperately seeking to revive the electric hum of his childhood. But it was useless. Before his eyes, the strikes of the most renowned swordsmen still seemed like heavy, predictable... sadly slow strokes.

Until he arrived in Hitachi province.

Standing before him was a samurai with a firm stance and a severe gaze, a true veteran who didn't falter at Kamiizumi's reputation. Both unsheathed. The wind held its breath.

Kamiizumi advanced, confident in his slowed perception. He saw the opponent's strike coming and prepared to dodge it with his usual millimeter precision. But then... the miracle happened.

SHING!

The samurai's blade didn't move to the rhythm of Kamiizumi's slow world. It broke the barrier of his perception. It was a fleeting flash, a line of pure silver that crossed the air at a speed his brain couldn't process in time. The enemy sword struck Kamiizumi's side, knocking him violently to the ground. Nobutsuna fell to his knees, his breath caught and a bleeding wound on his side. The pain was real. The defeat was real.

— You are fast, kid —said the samurai, sheathing his weapon—. But your mind relies too much on what it sees. Today, you lacked speed.

The samurai turned and walked away, but Kamiizumi didn't move from the ground. His eyes were wide with shock. He touched the wound and felt the warm blood, but what truly moved him was his chest: his heart was pounding against his ribs with wild force. *BUM, BUM, BUM!* The electricity had returned with triple the intensity. An uncontrollable euphoria ran through his veins.

— Yes...! —he thought, with a bloodied smile forming on his face—. Yes! I am the one who is slow! There is still a world beyond my speed!

From that day on, Kamiizumi became an obsessed demon. He didn't train for honor; he trained to reach and surpass that man, to feel the terror of death again. He fought duel after duel. He traveled through villages, challenged entire schools. He learned from every rival, devoured their styles, perfected his footwork, his grip, his reaction time. He won. He won one, ten, a hundred times. But the irony of destiny is a cruel mistress.

The more he sought that speed that had defeated him, the faster he became himself. He polished his path so much that, without realizing it, he began to surpass the limit of mortals. The rivals who had once required an effort from him soon returned to moving like clay statues.

The era of the great wars arrived. Nobutsuna led armies and plunged into the chaos of field battles, where death should be guaranteed. Spears, arrows, katanas, blood... everything flew around him.

And suddenly, in the middle of a bloody siege, the spell broke…

The sound of the battlefield seemed to fade away. Kamiizumi stopped dead in the middle of the hill. At his feet lay a grotesque mountain of fallen bodies, shattered armor, and swords stuck in the crimson-stained mud. He stood there, on top of the dead. Totally unscathed. Not a single drop of his own blood on his armor belonged to him.

He had an empty look, his clothes neglected from months of campaigning, and his face buried in a sepulchral boredom. He looked up at the gray sky, where clouds moved with exasperating slowness.

— Damn it... —he thought, with an unbearable void in his stomach—. It happened again. I'm alone again...

He had improved his style so much that the world had been left behind once again. His own perfection had locked him back into the prison of slow motion. No one in this world could make him bleed anymore.

Year 1560.

The years didn't spare his body, but they only served to sharpen his curse. At over fifty years old, Nobutsuna was no longer just a man; the entire country called him Kamiizumi, the "Divine Spring," a living sword god. He had founded the Shinkage-ryū style, and the best warriors in Japan traveled just to kneel before him.

But the old master only felt the weight of the centuries and an infinite tedium. It was in that time of maturity and old age that he made his final decision. He had the hikihada shinai made, a bamboo sword wrapped in leather, and sealed his real steel katana.

January 16, 1577. Yagyū Village, Japan.

Winter blew hard, but in the courtyard of the modest cabin, an old cherry tree stood firm, letting its last withered leaves fall onto the frozen ground.

Inside, reclining on a futon, the Sword Saint lay in his final moments of mortal life. His body, that temple of martial perfection that had survived a hundred battles and a thousand duels, was finally yielding to the weight of the years. His closest disciples surrounded the room in reverent silence, waiting for the last wise words of the man they considered a living god.

However, Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna was not looking at them. His gaze was fixed on the wooden ceiling, lost in the infinite. The world around him continued to move in that exasperating and eternal slow motion.

Suddenly, the old man opened his mouth and let out a long, deep yawn.

There was no fear in him. There was no regret, no pain, no peace. Only an infinite boredom that had accompanied him for decades. Mortal life had nothing left to offer him; it had become a book whose ending he knew before the pages began.

With one last effort, Nobutsuna turned his head slightly to look at the cherry tree through the open window. A faint sigh escaped his lips, dragging his final words in this world:

— I wonder... if there is anyone in the heavens... who can make me feel alive...

His eyes closed, and the Divine Spring dried up on earth. He died as he lived most of his existence: mired in absolute tedium, wishing that death would be the ticket to that lost electricity…

End of flashback

The memory of the peaceful village of Yagyū exploded into a thousand pieces, replaced by the roar of war drums and the deafening shouts of the arena. The cold winter wind of 1577 transforms into the hot, dense, bloodlust-laden air of Purgatory.

The old Nobutsuna of the present took a step forward. His katana was no longer sealed. The "X"-shaped wound Flamma carved into his chest dripped heavily, and that same mouth that had yawned in boredom on its deathbed centuries ago was now open in a grimace of pure insanity and happiness.

— I made a vow... —said Nobutsuna, his eyes overflowing with emotion—. I promised never to unsheathe true steel before any mortal again. I didn't do it out of mercy for them... I did it out of disgust for my own perfection. Unsheathing to cut flesh that moves like mud was an insult to the electricity I felt at seven years old...

— But you... You, Lion of Rome! —roars the old man, with a look of pure insanity and happiness—. You broke my slow motion! It's been centuries since anyone forced me to use steel! Make me feel alive again!

The Purgatory arena held its breath. Facing the Japanese legend's unhinged laughter, Flamma didn't step back, but cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead, mixing with the sand and dust. The Lion of Rome didn't see an old man; he saw a demon that had just escaped its prison of centuries.

— If you want to dance that badly, old man, I'll give you your damn electricity! —roared Flamma, tightening his grip on his shield.

Nobutsuna didn't respond with words. His body leaned forward and, in a blink, he disappeared from the spectators' view.

— SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: SOKOKU NO ARASHI (Sweeping Mist Storm)! —

The steel of Kamiizumi's katana transformed into a silver blur, a flurry of stunning strikes that fell upon the gladiator at an absurd, almost invisible speed. The air whistled as if thousands of invisible blades were tearing through the atmosphere.

CLANG! CLANG! SPARKS! CLANG!

Flamma raised his shield, but the impact of the "Mist Storm" was devastating. The strikes didn't come from a single direction; they changed angles in a millisecond, like the mist that envelops everything. The Roman felt his arms going numb under the pressure, the shield's metal creaked, and his feet sank into the sand, leaving deep furrows. Sweating profusely, teeth clenched almost to the point of breaking, Flamma realized a terrifying truth: if he continued to use his eyes, he would die in the next second.

It wasn't his reflexes that were saving him... it was fear. That primitive dread Lucius had taught him to embrace in the Subura was acting as a sixth sense, screaming at him where to move the shield just before the steel could slice his neck open.

Noticing his storm was being blocked, Kamiizumi's happiness multiplied. His bloodshot eyes shone even brighter.

— Incredible! Simply wonderful! —exclaimed Nobutsuna, flowing in a perfect circular motion—. Look at how you move! My time no longer mocks me! Next!

The old man changed his stance, relaxing his shoulders completely. The katana seemed to become light, almost spiritual, suspended in the air.

— SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: KAMIGAMI NO MICHI (Way of the Gods)! —

A single stroke. But it wasn't a straight cut. The blade seemed to curve in the air, dodging the edge of the Roman shield by a miraculous millimeter, as if the sword itself had the will of a god to find flesh.

CHAAAK!

The steel slashed horizontally across Flamma's torso. Roman blood gushed forcefully, staining the air crimson. The pain made Flamma falter for an instant, but instead of retreating, the gladiator roared like a wounded beast in the Colosseum. His mind, totally exhausted from the effort and blood loss, clung to life with tooth and nail.

— I will not die in this hole, you damn old man! —bellowed the Lion of Rome, unleashing all the fury contained in his chest.

Taking advantage of the close distance after the impact, Flamma twisted his body with brutal force, concentrating all the heat of his spirit into his short sword.

— GLADIATOR STYLE: SOL ARDENS AESTATIS (Burning Summer Sun)! —

Flamma's short blade descended like a lightning bolt of fire, a wild, heavy, and burning slash seeking to split the samurai in two. Kamiizumi tried to tilt his body, but Flamma's attack carried the desperation of a man embracing his death.

ZSHHH!

The Roman edge bit into Kamiizumi's shoulder, opening a new and deep wound that caused a jet of blood to sprout onto the old man's shoulder. Flamma took two steps back, leaning heavily on his shield. He was totally exhausted, torso bleeding, chest heaving violently, and legs trembling from the supernatural effort. He only remained standing because he had turned fear into his fuel.

And Kamiizumi?...

The Sword Saint looked at the new wound on his shoulder. He saw the blood running, felt the heat of physical pain burning his skin, and suddenly, he felt his chest burst. The electric spark from his seven-year-old self returned to run through every corner of his body, stronger than ever.

Nobutsuna looked at Flamma with a face of pure insanity, absolute happiness, and gratitude. He was floating in the ecstasy of combat.

— YES! THAT'S IT! HAHAHAHAHA! —the old man's crazy laughter reverberated throughout Purgatory, echoing in the stands-. It hurts! God, it hurts! Thank you, Flamma! Thank you for making me feel that I am breathing!.

Silence fell upon the Purgatory arena, so heavy that the echo of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna's crazy laughter seemed to slowly fade into the air. Flamma, chest covered in blood and breath broken, let out a long sigh. The trembling in his legs ceased. The tension of fear on his face transformed, suddenly, into something completely unexpected. His lips curled upward.

— You're completely crazy, samurai... —flamma let out with a raspy laugh, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand-. Hahaha... You're really demented.

The gladiator straightened his back, stopping his reliance on his defense. He stared fixedly into the old man's bloodshot eyes.

— But you know what... I understand you. I understand you perfectly —continued the Roman, in a voice that regained all the authority of the Lion of Rome-. In my time, in the Colosseum, I felt the exact same damn void. I won and won, I rejected my freedom four times just because the outside world seemed like a gray and boring stage. I preferred to die in the arena, with a smile on my face, rather than live a monotonous life.

At that moment, Flamma did something that left the entire coliseum, including the gods in the balcony, in shock. His fingers opened... and the huge Roman shield, his fortress throughout the entire combat, fell to the ground with a metallic crash that resonated in every corner.

CLANG! ...

— But now... just now, in front of you...! —roared Flamma, extending his short sword, the gladius, while his eyes shone with wild intensity-. I am feeling that same energy! That damn electricity that screams in your ear that you are breathing! I think you understand me better than anyone... Isn't that right, Nobutsuna?

The Sword Saint stood frozen for a millisecond. His demented laughter died out, replaced by a look of absolute astonishment and a respect so deep it bordered on devotion. The old man lowered his head slightly, and a smile, this time serene, human, and full of a peace he hadn't felt in five hundred years, appeared on his face.

— Yes... —responded Kamiizumi in a soft, gentle voice, like the water of a spring-. I understand you perfectly, gladiator of Rome.

The arena wind blew between them, lifting dust. The scene became strangely clean, stripped of all the tournament's paraphernalia. There were no more screaming crowds, no more drones flying, the limitless divine desire no longer mattered, nor the gaze of the gods.

Only two men remained in their purest state. Two weapons. Two souls…

Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna, holding his katana with both hands. Flamma, holding his gladius with a firm arm. Both looked at each other, covered in wounds, with blood dripping onto the sand, but with eyes more alive than ever. A deep wave of gratitude flooded both of them at the same time.

In Kamiizumi's mind, while looking at the Roman, a thought crossed like a flash:

— "This man... is more than an opponent. It is more than an enemy I must cut..."

At the same time, in Flamma's mind, as he looked at the old man's perfect stance, the same feeling gained strength:

— "If we had been born in the same era... if the destiny had crossed our paths in life..."

The two warriors, without saying a word, shared the same final thought, an invisible bond that united their souls forever:

— "We would have been the best of friends. And the greatest of rivals."…

​

Chapter 6: The Desolate Peak

1508 AD. Kozuke Province, Japan.

The wind blew through the cherry blossoms of Kozuke, releasing petals that floated in the air. The landscape was beautiful, but for young Hidetsuna—the future Sword Saint—the world lacked grace.

In the estate courtyard, a hummingbird vibrated in front of a flower. To any human eye, the bird's wings were an invisible blur buzzing at high speed. To the boy, they were not. He sat on the wooden porch, resting his chin on his hand, with a look of absolute weariness.

— The rain fell as if it would last an eternity... the leaves descended with laziness... —the old, rasping voice of Nobutsuna resonates from the present in Purgatory, merging with the memory—. The other children's fists reached me with a slowness that was shameful to dodge. I didn't live. I only observed...

At that moment, the seven-year-old reached out his hand with insulting sluggishness. Zap! His fingers closed in the air. When he opened his hand, the hummingbird was trapped between his fingers, flapping its wings clumsily in the boy's eyes.

— How boring... —whispered the child Kamiizumi, in a voice devoid of any childhood emotion, releasing the bird without even looking at it—. Everything is so... slow...

From the dojo hallway, his father, Kamiizumi Hidetsugu, watched him with a mixture of concern and severity.

— Hidetsuna! —the man exclaimed, crossing his arms—. You are wasting your time staring into nothingness again. You seem so distracted. A warrior of our clan must have a focused mind, not wandering in the clouds.

— I'm sorry, father... —the boy replied mechanically, standing up.

— Your mother says you have the eyes of an old man who has already seen it all —sighed Hidetsugu, placing a hand on his son's shoulder—. Come with me to the forge. It is time for you to stop floating in the air.

The memory shifts settings. The sound of the wind through the trees transforms into the rhythmic hammering of metal and the roar of charcoal fire. The heat of the forge painted the walls an orange hue, and the blacksmiths sweated as they struck the iron for the clan's future weapons.

— He was right... —continues the voice of the old Nobutsuna—. There was nothing in this world that could make me feel a heartbeat in my chest. Until that day...

Hidetsugu approached a wooden table and picked up a freshly sharpened wakizashi. The steel shone impeccably, reflecting the furnace fire. He extended it to the boy, more as a game and to test his grip than anything else.

— Take it carefully, son. Feel the weight of the steel. This will be your path —said the father.

Little Hidetsuna stretched out his hands. But his mind, disconnected by chronic boredom, made a mistake. As he grabbed the weapon by the wrong side, the wakizashi's edge deeply slashed his left palm.

ZAP!

Crimson blood gushed instantly, dripping heavily onto the dirt and ash floor. However, the boy didn't even blink in surprise. His eyes widened, but not from pain.

— The pain was fast. So damn fast that my mind couldn't slow it down... —narrates the samurai in Purgatory, while the bloodlust of the present vibrates—. And in that second, I heard something. It wasn't a scream, nor the sound of falling blood. It was an electrifying hum that climbed up my arm, exploded in my chest, and screamed in my ear: "You are alive!". In that very instant, the gray world turned colorful for the first time.

Hidetsugu stepped back, his face completely pale and his eyes unhinged. The blacksmiths in the workshop dropped their hammers to the ground, frightened.

Amidst the sepulchral silence of the forge, the seven-year-old, with his open hand dripping blood, broke his mask of apathy. His mouth opened in a wide grimace, showing his teeth, and he began to laugh. It was an euphoric, disturbing laugh, thirsty for a sensation he had just discovered. It was the first time in his entire life he had emitted such a sound.

— Hahaha... hahahaha! —the boy's laughter resonates in the forge, and that same laughter transforms, echoed, into the unhinged laughter of the old Nobutsuna standing in the Purgatory arena, with blood-stained teeth in front of a terrified Flamma.

— Since that day... I didn't seek money, nor honor, nor a name that would resonate in history —sentences the voice from the present, while the Sword Saint's sickly bright eyes lock onto the Roman-. I only sought that. That electricity. That sacred instant where time stops mocking me... and lets me feel that I am breathing.

Year 1540.

At thirty, the name Kamiizumi Nobutsuna was already synonymous with terrifying talent, but for him, the way of the sword was a constant disappointment. He traveled through the provinces challenging the masters of every dojo, desperately seeking to revive the electric hum of his childhood. But it was useless. Before his eyes, the strikes of the most renowned swordsmen still seemed like heavy, predictable... sadly slow strokes.

Until he arrived in Hitachi province.

Standing before him was a samurai with a firm stance and a severe gaze, a true veteran who didn't falter at Kamiizumi's reputation. Both unsheathed. The wind held its breath.

Kamiizumi advanced, confident in his slowed perception. He saw the opponent's strike coming and prepared to dodge it with his usual millimeter precision. But then... the miracle happened.

SHING!

The samurai's blade didn't move to the rhythm of Kamiizumi's slow world. It broke the barrier of his perception. It was a fleeting flash, a line of pure silver that crossed the air at a speed his brain couldn't process in time. The enemy sword struck Kamiizumi's side, knocking him violently to the ground. Nobutsuna fell to his knees, his breath caught and a bleeding wound on his side. The pain was real. The defeat was real.

— You are fast, kid —said the samurai, sheathing his weapon—. But your mind relies too much on what it sees. Today, you lacked speed.

The samurai turned and walked away, but Kamiizumi didn't move from the ground. His eyes were wide with shock. He touched the wound and felt the warm blood, but what truly moved him was his chest: his heart was pounding against his ribs with wild force. *BUM, BUM, BUM!* The electricity had returned with triple the intensity. An uncontrollable euphoria ran through his veins.

— Yes...! —he thought, with a bloodied smile forming on his face—. Yes! I am the one who is slow! There is still a world beyond my speed!

From that day on, Kamiizumi became an obsessed demon. He didn't train for honor; he trained to reach and surpass that man, to feel the terror of death again. He fought duel after duel. He traveled through villages, challenged entire schools. He learned from every rival, devoured their styles, perfected his footwork, his grip, his reaction time. He won. He won one, ten, a hundred times. But the irony of destiny is a cruel mistress.

The more he sought that speed that had defeated him, the faster he became himself. He polished his path so much that, without realizing it, he began to surpass the limit of mortals. The rivals who had once required an effort from him soon returned to moving like clay statues.

The era of the great wars arrived. Nobutsuna led armies and plunged into the chaos of field battles, where death should be guaranteed. Spears, arrows, katanas, blood... everything flew around him.

And suddenly, in the middle of a bloody siege, the spell broke…

The sound of the battlefield seemed to fade away. Kamiizumi stopped dead in the middle of the hill. At his feet lay a grotesque mountain of fallen bodies, shattered armor, and swords stuck in the crimson-stained mud. He stood there, on top of the dead. Totally unscathed. Not a single drop of his own blood on his armor belonged to him.

He had an empty look, his clothes neglected from months of campaigning, and his face buried in a sepulchral boredom. He looked up at the gray sky, where clouds moved with exasperating slowness.

— Damn it... —he thought, with an unbearable void in his stomach—. It happened again. I'm alone again...

He had improved his style so much that the world had been left behind once again. His own perfection had locked him back into the prison of slow motion. No one in this world could make him bleed anymore.

Year 1560.

The years didn't spare his body, but they only served to sharpen his curse. At over fifty years old, Nobutsuna was no longer just a man; the entire country called him Kamiizumi, the "Divine Spring," a living sword god. He had founded the Shinkage-ryū style, and the best warriors in Japan traveled just to kneel before him.

But the old master only felt the weight of the centuries and an infinite tedium. It was in that time of maturity and old age that he made his final decision. He had the hikihada shinai made, a bamboo sword wrapped in leather, and sealed his real steel katana.

January 16, 1577. Yagyū Village, Japan.

Winter blew hard, but in the courtyard of the modest cabin, an old cherry tree stood firm, letting its last withered leaves fall onto the frozen ground.

Inside, reclining on a futon, the Sword Saint lay in his final moments of mortal life. His body, that temple of martial perfection that had survived a hundred battles and a thousand duels, was finally yielding to the weight of the years. His closest disciples surrounded the room in reverent silence, waiting for the last wise words of the man they considered a living god.

However, Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna was not looking at them. His gaze was fixed on the wooden ceiling, lost in the infinite. The world around him continued to move in that exasperating and eternal slow motion.

Suddenly, the old man opened his mouth and let out a long, deep yawn.

There was no fear in him. There was no regret, no pain, no peace. Only an infinite boredom that had accompanied him for decades. Mortal life had nothing left to offer him; it had become a book whose ending he knew before the pages began.

With one last effort, Nobutsuna turned his head slightly to look at the cherry tree through the open window. A faint sigh escaped his lips, dragging his final words in this world:

— I wonder... if there is anyone in the heavens... who can make me feel alive...

His eyes closed, and the Divine Spring dried up on earth. He died as he lived most of his existence: mired in absolute tedium, wishing that death would be the ticket to that lost electricity…

End of flashback

The memory of the peaceful village of Yagyū exploded into a thousand pieces, replaced by the roar of war drums and the deafening shouts of the arena. The cold winter wind of 1577 transforms into the hot, dense, bloodlust-laden air of Purgatory.

The old Nobutsuna of the present took a step forward. His katana was no longer sealed. The "X"-shaped wound Flamma carved into his chest dripped heavily, and that same mouth that had yawned in boredom on its deathbed centuries ago was now open in a grimace of pure insanity and happiness.

— I made a vow... —said Nobutsuna, his eyes overflowing with emotion—. I promised never to unsheathe true steel before any mortal again. I didn't do it out of mercy for them... I did it out of disgust for my own perfection. Unsheathing to cut flesh that moves like mud was an insult to the electricity I felt at seven years old...

— But you... You, Lion of Rome! —roars the old man, with a look of pure insanity and happiness—. You broke my slow motion! It's been centuries since anyone forced me to use steel! Make me feel alive again!

The Purgatory arena held its breath. Facing the Japanese legend's unhinged laughter, Flamma didn't step back, but cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead, mixing with the sand and dust. The Lion of Rome didn't see an old man; he saw a demon that had just escaped its prison of centuries.

— If you want to dance that badly, old man, I'll give you your damn electricity! —roared Flamma, tightening his grip on his shield.

Nobutsuna didn't respond with words. His body leaned forward and, in a blink, he disappeared from the spectators' view.

— SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: SOKOKU NO ARASHI (Sweeping Mist Storm)! —

The steel of Kamiizumi's katana transformed into a silver blur, a flurry of stunning strikes that fell upon the gladiator at an absurd, almost invisible speed. The air whistled as if thousands of invisible blades were tearing through the atmosphere.

CLANG! CLANG! SPARKS! CLANG!

Flamma raised his shield, but the impact of the "Mist Storm" was devastating. The strikes didn't come from a single direction; they changed angles in a millisecond, like the mist that envelops everything. The Roman felt his arms going numb under the pressure, the shield's metal creaked, and his feet sank into the sand, leaving deep furrows. Sweating profusely, teeth clenched almost to the point of breaking, Flamma realized a terrifying truth: if he continued to use his eyes, he would die in the next second.

It wasn't his reflexes that were saving him... it was fear. That primitive dread Lucius had taught him to embrace in the Subura was acting as a sixth sense, screaming at him where to move the shield just before the steel could slice his neck open.

Noticing his storm was being blocked, Kamiizumi's happiness multiplied. His bloodshot eyes shone even brighter.

— Incredible! Simply wonderful! —exclaimed Nobutsuna, flowing in a perfect circular motion—. Look at how you move! My time no longer mocks me! Next!

The old man changed his stance, relaxing his shoulders completely. The katana seemed to become light, almost spiritual, suspended in the air.

— SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: KAMIGAMI NO MICHI (Way of the Gods)! —

A single stroke. But it wasn't a straight cut. The blade seemed to curve in the air, dodging the edge of the Roman shield by a miraculous millimeter, as if the sword itself had the will of a god to find flesh.

CHAAAK!

The steel slashed horizontally across Flamma's torso. Roman blood gushed forcefully, staining the air crimson. The pain made Flamma falter for an instant, but instead of retreating, the gladiator roared like a wounded beast in the Colosseum. His mind, totally exhausted from the effort and blood loss, clung to life with tooth and nail.

— I will not die in this hole, you damn old man! —bellowed the Lion of Rome, unleashing all the fury contained in his chest.

Taking advantage of the close distance after the impact, Flamma twisted his body with brutal force, concentrating all the heat of his spirit into his short sword.

— GLADIATOR STYLE: SOL ARDENS AESTATIS (Burning Summer Sun)! —

Flamma's short blade descended like a lightning bolt of fire, a wild, heavy, and burning slash seeking to split the samurai in two. Kamiizumi tried to tilt his body, but Flamma's attack carried the desperation of a man embracing his death.

ZSHHH!

The Roman edge bit into Kamiizumi's shoulder, opening a new and deep wound that caused a jet of blood to sprout onto the old man's shoulder. Flamma took two steps back, leaning heavily on his shield. He was totally exhausted, torso bleeding, chest heaving violently, and legs trembling from the supernatural effort. He only remained standing because he had turned fear into his fuel.

And Kamiizumi?...

The Sword Saint looked at the new wound on his shoulder. He saw the blood running, felt the heat of physical pain burning his skin, and suddenly, he felt his chest burst. The electric spark from his seven-year-old self returned to run through every corner of his body, stronger than ever.

Nobutsuna looked at Flamma with a face of pure insanity, absolute happiness, and gratitude. He was floating in the ecstasy of combat.

— YES! THAT'S IT! HAHAHAHAHA! —the old man's crazy laughter reverberated throughout Purgatory, echoing in the stands-. It hurts! God, it hurts! Thank you, Flamma! Thank you for making me feel that I am breathing!

Silence fell upon the Purgatory arena, so heavy that the echo of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna's crazy laughter seemed to slowly fade into the air. Flamma, chest covered in blood and breath broken, let out a long sigh. The trembling in his legs ceased. The tension of fear on his face transformed, suddenly, into something completely unexpected. His lips curled upward.

— You're completely crazy, samurai... —flamma let out with a raspy laugh, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand-. Hahaha... You're really demented.

The gladiator straightened his back, stopping his reliance on his defense. He stared fixedly into the old man's bloodshot eyes.

— But you know what... I understand you. I understand you perfectly —continued the Roman, in a voice that regained all the authority of the Lion of Rome-. In my time, in the Colosseum, I felt the exact same damn void. I won and won, I rejected my freedom four times just because the outside world seemed like a gray and boring stage. I preferred to die in the arena, with a smile on my face, rather than live a monotonous life.

At that moment, Flamma did something that left the entire coliseum, including the gods in the balcony, in shock. His fingers opened... and the huge Roman shield, his fortress throughout the entire combat, fell to the ground with a metallic crash that resonated in every corner.

CLANG! ...

— But now... just now, in front of you...! —roared Flamma, extending his short sword, the gladius, while his eyes shone with wild intensity-. I am feeling that same energy! That damn electricity that screams in your ear that you are breathing! I think you understand me better than anyone... Isn't that right, Nobutsuna?

The Sword Saint stood frozen for a millisecond. His demented laughter died out, replaced by a look of absolute astonishment and a respect so deep it bordered on devotion. The old man lowered his head slightly, and a smile, this time serene, human, and full of a peace he hadn't felt in five hundred years, appeared on his face.

— Yes... —responded Kamiizumi in a soft, gentle voice, like the water of a spring-. I understand you perfectly, gladiator of Rome.

The arena wind blew between them, lifting dust. The scene became strangely clean, stripped of all the tournament's paraphernalia. There were no more screaming crowds, no more drones flying, the limitless divine desire no longer mattered, nor the gaze of the gods.

Only two men remained in their purest state. Two weapons. Two souls…

Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna, holding his katana with both hands. Flamma, holding his gladius with a firm arm. Both looked at each other, covered in wounds, with blood dripping onto the sand, but with eyes more alive than ever. A deep wave of gratitude flooded both of them at the same time.

In Kamiizumi's mind, while looking at the Roman, a thought crossed like a flash:

— "This man... is more than an opponent. It is more than an enemy I must cut..."

At the same time, in Flamma's mind, as he looked at the old man's perfect stance, the same feeling gained strength:

— "If we had been born in the same era... if the destiny had crossed our paths in life..."

The two warriors, without saying a word, shared the same final thought, an invisible bond that united their souls forever:

— "We would have been the best of friends. And the greatest of rivals."…

​

Chapter 6: The Desolate Peak

1508 AD. Kozuke Province, Japan.

The wind blew through the cherry blossoms of Kozuke, releasing petals that floated in the air. The landscape was beautiful, but for young Hidetsuna—the future Sword Saint—the world lacked grace.

In the estate courtyard, a hummingbird vibrated in front of a flower. To any human eye, the bird's wings were an invisible blur buzzing at high speed. To the boy, they were not. He sat on the wooden porch, resting his chin on his hand, with a look of absolute weariness.

— The rain fell as if it would last an eternity... the leaves descended with laziness... —the old, rasping voice of Nobutsuna resonates from the present in Purgatory, merging with the memory—. The other children's fists reached me with a slowness that was shameful to dodge. I didn't live. I only observed...

At that moment, the seven-year-old reached out his hand with insulting sluggishness. Zap! His fingers closed in the air. When he opened his hand, the hummingbird was trapped between his fingers, flapping its wings clumsily in the boy's eyes.

— How boring... —whispered the child Kamiizumi, in a voice devoid of any childhood emotion, releasing the bird without even looking at it—. Everything is so... slow...

From the dojo hallway, his father, Kamiizumi Hidetsugu, watched him with a mixture of concern and severity.

— Hidetsuna! —the man exclaimed, crossing his arms—. You are wasting your time staring into nothingness again. You seem so distracted. A warrior of our clan must have a focused mind, not wandering in the clouds.

— I'm sorry, father... —the boy replied mechanically, standing up.

— Your mother says you have the eyes of an old man who has already seen it all —sighed Hidetsugu, placing a hand on his son's shoulder—. Come with me to the forge. It is time for you to stop floating in the air.

The memory shifts settings. The sound of the wind through the trees transforms into the rhythmic hammering of metal and the roar of charcoal fire. The heat of the forge painted the walls an orange hue, and the blacksmiths sweated as they struck the iron for the clan's future weapons.

— He was right... —continues the voice of the old Nobutsuna—. There was nothing in this world that could make me feel a heartbeat in my chest. Until that day...

Hidetsugu approached a wooden table and picked up a freshly sharpened wakizashi. The steel shone impeccably, reflecting the furnace fire. He extended it to the boy, more as a game and to test his grip than anything else.

— Take it carefully, son. Feel the weight of the steel. This will be your path —said the father.

Little Hidetsuna stretched out his hands. But his mind, disconnected by chronic boredom, made a mistake. As he grabbed the weapon by the wrong side, the wakizashi's edge deeply slashed his left palm.

ZAP!

Crimson blood gushed instantly, dripping heavily onto the dirt and ash floor. However, the boy didn't even blink in surprise. His eyes widened, but not from pain.

— The pain was fast. So damn fast that my mind couldn't slow it down... —narrates the samurai in Purgatory, while the bloodlust of the present vibrates—. And in that second, I heard something. It wasn't a scream, nor the sound of falling blood. It was an electrifying hum that climbed up my arm, exploded in my chest, and screamed in my ear: "You are alive!". In that very instant, the gray world turned colorful for the first time.

Hidetsugu stepped back, his face completely pale and his eyes unhinged. The blacksmiths in the workshop dropped their hammers to the ground, frightened.

Amidst the sepulchral silence of the forge, the seven-year-old, with his open hand dripping blood, broke his mask of apathy. His mouth opened in a wide grimace, showing his teeth, and he began to laugh. It was an euphoric, disturbing laugh, thirsty for a sensation he had just discovered. It was the first time in his entire life he had emitted such a sound.

— Hahaha... hahahaha! —the boy's laughter resonates in the forge, and that same laughter transforms, echoed, into the unhinged laughter of the old Nobutsuna standing in the Purgatory arena, with blood-stained teeth in front of a terrified Flamma.

— Since that day... I didn't seek money, nor honor, nor a name that would resonate in history —sentences the voice from the present, while the Sword Saint's sickly bright eyes lock onto the Roman-. I only sought that. That electricity. That sacred instant where time stops mocking me... and lets me feel that I am breathing.

Year 1540.

At thirty, the name Kamiizumi Nobutsuna was already synonymous with terrifying talent, but for him, the way of the sword was a constant disappointment. He traveled through the provinces challenging the masters of every dojo, desperately seeking to revive the electric hum of his childhood. But it was useless. Before his eyes, the strikes of the most renowned swordsmen still seemed like heavy, predictable... sadly slow strokes.

Until he arrived in Hitachi province.

Standing before him was a samurai with a firm stance and a severe gaze, a true veteran who didn't falter at Kamiizumi's reputation. Both unsheathed. The wind held its breath.

Kamiizumi advanced, confident in his slowed perception. He saw the opponent's strike coming and prepared to dodge it with his usual millimeter precision. But then... the miracle happened.

SHING!

The samurai's blade didn't move to the rhythm of Kamiizumi's slow world. It broke the barrier of his perception. It was a fleeting flash, a line of pure silver that crossed the air at a speed his brain couldn't process in time. The enemy sword struck Kamiizumi's side, knocking him violently to the ground. Nobutsuna fell to his knees, his breath caught and a bleeding wound on his side. The pain was real. The defeat was real.

— You are fast, kid —said the samurai, sheathing his weapon—. But your mind relies too much on what it sees. Today, you lacked speed.

The samurai turned and walked away, but Kamiizumi didn't move from the ground. His eyes were wide with shock. He touched the wound and felt the warm blood, but what truly moved him was his chest: his heart was pounding against his ribs with wild force. *BUM, BUM, BUM!* The electricity had returned with triple the intensity. An uncontrollable euphoria ran through his veins.

— Yes...! —he thought, with a bloodied smile forming on his face—. Yes! I am the one who is slow! There is still a world beyond my speed!

From that day on, Kamiizumi became an obsessed demon. He didn't train for honor; he trained to reach and surpass that man, to feel the terror of death again. He fought duel after duel. He traveled through villages, challenged entire schools. He learned from every rival, devoured their styles, perfected his footwork, his grip, his reaction time. He won. He won one, ten, a hundred times. But the irony of destiny is a cruel mistress.

The more he sought that speed that had defeated him, the faster he became himself. He polished his path so much that, without realizing it, he began to surpass the limit of mortals. The rivals who had once required an effort from him soon returned to moving like clay statues.

The era of the great wars arrived. Nobutsuna led armies and plunged into the chaos of field battles, where death should be guaranteed. Spears, arrows, katanas, blood... everything flew around him.

And suddenly, in the middle of a bloody siege, the spell broke…

The sound of the battlefield seemed to fade away. Kamiizumi stopped dead in the middle of the hill. At his feet lay a grotesque mountain of fallen bodies, shattered armor, and swords stuck in the crimson-stained mud. He stood there, on top of the dead. Totally unscathed. Not a single drop of his own blood on his armor belonged to him.

He had an empty look, his clothes neglected from months of campaigning, and his face buried in a sepulchral boredom. He looked up at the gray sky, where clouds moved with exasperating slowness.

— Damn it... —he thought, with an unbearable void in his stomach—. It happened again. I'm alone again...

He had improved his style so much that the world had been left behind once again. His own perfection had locked him back into the prison of slow motion. No one in this world could make him bleed anymore.

Year 1560.

The years didn't spare his body, but they only served to sharpen his curse. At over fifty years old, Nobutsuna was no longer just a man; the entire country called him Kamiizumi, the "Divine Spring," a living sword god. He had founded the Shinkage-ryū style, and the best warriors in Japan traveled just to kneel before him.

But the old master only felt the weight of the centuries and an infinite tedium. It was in that time of maturity and old age that he made his final decision. He had the hikihada shinai made, a bamboo sword wrapped in leather, and sealed his real steel katana.

January 16, 1577. Yagyū Village, Japan.

Winter blew hard, but in the courtyard of the modest cabin, an old cherry tree stood firm, letting its last withered leaves fall onto the frozen ground.

Inside, reclining on a futon, the Sword Saint lay in his final moments of mortal life. His body, that temple of martial perfection that had survived a hundred battles and a thousand duels, was finally yielding to the weight of the years. His closest disciples surrounded the room in reverent silence, waiting for the last wise words of the man they considered a living god.

However, Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna was not looking at them. His gaze was fixed on the wooden ceiling, lost in the infinite. The world around him continued to move in that exasperating and eternal slow motion.

Suddenly, the old man opened his mouth and let out a long, deep yawn.

There was no fear in him. There was no regret, no pain, no peace. Only an infinite boredom that had accompanied him for decades. Mortal life had nothing left to offer him; it had become a book whose ending he knew before the pages began.

With one last effort, Nobutsuna turned his head slightly to look at the cherry tree through the open window. A faint sigh escaped his lips, dragging his final words in this world:

— I wonder... if there is anyone in the heavens... who can make me feel alive...

His eyes closed, and the Divine Spring dried up on earth. He died as he lived most of his existence: mired in absolute tedium, wishing that death would be the ticket to that lost electricity…

End of flashback

The memory of the peaceful village of Yagyū exploded into a thousand pieces, replaced by the roar of war drums and the deafening shouts of the arena. The cold winter wind of 1577 transforms into the hot, dense, bloodlust-laden air of Purgatory.

The old Nobutsuna of the present took a step forward. His katana was no longer sealed. The "X"-shaped wound Flamma carved into his chest dripped heavily, and that same mouth that had yawned in boredom on its deathbed centuries ago was now open in a grimace of pure insanity and happiness.

— I made a vow... —said Nobutsuna, his eyes overflowing with emotion—. I promised never to unsheathe true steel before any mortal again. I didn't do it out of mercy for them... I did it out of disgust for my own perfection. Unsheathing to cut flesh that moves like mud was an insult to the electricity I felt at seven years old...

— But you... You, Lion of Rome! —roars the old man, with a look of pure insanity and happiness—. You broke my slow motion! It's been centuries since anyone forced me to use steel! Make me feel alive again!

The Purgatory arena held its breath. Facing the Japanese legend's unhinged laughter, Flamma didn't step back, but cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead, mixing with the sand and dust. The Lion of Rome didn't see an old man; he saw a demon that had just escaped its prison of centuries.

— If you want to dance that badly, old man, I'll give you your damn electricity! —roared Flamma, tightening his grip on his shield.

Nobutsuna didn't respond with words. His body leaned forward and, in a blink, he disappeared from the spectators' view.

— SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: SOKOKU NO ARASHI (Sweeping Mist Storm)! —

The steel of Kamiizumi's katana transformed into a silver blur, a flurry of stunning strikes that fell upon the gladiator at an absurd, almost invisible speed. The air whistled as if thousands of invisible blades were tearing through the atmosphere.

CLANG! CLANG! SPARKS! CLANG!

Flamma raised his shield, but the impact of the "Mist Storm" was devastating. The strikes didn't come from a single direction; they changed angles in a millisecond, like the mist that envelops everything. The Roman felt his arms going numb under the pressure, the shield's metal creaked, and his feet sank into the sand, leaving deep furrows. Sweating profusely, teeth clenched almost to the point of breaking, Flamma realized a terrifying truth: if he continued to use his eyes, he would die in the next second.

It wasn't his reflexes that were saving him... it was fear. That primitive dread Lucius had taught him to embrace in the Subura was acting as a sixth sense, screaming at him where to move the shield just before the steel could slice his neck open.

Noticing his storm was being blocked, Kamiizumi's happiness multiplied. His bloodshot eyes shone even brighter.

— Incredible! Simply wonderful! —exclaimed Nobutsuna, flowing in a perfect circular motion—. Look at how you move! My time no longer mocks me! Next!

The old man changed his stance, relaxing his shoulders completely. The katana seemed to become light, almost spiritual, suspended in the air.

— SHINKAGE-RYŪ STYLE: KAMIGAMI NO MICHI (Way of the Gods)! —

A single stroke. But it wasn't a straight cut. The blade seemed to curve in the air, dodging the edge of the Roman shield by a miraculous millimeter, as if the sword itself had the will of a god to find flesh.

CHAAAK!

The steel slashed horizontally across Flamma's torso. Roman blood gushed forcefully, staining the air crimson. The pain made Flamma falter for an instant, but instead of retreating, the gladiator roared like a wounded beast in the Colosseum. His mind, totally exhausted from the effort and blood loss, clung to life with tooth and nail.

— I will not die in this hole, you damn old man! —bellowed the Lion of Rome, unleashing all the fury contained in his chest.

Taking advantage of the close distance after the impact, Flamma twisted his body with brutal force, concentrating all the heat of his spirit into his short sword.

— GLADIATOR STYLE: SOL ARDENS AESTATIS (Burning Summer Sun)! —

Flamma's short blade descended like a lightning bolt of fire, a wild, heavy, and burning slash seeking to split the samurai in two. Kamiizumi tried to tilt his body, but Flamma's attack carried the desperation of a man embracing his death.

ZSHHH!

The Roman edge bit into Kamiizumi's shoulder, opening a new and deep wound that caused a jet of blood to sprout onto the old man's shoulder. Flamma took two steps back, leaning heavily on his shield. He was totally exhausted, torso bleeding, chest heaving violently, and legs trembling from the supernatural effort. He only remained standing because he had turned fear into his fuel.

And Kamiizumi?...

The Sword Saint looked at the new wound on his shoulder. He saw the blood running, felt the heat of physical pain burning his skin, and suddenly, he felt his chest burst. The electric spark from his seven-year-old self returned to run through every corner of his body, stronger than ever.

Nobutsuna looked at Flamma with a face of pure insanity, absolute happiness, and gratitude. He was floating in the ecstasy of combat.

— YES! THAT'S IT! HAHAHAHAHA! —the old man's crazy laughter reverberated throughout Purgatory, echoing in the stands-. It hurts! God, it hurts! Thank you, Flamma! Thank you for making me feel that I am breathing!

Silence fell upon the Purgatory arena, so heavy that the echo of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna's crazy laughter seemed to slowly fade into the air. Flamma, chest covered in blood and breath broken, let out a long sigh. The trembling in his legs ceased. The tension of fear on his face transformed, suddenly, into something completely unexpected. His lips curled upward.

— You're completely crazy, samurai... —flamma let out with a raspy laugh, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand-. Hahaha... You're really demented.

The gladiator straightened his back, stopping his reliance on his defense. He stared fixedly into the old man's bloodshot eyes.

— But you know what... I understand you. I understand you perfectly —continued the Roman, in a voice that regained all the authority of the Lion of Rome-. In my time, in the Colosseum, I felt the exact same damn void. I won and won, I rejected my freedom four times just because the outside world seemed like a gray and boring stage. I preferred to die in the arena, with a smile on my face, rather than live a monotonous life.

At that moment, Flamma did something that left the entire coliseum, including the gods in the balcony, in shock. His fingers opened... and the huge Roman shield, his fortress throughout the entire combat, fell to the ground with a metallic crash that resonated in every corner.

CLANG! ...

— But now... just now, in front of you...! —roared Flamma, extending his short sword, the gladius, while his eyes shone with wild intensity-. I am feeling that same energy! That damn electricity that screams in your ear that you are breathing! I think you understand me better than anyone... Isn't that right, Nobutsuna?

The Sword Saint stood frozen for a millisecond. His demented laughter died out, replaced by a look of absolute astonishment and a respect so deep it bordered on devotion. The old man lowered his head slightly, and a smile, this time serene, human, and full of a peace he hadn't felt in five hundred years, appeared on his face.

— Yes... —responded Kamiizumi in a soft, gentle voice, like the water of a spring-. I understand you perfectly, gladiator of Rome.

The arena wind blew between them, lifting dust. The scene became strangely clean, stripped of all the tournament's paraphernalia. There were no more screaming crowds, no more drones flying, the limitless divine desire no longer mattered, nor the gaze of the gods.

Only two men remained in their purest state. Two weapons. Two souls…

Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna, holding his katana with both hands. Flamma, holding his gladius with a firm arm. Both looked at each other, covered in wounds, with blood dripping onto the sand, but with eyes more alive than ever. A deep wave of gratitude flooded both of them at the same time.

In Kamiizumi's mind, while looking at the Roman, a thought crossed like a flash:

— "This man... is more than an opponent. It is more than an enemy I must cut..."

At the same time, in Flamma's mind, as he looked at the old man's perfect stance, the same feeling gained strength:

— "If we had been born in the same era... if the destiny had crossed our paths in life..."

The two warriors, without saying a word, shared the same final thought, an invisible bond that united their souls forever:

— "We would have been the best of friends. And the greatest of rivals."…

​

Good evening everyone!!! I hope you're all doing great :3

​I wanted to share my design for Hades for my fanfic 'The Purgatory'. I hope you like it! I actually used this drawing as the cover for one of the chapters in the story, hehe.

​The context of this drawing is when Hades first makes his appearance in Chapter 1: he’s sitting there, sleeping, until he wakes up and complains about how boring his existence is. As for the design, I chose this look because I think a Hades with black hair and dark circles under his eyes is just super sexy, haha.

​Without further ado, I hope you like the drawing! If you want to see more of the process or anything else, just let me know. See you in the next post! :3

​

Hello everyone! I'm back after a month without posting :3

​I've been away because I was really busy with university, and also because I was working hard on drawing new covers for the previous chapters of my story to improve its quality! By the way, all the previous chapters are available on my profile if you want to go back and read them!

​Today, I wanted to share the new cover for Chapter 1 , featuring the fighters of this match: Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna and Flamma!!

​As a quick historical note, Kamiizumi was a legendary Japanese samurai from the Sengoku period, widely revered as the 'Sword Saint' (Kensei) and the founder of the Shinkage-ryū style. On the other side, we have Flamma, one of the most famous and dominant Roman gladiators in history, a Secutor who won his freedom multiple times but chose to keep fighting in the arena until his death.

​I have a lot of photos of the drawing process, but Reddit only allows me to upload 20, haha! I also have the other new covers I've been working on. If you guys are interested in seeing them, let me know! I can post the new covers along with their full step-by-step process, or I can just upload the finished drawings.

​I hope you like how it turned out! Thank you so much for your support :3

​

Chapter 5: Devourer of Skies

The echo of Flamma's voice still vibrated against the Coliseum walls, but the silence that followed was heavier than any scream. The gladiator exhaled, and in that mist escaping his lips, the last trace of the scared boy from the Alban Hills vanished.

In front of him, the figure of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna remained like an ancient tree in the middle of a storm.

Flamma did something no one expected. He straightened his back, struck his chest once with his right fist over his heart —the salute of the legions— and then performed a deep, slow bow, heavy with solemn weight. The young man who at the beginning called him "old man" with contempt had just recognized that he was facing a mountain that could only be climbed with blood.

— Kamiizumi Ise-no-Kami... —Flamma's voice was now a tempered steel blade—. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me who I am. But my "why" does not allow me to die here.

Flamma began to retreat. One, two... five steps. The distance was unusual; for a gladius user, moving so far away was giving up the advantage. But the air around Flamma began to vibrate. Nike's drones emitted warning beeps: the atmospheric pressure in the center of the arena was collapsing.

— This technique...! —rugió Flamma, and in that moment, the audience fell silent before the Roman’s physical transformation.

His legs, forged in the Alban Hills and hardened by a thousand combats, began to increase in size, the muscles swelling until they strained the leather of his greaves to the breaking point. The veins in his thighs and neck stood out like roots of an ancient tree, pulsing with an uncontrolled fury that threatened to explode his own skin. The internal pressure was so massive that his eyes went completely white, erasing any trace of humanity to leave only the pure instinct of a predator.

— I forged it in the mud of survival and polished it in the blood of the arena! —the air around him spun in an invisible whirlpool—. This time, there will be no space in this arena that does not belong to me! There will be no place where you can hide!

Flamma crouched, becoming a spring of flesh and bone charged with seismic power.

— ¡¡DEVOURER OF SKIES!! —gritó, and the black marble beneath his feet did not just crack, but exploded into pieces, projecting stone shrapnel in all directions as the Lion of Rome launched into the attack at a speed that defied the laws of physics.

The sonic blast of Flamma’s start was so powerful that the spectators in the front rows felt their ears bleed. Nobutsuna had no time to retreat; the space no longer belonged to him.

First Strike: The Hammer of Rome. Flamma did not use the edge; he used the mass. He impacted with the reinforced edge of his scutum directly into Nobutsuna’s solar plexus. It wasn’t a push; it was a train wreck. The air left the samurai's lungs in a dull blast, and Nobutsuna was thrown backward, his feet dragging across the marble as he spat a mouthful of crimson blood that stained the ground in a violent trail.

Second Strike: The Tear Without letting Nobutsuna recover from the impact, Flamma rotated on his axis with superhuman strength. The gladius, imbued by the pressure of the Devourer of Skies, traced an ascending diagonal slash. The steel penetrated deeply, tearing muscle and bone. The cut was devastating, opening the samurai's chest from the hip to the opposite shoulder.

Third Strike: Taking advantage of the inertia, Flamma returned with a descending backhand sword strike, crossing the first slash to form a bloody "X" that exploded in a fountain of bright red. The residual air pressure of that last impact was so sharp that, at the end of the movement, a thread of cutting wind rose up Nobutsuna's face, opening a vertical wound on his forehead that began to bathe his eyes in blood.

The most terrifying thing was not the attack, but the samurai's reaction.

Even while receiving the cuts, while his chest was being torn apart and his forehead opened, Nobutsuna maintained a nervous tic in his left hand. His head tilted unnaturally, with rhythmic spasms, as if his body were suffering a short circuit of pure pleasure. There was no pain on his face, only that strange and disturbing "weirdness."

In the divine stands, Ares dropped his cup, letting the wine spill onto his robe without caring. His eyes shone with a maniacal admiration.

— Look at him, uncle! —gritó Ares, with his voice cracking with emotion—. That is the color! That is the glow that only humans can emit when they are about to become extinct! Flamma is not fighting a samurai, he is reclaiming his right to exist with every drop of blood he tears away! It is... it is glorious!

Hades, in silence, leaned in even further. His gaze was not on Flamma, but on Nobutsuna’s tics. He knew that something inside the samurai had broken... or perhaps, had finally awakened.

Flamma finished his execution, landing heavily. His lungs burned as if he had swallowed embers, and sweat mixed with the blood from his reopened wounds. He was exhausted but satisfied: he had made the Sword Saint bleed.

Or so he thought…..

Suddenly, the world went silent. Flamma felt an unnatural cold on the back of his neck. Without warning, his vision rotated violently. He saw the marble floor approaching at full speed... he saw his own decapitated body, standing, dripping blood like a broken fountain. His head rolled across the arena, stopping in front of a spectator's caligae. A second later, he felt his arms and legs being sliced into invisible sheets, reducing him to a trunk of inert meat on the ground.

— ¡¡GAAAAAHHHH!! —Flamma let out a harrowing scream that chilled the blood of the gods.

He brought his hands to his neck in desperation, squeezing the skin, looking for a wound that wasn't there. His fingers trembled violently, and his eyes, previously white from the technique, were now dilated by a primal terror.

— What... what the hell was that? —jadeó, with his heart hammering against his ribs as if it wanted to escape—. What... what kind of trick...?

He looked around, disoriented, until his sight locked onto Nobutsuna. The samurai was still there, with the "X" bleeding on his chest and the gash on his forehead, but his aura had changed. Flamma felt a weight in his soul that he never experienced in the Subura or the Coliseum of Rome.

— I'm dead... —susurró Flamma for himself, with his voice broken—

At that moment, the silence was broken by a loud, crazed laughter. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna began to laugh, a laugh that ascended into a scream of pure euphoria. It was a deranged grimace, wide and devoid of all sanity, showing his teeth stained red by the blood coming down from his forehead. His eyes, previously dull from the boredom of centuries, now vibrated with a sickly light, a spark of euphoria that only appears when someone finds the meaning of their existence on the edge of the abyss.

— ¡¡ Not bad… kid !! —murmuró Nobutsuna. His voice was no longer that of a peaceful old man; it sounded like

metal being sharpened against a rough stone.

—. ¡¡ IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE THE WORLD OFFERED ME THIS PAIN... THIS DELICIOUS REMINDER THAT I AM ALIVE !!

Nobutsuna brought his right hand to the hilt. For the first time in the entire round, the sound of steel sliding out of the wood resonated like thunder in the Purgatory. The blade of his katana shone with a ghostly silver glow as he pointed it directly at Flamma's face.

In the Roman's eyes, the katana disappeared. It was no longer a sword; it was the scythe of Death, a colossal shadow looming over him, ready to claim his soul. A nervous smile, almost a spasm of shared madness, took over Flamma's face.

— Be a sacrifice for me legend, Flamma-chan... —sentenció Nobutsuna with a disturbing smile that distorted his face.

The bloodlust emanating from the Sword Saint became solid, flooding every corner of the arena, suffocating even the screams of the crowd. The hunter had finally drawn his blade.