The village bustles with activity as we enter, the crowd parting like a sea before us. Warzheil walks confidently ahead, while I lag behind, adjusting the bulky gauntlet concealing my left arm. It’s a crude cover, hastily crafted from scraps of metal during our journey, but it does the job—for now.
I can feel the weight of their stares. Nearly 200 people live in this village, their curiosity palpable. Whispers ripple through the crowd, their gazes flitting between me and Warzheil.
At the end of the throng, two figures stand waiting.
“Our warriors have returned with the hunt! We will feast tonight!” declares an elegant elf, her long, pointed ears twitching as she surveys the scene. Her voice is melodic yet commanding, and I gather she must be a leader of sorts.
Beside her stands another woman cloaked in shadow. Her fiery red hair spills from beneath a hood, and a mask obscures most of her face. Yet it’s her eyes—sharp, restless, and piercing—that draw my attention. Her posture is rigid, her armor gleaming with an aura of status and wealth. This must be Gloria, Drax’s daughter.
We dismount, and I keep my head low, avoiding Gloria’s gaze. How can I face her, knowing her father sacrificed himself to summon me? A familiar pang of guilt rises in my chest, but I push it down.
Gloria steps forward, embracing Warzheil with surprising warmth. “You’ve grown so much in just two years,” he says, his tone fatherly.
She blushes, momentarily softening, but her expression hardens as she steps back. “Where is Father?” she asks, a hint of unease in her voice.
Warzheil’s jovial demeanor falters. “Sil,” he says, turning to the elf, “prepare a meeting room. We need to talk.”
The elf nods and disappears into the crowd, her expression grim.
Later, we gather around a round table in a dimly lit room. The tension is suffocating. Kade sits quietly, his sharp gaze flicking between Warzheil and Gloria. Sil stands off to the side, her usual grace replaced with unease. A burly man named Abhi leans against the wall, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
Gloria’s gaze burns into me. “What’s wrong, Oldzheil? Why this meeting? And why are you bringing a stranger into it?”
Warzheil hesitates, his usual confidence replaced with unease. “I… Gloria, this isn’t easy to say.”
She forces a smile, though the strain shows in her clenched fists. “Just spit it out. We won’t get mad if you’ve made a mistake.”
Her brave facade cracks, and I know she senses the gravity of what’s to come.
Warzheil’s voice trembles. “Your father… Lord Drax… the greatest of the current gods, my closest friend… has passed on to the world of his god.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Gloria freezes, her expression flickering between disbelief and anger. “No,” she says, her voice brittle. “That’s impossible. My father is a god—a god who’s lived for over a hundred thousand years. You expect me to believe he’s dead?”
Sil gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “Tell us it’s a lie, Oldzheil!” she pleads.
Warzheil’s hand shakes as he reaches for his dimensional pocket. Before he can continue, I place a hand on his, steadying him. He looks at me, gratitude and sorrow in his eyes.
“This guilt isn’t yours alone to bear,” I say softly.
I take the pot of ashes from him and place it on the table, the weight of its presence suffocating the room.
“My name is Ronin,” I begin, standing tall despite the storm of emotions swirling inside me. “I’m sharing this because Warzheil trusts you. I owe you the truth.”
I recount everything—the summoning, Drax’s sacrifice, the battles I’ve fought since arriving. I don’t leave anything out.
When I finish, Gloria rises, her fury erupting. “You!” she yells, pointing at me. “It’s all because of you! Why did my father have to go to such lengths to summon someone like you? A weakling! Was my father not enough?”
Warzheil moves to reprimand her, but I stop him. “It’s fine, Warzheil,” I say, my voice calm despite the anger directed at me. “She’s not wrong. I’m weak. I’m flawed. Drax summoned me, expecting a god, but instead, he got me.”
Gloria’s rage boils over. She crosses the room in an instant and drives her fist into my stomach. I crash into the wall, my wound tearing open. Blood soaks through the bandages.
“Oh no, his wound!” Sil exclaims, rushing to my side.
“Don’t use magic!” Warzheil warns, his face pale. “Call the pharmacist!”
But I wave them off. “No need,” I mutter, my voice strained. “Hand me my spear.”
Warzheil hesitates before handing it over. Activating the plasma blade, I press it to the wound, cauterizing it with a hiss of burning flesh. The pain is excruciating, but I bite down, refusing to cry out.
The room falls silent, save for my ragged breathing. I lock eyes with Gloria, whose anger wavers.
“You saw that, right?” Warzheil asks her, his voice steady but firm.
Gloria says nothing, her hands trembling. She turns on her heel and storms out. “Meet me in the arena tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder. “If you win, I’ll listen to you. But if I win, you’ll follow my orders and fulfill my father’s purpose, no matter the cost!”
Sil moves to stop her. “Gloria, wait!” she pleads, but the fiery-haired warrior doesn’t turn back.
The room is heavy with tension as Sil exits, leaving Warzheil and me alone.
“She’s angry,” Warzheil mutters, running a hand through his hair. “But she’ll come around.”
“I’ll win,” I reply, though doubt gnaws at the edges of my resolve.
Warzheil gives a weak chuckle, but I can see the weight of Gloria’s challenge pressing on him too. “You’ll need more than determination, lad,” he says, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Come to the forge. I’ve got something that might help.”
He gestures for me to follow, leading me through the quiet streets of the village. The faint murmur of conversations and the distant sounds of nighttime activity echo in the background. I can feel the villagers’ eyes on us, their whispers trailing behind like ghosts of doubt and curiosity.
As we approach the forge, the air grows warmer, carrying the faint metallic tang of molten metal and the earthy scent of coal. The building is tucked against a rocky outcrop, its structure sturdy and practical, with a tall chimney releasing a steady plume of smoke into the night sky.
Warzheil pauses at the entrance, his hand resting on the wooden door. He glances back at me, his expression serious. “What you’ll see in here, lad, it’s more than just tools and fire. A forge is a craftsman’s soul laid bare. Don’t treat it lightly.”
I nod, sensing the reverence in his tone.
He pushes open the door, and the first thing that strikes me is the heat—a dry, oppressive warmth that feels alive, pressing against my skin. The room is a marvel of craftsmanship. Every wall is lined with racks of tools, each meticulously arranged and gleaming despite their obvious age and use. Hammers, tongs, chisels, and other implements I can’t name hang like the instruments of some ancient art.
The furnace dominates the space, its roaring flames casting dancing shadows across the room. The light flickers off rows of weapons and armor displayed along the walls—some finished, others mid-construction. Each piece seems to hum with potential, as if waiting for the right hand to bring it to life.
“Welcome to my second home,” Warzheil says, his voice tinged with pride. “The forge is where blood and fire meet to create something greater. It’s where gods would kneel if they wanted their weapons made right.”
I take a slow step inside, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of the place. My gaze lands on a massive anvil at the center of the room, its surface worn smooth by years of relentless hammer strikes. Surrounding it are workbenches cluttered with raw materials—chunks of ore, mana stones that faintly glow, and coils of wire that seem to hum with energy.
“You’ve been busy,” I remark, my eyes trailing over a partially completed suit of armor hanging in the corner.
Warzheil grins. “Aye. The forge doesn’t just make weapons, lad. It tells stories, preserves memories. See that blade over there?” He points to a curved sword resting on a stand. Its edge gleams like liquid silver, the hilt intricately engraved with runes I don’t recognize.
“Belonged to a warrior who wanted a blade that could sing through the air. He died before I could finish it, but I kept working on it. Not for him, but because his story deserved an ending.”
I nod, running my fingers over the handle of a hammer lying nearby. It’s heavy, its grip worn smooth by countless hands. The weight feels comforting, familiar, like the tools my grandfather used back on Earth.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “This isn’t just a forge. It’s a legacy.”
Warzheil chuckles, his eyes softening. “Exactly. And tonight, we’re adding a new chapter to that legacy. Come, let’s take a look at your spear.”
He gestures for me to place the weapon on the anvil. As I do, he examines it with a practiced eye, running his fingers along the shaft and blade.
“This design… it’s simple but effective. You can tell a lot about a person from their weapon, lad. And this tells me you value precision over brute force. Smart choice for someone in your line of work.”
“Was,” I correct him. “In my old line of work.”
He gives me a knowing look but doesn’t press further. Instead, he grabs a pair of thick leather gloves and picks up the spear.
“I’ve been tinkering with some designs since the ship,” he says, setting the spear down on the anvil. “This orcadite here—it’s infused with lightning essence. A natural mana conductor. Perfect for a mana-less fellow like yourself. But I’ve got a few ideas to make it even better.”
He moves to a shelf and retrieves a small box, opening it to reveal several glowing stones. “Mana stones,” he explains. “Rare ones, too. These’ll amplify the spear’s capabilities. Now, let’s get to work.”
For the next few hours, the forge becomes a symphony of clanging metal and crackling flames. Warzheil works with a precision that’s mesmerizing to watch. Each strike of his hammer seems to breathe life into the weapon. Sparks fly with every hit, illuminating his determined expression.
“Pass me that smaller hammer,” he says at one point, motioning toward a tool resting nearby.
I hand it to him, and he nods in approval. “Good lad. Pay attention to the details. Blacksmithing isn’t just about brute strength; it’s about knowing when to be gentle and when to strike hard.”
As he works, he explains the process in detail, teaching me the basics of blacksmithing and enchanting. He shows me how to draw patterns on the metal, how to channel energy through the mana stones, and how to temper the orcadite to maximize its strength.
“Blacksmithing,” he says, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow, “is as much about patience as it is about skill. Rushing it only ruins the work.”
I nod, absorbing every word.
Warzheil steps back, his work completed. He places the newly forged spear on the anvil, its surface glowing faintly with runes that seem to pulse in rhythm with the ambient mana in the room. He wipes the sweat from his brow, pride glimmering in his eyes.
“Go on, lad,” he says, motioning toward the spear. “Let’s see what this beauty can do.”
I reach out, hesitant but curious, and my fingers close around the cold, polished shaft. The moment my hand makes contact, something extraordinary happens. The runes etched into the metal flicker once, as if resisting, before vanishing entirely.
In their place, the crimson “T” symbol blooms across the blade, its edges glowing faintly as if alive. A low hum fills the forge, and I feel a pulse of energy emanating from the weapon, syncing with my heartbeat.
“What the hell…” Warzheil whispers, leaning in closer.
I turn the spear in my hands, the “T” symbol etched into the blade’s surface as though it’s always belonged there. The weapon feels... different. Lighter, yet more powerful. The orcadite glows faintly, no longer reflecting just the furnace’s light but radiating its own.
“Lad,” Warzheil says, his voice trembling, “do you realize what just happened?”
“No,” I admit, staring at the spear in awe. “But it feels... right. Like it’s mine now in a way I can’t explain.”
Warzheil grabs a notebook from a nearby shelf, flipping through its pages with frantic energy. “This isn’t just an enchantment—it’s something entirely new. Look!” He points at the area where the runes used to be. “Normally, an enchanted weapon relies on the material to channel the mana or power it holds. But this—this ‘T’ symbol of yours—it’s bypassing the material entirely. It’s like the weapon is now an extension of you.”
Curious, I grip the spear tighter and focus. The “T” symbol begins to glow brighter, and I feel a connection form—not just to the weapon but to something deeper, something primal. Without thinking, I thrust the spear forward.
A bolt of pure white lightning arcs from the tip, striking a practice dummy across the room. The force of the impact sends the dummy flying backward, shattering into splinters as it crashes against the wall.
Warzheil’s jaw drops. “By the gods!” he exclaims, stumbling back a step. “That wasn’t just lightning! That was pure energy, unfiltered and raw! What in the name of Om’s forge is going on with you, lad?”
I look at the spear, then at my hands, flexing my fingers. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. “But it feels... natural. Like this power has always been there, waiting for me to unlock it.”
Warzheil grabs the spear from my hands, turning it over as he examines the “T” symbol. He mutters under his breath, a mix of awe and frustration. “This shouldn’t be possible. The runes are gone, but the power is still there. No... it’s not just still there—it’s stronger. The symbol is acting as a conduit, drawing power directly from... from you.”
I frown. “Is that bad?”
Warzheil places the spear back on the anvil, his expression serious. “Not bad, no. But dangerous. Enchantments have limits for a reason, lad. Materials can only hold so much power before they break. But this symbol of yours—it’s ignoring those limits entirely. The spear should’ve shattered the moment you used that bolt of lightning, but it didn’t. It’s as if the ‘T’ symbol is absorbing the strain, channeling the power so the weapon itself doesn’t take the brunt of it.”
First, Warzheil hands me a mana stone. “Try placing this near the spear,” he says.
I hold the stone close to the weapon, and immediately, the “T” symbol pulses with light. The mana stone dissolves into a fine mist, its energy absorbed into the spear. The weapon glows brighter, the light from the “T” symbol shifting from crimson to a swirling mix of colors—red, gold, and blue.
“Bloody hell,” Warzheil mutters. “It’s not just absorbing the enchantments—it’s amplifying them.”
We repeat the process with different materials—more mana stones, enchanted shards, even a cursed talisman Warzheil had been too cautious to use. Each time, the “T” symbol adapts, integrating the energy without breaking the weapon.
By the end of the night, the spear is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The “T” symbol pulses faintly, almost like a heartbeat, and the orcadite glows with a steady inner light.
Warzheil steps back, wiping his hands on his apron. “Lad, I’ve been a smith for over 200 years, and I’ve never seen anything like this. This symbol of yours... it doesn’t just break the rules—it rewrites them. We’ve stacked enchantments on this weapon that would’ve shattered a primordial-grade blade, and it’s not even close to breaking.”
“Can we test it with my Plasma Spear?” I ask, eager to understand this strange new ability.
Warzheil places the newly forged spear on the rack for a moment, his gaze turning to my original weapon—the plasma spear I’ve relied on since arriving in this world. Its once-pristine titanium shaft now bears cracks from my battle with the demon lord.
Warzheil nods slowly. “Aye. But carefully.”
Over the next several hours, we test the limits of the Plasma Spear and the “T” symbol
“We’ve tested what your ‘T’ symbol can do with enchanting,” Warzheil says, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “But this spear of yours... it’s already something special. The tech you brought with you is leagues ahead of what we have here. Combining it with your technique might turn it into something truly terrifying.”
I nod, intrigued. “Let’s see what happens. It’s already durable, but those cracks make it unreliable. If we’re going to fix it, might as well take it to the next level.”
Warzheil grins, the gleam of a craftsman’s challenge lighting up his eyes. “Aye, let’s push some boundaries.”
He gestures for me to place the plasma spear on the anvil. The shaft glints faintly under the forge’s light, its plasma generator still intact but clearly strained. Warzheil studies it for a moment before pulling out a small crate filled with refined orcadite bars.
“We’ll replace the titanium core with orcadite,” he explains, placing the bars on the workbench. “This stuff is rare, lad. Its mana-conducting properties are unparalleled. And with your symbol channeling the energy, it should hold up to the plasma without breaking.”
We begin the process, dismantling the plasma spear piece by piece. Warzheil shows me how to strip the titanium core while preserving the delicate plasma generator. He then heats the orcadite bars in the furnace, carefully shaping them into a new core.
As he hammers the glowing metal, sparks fly, the sound ringing through the forge like a melody. “Pass me the plasma stabilizer,” he says, gesturing to a small, intricate piece of tech lying on the workbench.
I hand it to him, watching as he embeds it into the orcadite core with precision. The glowing metal seems to accept the stabilizer as if it belongs, the two components fusing seamlessly.
“Now for the risky part,” Warzheil mutters. He places the modified plasma generator at the tip of the spear, connecting it to the new orcadite shaft. “If this doesn’t work, lad, we’ll have a bloody mess on our hands.”
I take a deep breath, gripping the weapon as he steps back. The moment my fingers touch the shaft, the runes inscribed during the forging process vanish, replaced by the crimson “T” symbol. The spear hums with energy, and I feel the plasma generator activate, its power coursing through the weapon like a living pulse.
“By Om’s forge…” Warzheil whispers, staring at the weapon in awe.
The plasma tip ignites with a brilliant white glow, far brighter than before. I can feel the heat radiating off it, though it doesn’t burn me. Warzheil grabs a thermometer-like device from a nearby shelf, holding it near the spear. His eyes widen as the numbers spike.
“20,000 degrees,” Warzheil says, his voice trembling. “The tip is reaching 20,000 degrees Celsius, and the orcadite isn’t breaking. That’s hotter than the surface of most stars, lad. This is no weapon; this is destruction incarnate.”
I swallow hard, gripping the spear tightly as the plasma blade flickers and stabilizes. The weapon feels alive in my hands, like an extension of my will. But the sheer power emanating from it is overwhelming, almost terrifying.
The addition of the orcadite spear tip—a razor-sharp physical point fused seamlessly with the plasma generator—gives the weapon an almost surreal quality. The glowing plasma envelops the orcadite tip, amplifying its cutting power while maintaining a tangible edge. It’s a blade of both physical and pure energy, a balance of form and devastation.
The heat radiating from the plasma is so raw and intense that Warzheil and I instinctively take a step back. The air around the blade distorts, shimmering like a desert mirage. The center of the plasma blade is blinding, its white-hot core impossible to look at directly. My skin prickles as the heat brushes against it, even from a safe distance.
“Lad,” Warzheil says, his voice shaky but firm, “this isn’t just a weapon anymore. It’s a damn calamity on a stick. The orcadite tip… it’s holding steady, but that’s because the plasma isn’t just burning—it’s channeling through the metal, enhancing it. But I don’t know how long even this material can last under that kind of strain.”
I nod, feeling the weight of his words. I lower the spear, the plasma blade flickering out with a soft hiss. Even deactivated, the spear seems to hum faintly, a reminder of the power lying dormant within it.
Warzheil shakes his head, wiping sweat from his brow. “Ronin, listen to me. This thing—it’s not something you just pull out for a fight. If you use it, it’s because you’re out of options. It’s because there’s no other way.”
I look down at the spear, the polished orcadite tip glinting faintly in the forge’s light. “I understand,” I say, my voice steady. “This isn’t a tool for battle—it’s a last resort. I won’t use it unless I have to.”
“Good,” Warzheil says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Because this isn’t just about you anymore, lad. That thing could turn a fight in your favor—or burn everything to ashes if you’re not careful. Respect it, or it’ll destroy more than just your enemies.”
I nod again, gripping the spear tightly. The forge falls silent, save for the crackle of the fire, as we both stare at the weapon—equal parts awe and trepidation coursing through us.
To test the weapon, I step to the far side of the forge, aiming at a thick steel plate used for practice strikes. With a steady hand, I thrust the plasma spear forward.
The result is instantaneous and horrifying. The plasma blade pierces the steel like it’s paper, leaving a perfectly round hole that glows red-hot at the edges. The heat is so intense that the surrounding air ripples, and the steel plate warps and collapses under the residual heat.
Warzheil lets out a low whistle, his face pale. “I’ve forged weapons for kings and gods, lad, but I’ve never seen anything like that. This spear doesn’t just cut—it obliterates. And the worst part is, it won’t stop until it’s burned through everything in its path.”
I deactivate the plasma blade, the glow fading as I lower the spear. My hands are steady, but my mind races with the implications. This weapon is a game-changer, but it’s also a liability—a power so immense that even I’m not sure I can control it.
Warzheil places a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. “Promise me, Ronin. Promise me you won’t use this unless there’s no other way. This thing… it’s a last resort, not a tool for every battle.”
“I promise,” I say, my voice solemn.
We spend the rest of the night fine-tuning the plasma spear, ensuring it’s stable and safe to wield—relatively speaking. By the time dawn breaks, the forge is quiet, and the weapon rests on the anvil, its deadly potential hidden beneath its sleek design.
As I gaze at it, I can’t help but feel a mix of pride and trepidation. This spear is a testament to what Warzheil and I can accomplish together, but it’s also a reminder of the thin line between creation and destruction.
Warzheil pats my back, his expression weary but satisfied. “You’ve got a weapon fit for a god now, lad. Just remember—power like this comes with a cost. Don’t let it consume you.”
“Its time for the duel, remember, don’t use the plasma spear, The Ramoon blade is also an over-kill but it will have to do for now, just try to control your Strength.”
I nod, gripping the spear tightly. “I won’t. I’ll use it wisely. Or not at all.”
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After a while of preparations We leave for the Arena.90Please respect copyright.PENANAuh4XAidbGJ
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The training grounds, a sprawling open space at the center of the village, come into view, and my grip tightens on the spear.
A crowd has gathered, murmuring amongst themselves, their faces a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Warzheil and I step into the arena, their whispers growing louder.
“Is he really going up against Gloria?”90Please respect copyright.PENANAMdlt5EYZV0
“They say he killed a demon lord, but Gloria’s the daughter of a god!”90Please respect copyright.PENANANDaCdpNjoI
“This isn’t just a duel—it’s a grudge match.”
I catch a glimpse of Gloria standing near the edge of the arena, her fiery red hair catching the afternoon sun. Her arms are crossed, her expression cold and unreadable, but her eyes burn with barely concealed anger. Kade stands beside her, his usual easy demeanor replaced with a quiet concern. He catches my eye and gives a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of what’s about to unfold.
“Ready, lad?” Warzheil asks, his voice low, the tension in his words palpable.
I nod, forcing a confident smile even as my stomach churns with a mix of anxiety and guilt. “Ready.”
Gloria steps forward, her movements purposeful, her weapons gleaming in the light—a finely forged sword in one hand, a wickedly curved dagger in the other. Her stance speaks of years of disciplined training, of battles fought alongside her father.
“Eager to prove your worth, human?” she sneers, her voice carrying across the hushed crowd.
I meet her gaze, refusing to be intimidated. “I’m here to uphold your father’s hope, Gloria. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Her eyes narrow, her expression hardening. “A hope that cost my father his life,” she spits, her words cutting through the silence like a blade.
The crowd stirs, their murmurs filling the air, sensing the animosity crackling between us.
“Enough talk,” the referee interjects, stepping between us. His burly frame can’t quite hide the nervous tremor in his voice. “The rules are simple: first to yield or fall outside the boundary loses. No lethal blows. Begin!”
The moment the words leave his mouth, Gloria moves.
She’s a blur of motion, her sword a silver arc aimed at my chest. I barely have time to raise my spear to block, the impact sending a jolt of energy up my arms. Her attacks come in a relentless flurry—thrusts, parries, feints—a deadly dance honed through years of experience.
Each blow carries the weight of her divine lineage, and I’m forced to rely on speed and agility to keep her at bay. I parry her strikes, the staff of my Ramoon Spear humming faintly as it absorbs the force.
“You’re holding back,” she snarls, her voice laced with contempt. “Fight me like you mean it!”
“I’m fighting to survive,” I retort, deflecting another strike.
Her dagger grazes my arm, drawing blood. I grit my teeth, shoving her back with a burst of lightning energy from the spear. She stumbles, surprise flickering across her face, but recovers quickly, her eyes narrowing as she reassesses me.
“Not bad,” she admits grudgingly. “But you’ll need more than tricks to beat me.”
I stay silent, focusing on the rhythm of the fight. The crowd watches intently, their silence a heavy weight pressing down on me.
Then Gloria raises her hand, a faint golden glow enveloping her.
“Divine Manifestation: Holy Strengthening,” she intones, her voice reverberating with power.
Her speed and strength increase tenfold, her movements a blur of radiant energy. I can barely keep up, my spear whirling in a desperate attempt to deflect her strikes.
Needles of light shoot from her fingertips, some piercing my armor, others lodging in my flesh. Pain blooms, but my wounds heal almost instantly as I yank the needles out.
“How, mana shouldn’t work on me though?” I think but I notice that they were just normal needle knives covered in divine energy. She is smart, using actual needles rather than those made of divine powers.
“What trickery is this?” Gloria demands, her frustration evident. “Are you using anti-magic artifacts? Is that how a mana-less human dares to challenge a goddess’s daughter?”
“I’m using my skills, Gloria. Nothing more,” I reply, trying to steady my breathing.
The crowd isn’t convinced.
“He’s cheating!” someone shouts. “How else could he resist her divine power?”
The accusations spread like wildfire, the crowd turning against me.
Warzheil steps forward, his expression dark with fury. He opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him with a look. “It’s fine, old man,” I murmur. “I’ll handle this.”
Gloria charges again, her attacks even more ferocious. But her anger makes her predictable. I sidestep her next strike and sweep her legs out from under her. She hits the ground, her sword flying from her hand.
The crowd gasps, but before I can press the advantage, Gloria rolls to her feet, summoning her divine energy once more.
“Enough!” Warzheil’s voice booms across the arena, silencing the crowd. “This fight is over.”
The referee, visibly shaken, raises Gloria’s hand. “The visitor has been disqualified. The victor… is Gloria!”
A ripple of applause spreads through the crowd, but it feels hollow. Warzheil’s glare silences any further celebration.
Gloria steps closer, her expression a mix of anger and confusion. “At first, I was going to let you be free after I won. But you used an artifact! You tried to sully the name of my father, who had such high hopes for you.” Her emerald eyes, usually so vibrant, were now dull with grief and anger. “I did everything to become his favorite, but I can’t believe he went to such lengths to summon a shameless cheat like you. You may be strong, but you have no right to judge me as a warrior. You… you took my only family from me. I will make you pay!”
Her words stung, but they also ignited a spark of anger within me. “And I used to think gods were the pinnacle of perfection,” I retorts, my voice laced with bitterness. “It’s refreshing to know they aren’t. Not in this world, at least.”
Gloria’s face hardened, her voice cold and sharp as she issued her command. “Silence. From this day forward, you will not even breathe unless I permit it.”
Warzheil Glares at Gloria who then leaves the arena,
Warzheil places a hand on my shoulder, his voice low. “Lad, you’ve stirred the hornet’s nest. But don’t lose heart. You fought well.”
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