The Building of Entertainment felt as though it were breathing, a rhythmic, pulsing vibration that traveled from the blood-soaked sand of the arena floor all the way up through the stone tiers where the thousands of spectators sat. The air remained heavy with the metallic scent of Xhas's remains and the lingering ozone from Zhandra's disintegration magic. The crowd was a living entity of noise, their cheers a chaotic roar that made the soul-lamps flicker in their iron cages. In our section, the tension was a physical weight. Elphyete still held Salphy close, the little girl's face hidden against her shoulder, while Alea continued to rub Salphy's hand in a slow, grounding motion. We all looked toward the gate where Ishighi had vanished, waiting for him to emerge into the harsh, red-lit glare of the pit.
The heavy iron portcullis on the far side of the arena began to groan, the sound of metal grinding against stone cutting through the roar of the crowd. From the darkness of the tunnel, a figure stepped out that seemed to command the very light of the room. He was a towering man, clad in armor that was far more ornate than the rusted scraps the previous bandits had worn. His plate was a polished, shimmering white, etched with intricate golden filigree that seemed to glow with an inner radiance. He carried himself with a posture that suggested he was walking through a private garden rather than a death pit. This was Fredrant. He stopped in the center of the sand, his cape—a deep, royal blue—billowing behind him despite the stagnant air of the underground. He looked up at the stands, his eyes full of a disdain so thick it was almost tangible, before settling his gaze on the opposite tunnel.
Ishighi stepped into the arena a moment later. He looked small compared to the hulking knight, but there was a stillness about him that was far more unnerving than Fredrant's grandiosity. His yellow hair caught the crimson light of the soul-lamps, appearing like a crown of pale flame, and his deep red eyes were fixed forward with an expression of total, terrifying calm. He didn't wear armor; he wore his simple traveling clothes, which looked woefully inadequate against the gleaming steel of his opponent. He walked to the center of the sand and stopped, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, his red eyes never blinking.
Fredrant let out a short, barking laugh that echoed off the stone walls. He adjusted his golden gauntlets, the metal clicking rhythmically. "So, this is the 'silent shadow' they speak of?" Fredrant's voice was loud and resonant, carrying to every corner of the coliseum. He took a step forward, his heavy boots crunching into the blood-stained sand. "Look at you. You are nothing more than a commoner playing at being a warrior. I am Fredrant, a Palatine rank ex-knight! Do you have any idea what that means? I have served in the highest circles of the surface world, commanded legions, and brought ruin to those far greater than a golden-haired brat like you." He gestured broadly to the arena, his arrogance radiating from him in waves. "You should be on your knees, thanking whatever gods you serve that you have the honor of dying by my hand. I am a Palatine! My status alone is enough to crush the spirit of a thousand men like you!"
Ishighi didn't respond. He didn't flinch, didn't scowl, and didn't even shift his weight. His red eyes just watched Fredrant with a cold, analytical detachment. This silence seemed to irritate the knight even more. Fredrant's face reddened behind his open-faced helm, and he raised a hand toward the dark ceiling of the cavern. "Fine then. If you are too ignorant to fear me, then I shall teach you through pain. Witness the power of a true knight!"
Fredrant's body suddenly erupted with a blinding, golden light. This was his Divine magic—Exploding hits. In an instant, the air around him was filled with a shimmering, infinite amount of divine arrows. They were made of pure, condensed light, each one humming with a volatile energy that made the sand beneath them dance. Fredrant didn't wait. He began to dash around the arena with a speed that belied his heavy armor, his form becoming a blur of white and gold. As he moved, he fired a bunch of arrows in rapid succession, a relentless barrage of golden streaks that hissed through the air toward Ishighi.
Ishighi moved like smoke. He didn't run; he simply shifted. With minimal, economy of motion, he dodged every single arrow. He tilted his head an inch to the left as one whistled past his ear; he stepped back half a pace as three more slammed into the sand where his feet had been a microsecond before. Each arrow that missed him exploded on impact, sending plumes of sand and jagged rock into the air. The arena was filled with a series of thunderous cracks and flashes of golden light, the ground becoming a jagged landscape of craters. Yet, through the smoke and the chaos, Ishighi remained untouched. His yellow hair didn't even seem ruffled by the shockwaves, and his red eyes remained locked on the moving knight.
Fredrant skidded to a halt on the far side of the pit, his breathing slightly heavier. He looked at the untouched Ishighi and let out a snarl of pure rage. "Enough of this dancing!" Fredrant shouted, his voice cracking with his wounded pride. "You think you are clever? You think you can escape the judgment of a Palatine?" He raised both hands, palm to palm, and the golden light around him began to condense. The infinite output of divine arrows that had been circling him began to pull inward, spiraling toward a single point between his hands. The energy was so immense that the air began to scream, a high-pitched whine that made the spectators cover their ears.
Fredrant concentrated an infinite amount of his output into a single arrow. It was a spear of pure, white-hot divinity, glowing with such intensity that it looked like a fallen star. "Perish, you insignificant worm!" Fredrant bellowed, and he fired it. The single arrow moved faster than the previous barrage, a line of absolute destruction that tore a trench in the sand as it traveled. It hit Ishighi dead center in the chest before the boy could even attempt to move.
A massive explosion rocked the Building of Entertainment. It was far larger than any that had come before, a dome of golden fire and white light that completely swallowed the center of the arena. The shockwave slammed into the stone tiers, throwing dust and debris over the front rows. A thick, roiling cloud of smoke and ash filled the pit, obscuring everything. The crowd went silent, the roar replaced by a ringing emptiness. Fredrant stood back, his chest heaving, a triumphant, arrogant smirk spreading across his face. He began to lower his hands, convinced that he had disintegrated his opponent.
As the smoke began to thin, a silhouette appeared in the center of the golden haze. It wasn't a pile of ash or a broken body. It was Ishighi, standing exactly where he had been before the arrow struck. The golden fire curled around him but did not burn. As the air cleared completely, the crowd gasped. Ishighi was standing perfectly still, his yellow hair slightly mussed but otherwise unchanged. His red eyes looked down at his own torso. There were only a few scratches on his clothes—small tears in the fabric where the force of the blast had snagged the thread.
Ishighi sighed, a quiet, hollow sound that carried through the silent arena. He looked at the scuffed fabric and the dust clinging to his sleeve. "Oh no... it's dirty now," he said. He spoke it calmly, his voice devoid of anger or fear, as if he were merely commenting on a minor inconvenience during a walk in the rain. He looked up at Fredrant, and for the first time, his red eyes seemed to sharpen, the coldness in them turning into something much more lethal.
Before Fredrant could even process the words, Ishighi vanished. He didn't just move; he disappeared from existence, leaving a small puff of dust where he had been standing. Fredrant's eyes widened, his arrogant smirk vanishing in an instant. He tried to raise his gauntlets, tried to summon another shield of divine light, but he was far too slow.
Ishighi reappeared directly in front of the knight, his face inches from Fredrant's helm. Ishighi's expression was a terrifying contradiction—he looked kind, his features soft and almost regretful, yet his eyes were as cold as the void between stars. "Sorry," Ishighi said. He spoke the word with a gentle, almost melodic tone that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
In the same breath, without even reaching for the sword at his hip, Ishighi struck. He thrust his bare hand forward with a speed and force that defied the laws of physics. The sound was not a crack or a thud, but a wet, metallic crunch. Ishighi put a hole in Fredrant's chest with his hand, his fingers punching through the ornate, white-gold plate armor and the reinforced gambeson beneath it as if it were nothing more than wet parchment. The knight's back erupted in a spray of blood and shattered metal as Ishighi's hand emerged from the other side.
Fredrant's body went rigid. His eyes, once full of Palatine pride, were now wide and glassy, reflecting the yellow hair of the boy who had just ended him. He tried to speak, a small bubble of blood forming at his lips, but no sound came out. The divine light that had surrounded him flickered and died, leaving his armor dull and grey. Ishighi withdrew his hand in one fluid motion, and the massive knight crumpled to the sand like a puppet with its strings cut. Fredrant, the Palatine rank ex-knight, lay dead in a heap of broken gold and white steel.
Ishighi stood over him for a second, shaking the blood from his hand with a single, sharp motion. He looked at his ruined clothes once more and sighed again, before turning his back on the body. The silence in the arena was absolute, the spectators frozen in shock at the sheer, casual brutality of the finish. Ishighi began to walk back toward our section, his steps quiet on the sand.
The announcer finally found his voice, though it was several octaves higher than before. "A... a victory for Ishighi!" he stammered, his words echoing through the stone coliseum. "The Palatine has fallen! Incredible! Simply incredible!" He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain his professional composure as the crowd began to find its voice again. "Clean the arena! Clear the sand! For the next round, we have..."
The announcer's voice continued to boom, but the words were lost to me as I watched Ishighi climb the stairs toward us. His yellow hair caught the red light once more, and his red eyes were as calm as ever, but the air around him felt different now—heavy with the memory of the hole he had just put through a man's heart.