Fade in…
Night.
The Lewotla encampment had grown unusually quiet beneath the oppressive dark.
The scattered fires crackled softly, sending thin trails of dark smoke drifting upward into a night sky untouched by the immediate violent chaos of active war. The bitter wind swept over the jagged stones of the camp, carrying with it the cold scent of damp earth and rust.
Around one particular campfire sat several Lewotla soldiers, their heavy iron shoulder plates casting long, jagged shadows against the dirt walls of their fortified perimeter.
Nobody laughed. Nobody celebrated the temporary lull in battle. No crude jokes were passed around the embers.
One of the younger men finally broke the heavy silence, his hands trembling slightly as he tightened his grip around the wooden hilt of his shortsword. "Do you think..." He hesitated, his voice barely rising above the crackle of burning pine. "...the Prince will survive the duel?"
Silence fell over the small circle once more, heavy and unbroken.
Another soldier stared deep into the glowing orange heart of the fire, the flickering heat reflecting off the cold, sweat-slicked bridge of his nose. "He has to."
The youngest soldier nodded rapidly, his knuckles turning white against his weapon.
He was trying to convince himself more than anyone else sitting around the flame.
Then an older veteran spoke from the shadowed edge of the circle.
His weathered eyes never left the rising sparks, his face scarred from decades of unforgiving campaigns. "...Did you see what that Monster did?"
Nobody answered him.
They all had. The memory was seared into the back of every man's mind who had survived the front lines.
Their collective thoughts drifted back to the bloody beginning of the war.
A single, dark figure descending silently from the open heavens like a falling star of ill omen.
One quiet, cold whisper that cut through the thunder of battle.
"Atmospheric Burst."
Then...
Nothing but absolute, blinding devastation. Entire battalions erased in a single heartbeat.
The heavy silence around the campfire became almost suffocating.
One by one...
Their gazes shifted away from the dancing flames.
Toward eight rigid, silent shapes lined up in the shadows along the edge of the tent line.
Wrapped carefully in coarse, bleached white cloth, tied tightly at the head and boots.
Their fallen brothers. Waiting. Still waiting in the dirt.
One soldier lowered his head, his chin pressing firmly against his leather collar.
His voice carried a profound, bitter disappointment rather than outward anger. "...It seems..." He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "...grief has placed duty on a waiting list."
No one corrected him. No one defended the commanders.
The Lewotla prepared for war continuously.
Always. Without pause. Without hesitation.
Rations of dry food. Heavy iron and steel. Endlessly grueling physical training.
Everything within their culture existed solely for the pursuit of absolute victory.
Except...
The dead.
There were simply no resources to spare for funerals.
Not while an active war continued to consume the realm.
Their fallen brothers would remain here in the cold...
Until the fighting officially ended.
The fire crackled softly in the dark.
No one spoke again.
Deep within the high stone walls of the Lewotla Palace...
THUD. THUD. THUD.
A massive, calloused fist struck the iron-reinforced wooden training post with rhythmic, bone-jarring violence.
Kutlwano Jr.
Again. Again. Again.
Every strike landed cleaner and harder than the last, echoing through the empty, cavernous training hall like crackling thunder.
Thick sweat dripped rhythmically from his square jaw, splashing onto the cracked stone floorboards beneath his feet.
The deep purple and yellow bruises left behind from Hakuna's crushing punches during their last encounter had already begun fading from his torso, replaced by angry, red flush marks from his current strain.
Across the dimly lit chamber...
Kutlwano Sr watched quietly from the shadows of his elevated dais. "A fast recovery. Good. Pain strengthens him." He thought, his stoic face carved from the same hard stone as the fortress walls.
Such was the unyielding Lewotla way.
Strength was never simply inherited by birth.
It was carved violently into flesh through blood and suffering.
He lifted a heavy, cut-crystal glass to his lips.
The amber whiskey within caught the warm, dancing light of the tall beeswax candles lined along the stone pillars.
He took a slow, deliberate sip.
Then—Darkness.
Every candle. Every iron lantern. Every flicking flame in the vast hall.
Extinguished simultaneously.
Only for a tiny fraction of a second.
Then...
They returned, sputtering back to life all at once as if nothing had happened.
Kutlwano Sr. froze in place, his glass resting mere inches from his mouth.
His heavy hand tightened violently around the crystal until the glass groaned under the pressure.
He knew that exact physical phenomenon all too well.
Nothing natural in this world could extinguish every single light in a sealed palace simultaneously without a draft.
Something...
Had entered the stronghold.
Outside in the courtyard...
The soldiers remained gathered beside their quiet campfire, still lost in their somber thoughts.
Footsteps soundlessly approached. Measured. Elegant. Heavy with an unspoken, terrifying authority.
A lone woman emerged smoothly from the deep darkness of the outer gateway.
Tall. Possessing an impossible, ethereal beauty. Otherworldly in every aspect of her posture.
One young soldier let out a low, appreciative whistle through his teeth.
Another soldier chuckled softly, leaning back against his shield. "Well now..."
"Looks like the war's finally sent us a blessing." More crude whistles followed. More low laughter echoed across the dirt.
One of the men even stood up, resting a heavy hand on his belt as he stepped forward. "Hey!"
"Why don't you—"
She never acknowledged them. She never turned her head. She never looked into their eyes. She never slowed her pace by even a fraction of a second.
She simply...
Walked forward.
The crude laughter died instantly in every man's throat.
One soldier blinked, his vision suddenly blurring as a heavy, crushing weight pressed down on his chest. His knees buckled out from under him.
Another collapsed sideways into the dirt, his weapon slipping from his lifeless fingers. Then another. And another.
Within seconds...
Every single man gathered around the fire lay unconscious on the hard ground, their breath coming in shallow, faint rattles.
The campfire continued burning brightly.
Utterly unaffected by the invisible wave that had swept over the courtyard.
Mazikera never once turned around to look at the fallen men behind her.
Even compressed tightly within a physical form...
Her Daemonium possessed a terrifying density that mortal bodies were never meant to endure or witness up close.
The massive oak throne room doors swung open violently.
Without permission. Without warning. Without any formal announcement from the guards outside.
Mazikera entered the grand hall, her dark cloak sweeping behind her like a living shadow.
Kutlwano Sr looked down upon her from his elevated throne, his expression cold and completely calm. "State your business."
She stopped several meters away from the base of the royal dais, her posture composed. "I will be your Avatar."
Absolute silence filled the grand chamber.
Then...
Laughter echoed loudly throughout the stone hall.
Deep. Dismissive. Dripping with arrogant amusement.
Kutlwano Sr wiped a genuine tear of amusement from the corner of his eye. "A woman?" He chuckled heavily, his broad shoulders shaking. "The Avatar of the Lewotla King?"
Another deep laugh escaped his chest. "You know nothing of our traditions, stranger."
Mazikera's serene expression never changed by a fraction. "Who is your current Avatar?"
The king smiled proudly, leaning forward on his golden armrests. Exactly as she'd hoped he would respond. "My son."
"Prince Kutlwano."
The words had barely left his lips.
She disappeared. No sound. No displacement of air. No warning whatsoever.
CRACK.
Kutlwano Jr was hurled backward through the air, his heavy body blasting through a solid stone pillar in a shower of dust and shattered masonry.
Before the falling rubble could even strike the stone floorboards—She was already upon him.
Her slender fist crashed directly into his exposed abdomen with the force of a siege engine.
The surrounding stone floor fractured outward in a wide spiderweb crater. He gasped violently for air, thrashing desperately as he tried to push himself up from the dust.
Another strike landed.
His ribs folded inward with a sickening crunch.
Fresh blood scattered across the polished stone flags like crimson paint.
In a desperation born of pure survival instinct, he swung a wild, heavy right hook toward her jaw.
She caught the speeding punch effortlessly in her palm. Crushed his wrist bones into powder with a casual squeeze.
Then buried her knee directly into his broken ribs.
Again. Again. Again.
Every single attack was precise. Devastatingly efficient.
Without a single wasted movement. Without a trace of anger. Without a hint of personal satisfaction.
She didn't grunt with exertion.
She didn't breathe heavily. She didn't even blink as the blood splattered against her cheek.
This...
Was completely effortless for her.
Kutlwano Jr's vision blurred, fading to absolute black at the edges.
His battered body utterly refused to obey his frantic commands.
He collapsed face-first into his own blood, completely unable to rise again.
Mazikera looked down at the broken prince for a single, cold second.
Then simply...
Turned around.
She walked slowly back toward the elevated throne.
Each crisp footstep echoed like a funeral knell through the ruined, dust-filled hall.
Kutlwano Sr remained standing before his seat.
For the first time in many years...
Completely speechless.
Mazikera stopped directly before the base of his dais.
Her garments remained immaculate, completely free of dust or tears.
Not a single strand of her dark hair was out of place. No physical exhaustion. No visible emotion on her face.
Nothing.
She spoke as though casually discussing tomorrow's weather forecast. "There." A quiet pause.
She raised her gaze and looked directly into the King's wide eyes. "Now you don't have an Avatar."
She took one small, deliberate step forward. "Need one?"
The massive throne room remained deathly silent.
Kutlwano Sr did not move a single muscle.
His son...
The proudest warrior of the Lewotla bloodline. The future of their kingdom.
Broken in seconds. Not by an invading army. Not by the Monster of the Letebele.
But by a solitary woman.
The King's throat tightened painfully.
Every cultural instinct pounded in his head, urging him to reject the outrageous offer.
Every sacred tradition of his ancestors demanded he refuse this outsider and order her execution.
Yet...
No words came from his lips.
His pride had been utterly defeated before his physical body ever was.
Mazikera waited patiently below him. Without urgency. Without expectation.
Eventually...
The King of the Lewotla lowered his head in silence. "...Very well."
His voice was hollow, stripped of all its former majesty. "I accept."
Mazikera gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod of her head. "Good."
Nothing more was said.
She turned on her heel.
Walked smoothly back through the shattered great doors.
And disappeared completely into the dark night outside.
The Lewotla Palace remained in deathly, suffocating stillness.
Not because their mortal enemy had struck them down in battle...
But because their own unyielding traditions had finally trapped them.
Three days later.
The brief ceasefire had officially ended.
Not with vast armies clashing on open fields. Not with massive siege engines shattering fortress walls. Not with bright banners marching proudly across blood-soaked grass.
But...
With ancient tradition.
A massive, circular arena carved into the heart of the mountains.
Its towering stone walls were worn smooth by generations of violent combat and the blood of fallen champions.
The rising stands overflowed with thousands of eager onlookers.
On one side—The entire Lewotla clan.
Their thunderous chants echoed violently through the mountain valley, shaking the loose gravel on the ground.
Heavy iron spears struck wooden shields in perfect, rhythmic synchronization.
Every deafening roar carried generations of unyielding martial pride and bloodlust.
On the directly opposite side of the grand arena...
Absolute silence.
The Letebele clan occupied their designated seats, clad entirely in stark black garments.
No loud cheering. No pounding war drums. No victorious songs.
Only heavy, profound mourning.
The war had paused for this duel.
Their intense grief had not.
At the very front of the Letebele section...
Hakuna knelt on the cold stone.
His head was bowed low before the gathered members of the Ntlamele family.
Sehloho stood at the center of the group, the Clan Head's expression completely unreadable and dark as stone.
Max stood quietly beside him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Bernice. Angelina. Krestina.
Charmane. Justina. Queen.
The entire royal family...
Dressed in unified black mourning attire.
Today...
Their chosen Avatar would fight for the survival of the kingdom.
But first...
He would remember exactly why he fought.
Hakuna slowly rose to his feet, his muscles tense under his skin.
Normally...
The designated Avatar of the Letebele Head wore elaborate ceremonial garments woven in rich, vibrant browns and shimmering golds.
Symbols of high royalty. Imminent victory. Enduring legacy.
Today...
There was no gold to be seen anywhere on his frame. Only stark, deep black.
The familiar, intricate Letebele Specific Sotho patterns remained woven into the heavy fabric.
Their threads, however, were woven instead with the darkest, most muted greys imaginable.
A warrior dressed not for a grand celebration...
But for a somber funeral service.
He untied the ceremonial shoulder cloth with steady hands. It slipped smoothly from his broad shoulders.
Falling softly onto the stone behind him.
His bare back met the cold mountain draft sweeping through the arena.
Simple black trousers wrapped his legs. Bare feet planted firmly upon the ancient stone floor.
Nothing else.
He turned toward the center of the pit.
His designated opponent stood across the wide expanse of the arena floor.
"..." Hakuna frowned slightly, his brow furrowing as he squinted through the dust. "...A woman?"
The distant silhouette was entirely unfamiliar to him.
Slim. Completely still. Unmoving like a statue in the wind.
Then...
She lifted her head slowly toward the sunlight.
The bright light caught glowing, crimson eyes.
No human emotion within them. No hesitation. No trace of humanity.
Hakuna's expression shifted instantly.
Not to fear or surprise.
To sharp, horrifying recognition.
"..."
Mazikera.
Fade out.
End of Episode 93.