Cheers erupted from every racial grandstand, echoing throughout the Sky Colosseum. Yet to The Ancient One, the noise sounded like a discordant hymn within a funeral rite.
His chest trembled with doubt.
Had all of these battles become nothing more than meaningless spectacle?
Would the twelve matches that were yet to come end as history devoid of purpose?
He looked up toward the softly clouded sky, as though searching for answers within the slow drifting of the clouds above.
"Perhaps… we should end all of this and simply return home in peace," he thought quietly.
But before his mind could settle, the golden feathers at the back of his neck suddenly stirred—even though the winds within the Colosseum had long since ceased.
The Ancient One turned.
Yet the shadow beneath him lagged behind his movement by the slightest fraction of a second.
Then something whispered from deep within his soul.
Dark.
Sharp.
Terribly close.
As though the voice came from the depths of his own being.
"Hahaha… are you beginning to grow fragile, Ancient One?"
He flinched.
His eyes searched for the source of the voice, yet all he felt was a cold breath brushing against his ear.
The voice spoke again, deeper now, piercing directly into his consciousness.
"Yes. These battles are unfolding exactly as fate intended. They must not stop. They must continue… until this world finally learns who truly deserves to survive upon the earth."
The Ancient One fell silent for a long time.
Behind the gleam of his garuda-like eyes, compassion and destiny waged war against one another.
EPILOGUE
The infirmary was silent.
Only the ticking of the wall clock occasionally echoed through the scent of medicine and sterile gauze lingering in the air.
Hayama lay weakly upon a metal bed. His body was wrapped in white bandages already stained faintly red.
The stethoscope resting against his chest reflected the pale overhead light. The young nurse lowered her head, listening carefully to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Her smile was gentle, though exhaustion lingered in her eyes.
"It seems you're beginning to recover, sir," she said softly. "For now, you only need rest. Your body has already gone far beyond its limits."
Hayama gave a weak nod.
"Thank you."
The nurse looked at him for a moment, then slowly shook her head.
"No, sir. We should be the ones thanking you. Because of you, humanity has hope again. You proved that we can still win."
Hayama stared silently at the white ceiling above him.
"I'm not a victor," he murmured quietly. "I was only lucky. At the end of the match… he looked as though he had accepted his fate. He could have—"
"Sir," the nurse interrupted gently. Her gaze remained calm, yet firm.
"Sometimes luck is also a kind of strength. Don't belittle yourself. We're all grateful that it was you standing there representing us."
She lightly adjusted the blanket over his chest before adding,
"Please rest. The next match will soon be announced. And the world may still… need you."
She gave a brief bow, then left the room filled with the scent of antiseptic and stacks of medical notes upon the wooden desk.
Hayama remained silent.
He looked at the bandages around his left shoulder, then slowly clenched his fist.
"Hope… huh?" he whispered.
Beneath the lingering pain, something had begun growing inside him.
Warm.
Faint.
Yet certain.
Silence returned to the room. Only the ticking clock and the soft hum of ventilation accompanied Hayama within the pale chamber.
Then came three soft knocks at the door.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
Hayama struggled to rise. His body trembled violently. Every movement sent agony surging through his shoulder. Using the wall for support, he staggered slowly toward the door.
The moment he opened it, his face froze.
"W–what do you want?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"I came to demand the price of my prince's death," the figure answered coldly.
An elf stood in the doorway, clad in a long robe. His eyes gleamed like furious crystal shards.
In his hand, a rapier forged from pure light vibrated softly, casting pale reflections across the room's walls.
Before Hayama could react, the blade lunged toward his chest.
He rolled aside on instinct. Pain instantly tore through his shoulder again, forcing a restrained groan from his lips.
"Even weakened, you still dodge swiftly, Human?" the elf sneered. His voice was cold, yet trembling with hatred.
"The match is already over!" Hayama barked back. "Don't force me to fight you too!"
The elf stepped forward.
"Because the match is over… I shall continue Prince Caelendir's vengeance myself."
The words carved a quiet fear into Hayama's chest. His eyes pleaded silently, but they failed to shake the elf's resolve. Each approaching step sounded like a countdown toward death itself.
Only inches away, the elf raised his rapier once more.
"Join him in the afterlife!"
Hayama closed his eyes.
He knew his body could not survive another strike.
The air tightened.
Then—
Tshing!
Steel collided.
The clash of metal shook the room.
"Vengeance will solve nothing!" a deep voice thundered from in front of Hayama.
A man's silhouette stood blocking the strike, two blades locked against one another—one made of light, the other forged from steel stained by countless battles.
That voice…
It was painfully familiar.
"The match is over," the man continued firmly. "Your prince has already found peace. And if you continue this madness, you'll only create another cycle of hatred."
The elf gritted his teeth.
"How did you know I came here?"
The man did not answer.
Instead, he drew a smaller blade from his waist. A simple-looking dagger, yet its cold gleam carried unmistakable killing intent.
The elf fell silent.
Then, realizing the difference in strength between them, he stepped back once—and vanished into a streak of light.
The man exhaled deeply.
"You never learn from experience, Hayama."
Hayama stared at him.
"Shinazugawa-san? How did you know I was being treated here?"
"Someone behind the scenes guided me," he replied while sheathing his sword.
"In the literal sense. A figure appeared on the monitor above the spectator stands where the others and I were sitting. Then they informed me that a mythological being had infiltrated the human infirmary. So I came immediately."
"Someone… behind the screen?" Hayama murmured, frowning.
"W-what do you mean?"
Before he could finish, the room's lights suddenly flickered.
The CRT monitor powered on by itself.
A blue screen appeared, filled with random strings of letters and numbers resembling code.
The image trembled alongside static noise, like the breathing of something digital.
Then a masked figure appeared behind the flickering display.
Its voice was distorted.
"I sensed the scent of sabotage. So I moved quickly to minimize any… undesirable outcomes."
The message was brief.
Then the screen shut off once more, leaving only faint blue flashes reflecting across the walls.
Shinazugawa stared sharply at the monitor.
"What did that person mean? Was that… Johan?"
Hayama drew a slow breath.
"Modern people have a word for someone like him—"
He paused briefly before looking toward his master.
"A hacker."
Silence descended once again.
Shinazugawa stood motionless.
Were these battles truly unfolding according to the will of the heavens?
Or had another hand already begun moving behind the shadows?