Chapter : 871
The final blow was a thing of brutal, contemptuous beauty. The Jahl, seemingly bored with the game, swatted Ifrit with a casual, backhanded blow from its massive, molten arm. The challenger’s spirit, its defenses finally broken, was sent flying across the arena, crashing into the stone wall with a sickening, grinding crunch. It did not dissolve into motes of light, as a lesser spirit would have. It simply lay there, a broken, smoking heap, its inner, crimson light flickering like a dying coal.
The man in the white mask, who had been fighting so valiantly at his spirit’s side, was caught in the shockwave of the blow. He was thrown to the sand, his simple, black leather armor shattering at the shoulder, his practice sword flying from his hand. He lay motionless, a small, still, and utterly defeated figure in the center of the vast, silent arena.
The crowd let out a collective, groaning sigh, a sound of profound, and deeply personal, disappointment. They had allowed themselves to hope again. They had believed in the impossible underdog, the mysterious, masked challenger. And once again, their hope had been brutally, and beautifully, crushed.
The Jahl stood over the prone form of the man, the very picture of absolute, triumphant dominance. It let out a long, deafening roar, a victory cry that shook the very foundations of the coliseum. It raised one of its massive, fiery claws, preparing to deliver the final, glorious, and crowd-pleasing kill.
Ken watched, his heart a steady, calm, and untroubled metronome. He was not worried. He was not afraid. He was simply… waiting. He was an audience member, and he knew, with an absolute, unwavering certainty, that the play was not over.
The hero had fallen. The stage was dark. And now, it was time for the miracle.
---
The silence that fell upon the Royal Arena was deeper and more profound than any that had come before. It was a silence born not of fear or of awe, but of a grim, final resignation. The story had reached its inevitable, tragic conclusion. The brave, mysterious challenger, who had given them a brief, glorious glimmer of hope, was now just another broken body on the blood-soaked sand, another foolish moth that had flown too close to the sun.
He lay perfectly still, his body a twisted, unnatural tangle of limbs. The simple, black leather armor on his left shoulder was shattered, revealing the torn, blood-soaked tunic beneath. His blank, white mask was askew, showing a sliver of pale, unmoving skin. His sword lay a dozen feet away, a useless stick of metal half-buried in the sand. He was the very picture of absolute, unequivocal defeat.
The crowd watched, their earlier, fickle emotions of mockery and excitement now curdled into a kind of somber, pitying respect. He had been a fool, yes. But he had been a brave fool. He had fought with a skill and a courage that had bordered on the divine. He had given them a better show than any challenger in living memory. And now, he would die for their entertainment.
In the Royal Box, Princess Amina sat back in her ebony chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. A profound, and deeply unwelcome, sense of disappointment had settled over her. She had allowed herself to be intrigued, to be captivated by the mystery of the man in the white mask. She had seen the glimmer of a different truth, the hint of a strategic genius that lay beneath the surface of the chaotic battle. She had allowed herself to believe that this time, this challenger, might actually be different.
But she had been wrong. He was just another Gias, another brave, powerful, and ultimately outmatched warrior. He had lasted longer. His methods had been more subtle. But the result was the same. The Demon was absolute. The house always wins.
“A valiant effort,” Captain Angelica murmured from behind her, her voice a low, respectful eulogy. “But predictable. His spirit was strong, but it was still a lesser fire. He could not win a battle of attrition.”
This was the moment he had been building towards. The nadir. The point of absolute, hopeless defeat. The darkest moment, just before the impossible, miraculous dawn.
His internal senses, augmented by the silent, watchful presence of Fang Fairy, were a perfect, high-resolution sensor array. He could feel the slight shift in the air pressure as the Jahl finally grew bored with its gloating and began to loom over him. He could feel the intense, focused spike of its spiritual energy as it gathered its power for the final, theatrical killing blow. He could feel the collective, horrified intake of breath from the seventy thousand spectators in the stands.
The stage was set. The audience was silent. The villain was monologuing. It was the perfect, dramatic moment to deliver the plot twist that would bring the entire house down.
The Jahl reared up to its full, colossal, thirty-foot height. Its massive, obsidian-clawed hand, now wreathed in a swirling vortex of blood-red, Commander-Class fire, was raised high, a fiery meteor about to descend and obliterate the small, broken man who lay at its feet.
The entire arena, the entire world, held its breath. This was it. The end.
And in the silent, calm, and perfectly ordered command center of his own mind, Lloyd, the humble doctor, the fallen hero, the master of the game, gave a single, simple, and world-altering command.
‘Act Three. Begin.’
---
The shadow of the Jahl’s massive, fiery claw fell over Lloyd’s prone form, a descending curtain of absolute, fiery death. The heat was a physical, palpable thing, a promise of instant, agonizing annihilation. The crowd let out a collective, strangled cry, a mixture of horror and a grim, bloodthirsty satisfaction. The story had reached its bloody, inevitable, and deeply entertaining conclusion.
The Demon’s triumphant, mental roar echoed through their minds. <Now, little flame… PERISH!>
And then, the universe broke.
The man on the ground, the broken, unconscious, and utterly defeated healer, moved.
It was not a desperate scramble. It was not a last-second, reflexive flinch. It was a movement of such impossible, preternatural speed and grace that it seemed to defy the very laws of physics. One moment, he was a broken heap on the sand. The next, he was on his feet, not just standing, but in a perfect, low, and deeply powerful combat stance, his head bowed, his hands empty.
He had not just gotten up. He had appeared. As if he had been teleported from a world of defeat to a world of absolute, coiled, and terrifying readiness.
The crowd did not have time to process the movement. Their minds, their very perceptions, were still lagging a half-second behind the impossible reality.