Senta reacted as fast as possible and attempted to slice Thalen in two, but his sword phased directly through him.
Not like he dodged.
Not like he blocked.
Like he wasn't there.
Thalen tilted his head in mock confusion. "Ohoho! Wrong layer, champ. You're swingin' in the meat dimension, but I'm down to get down!"
Senta's eyes flicked to his blade, then back to Thalen. "What… are you?"
Thalen giggled. "I love refrigerator."
And with that, he cartwheeled through Senta again, vanishing mid-spin and reappearing behind him—on his hands, balanced precariously atop one of the arena's corner posts.
Sereth leaned forward in his seat, mouth slightly open. "How is he doing that?"
Masaru didn't answer. He was staring, jaw tight, brain clearly trying to map some sort of logic onto what he was witnessing and failing.
Aeon, of course, was smiling gently. "He is very gifted at skipping through possibilities. I imagine he isn't always certain which version of himself is real."
Thalen appeared about thirty feet away from Senta, and his face changed to one of glee to pure fury.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN I CAN'T HANG OUT WITH SPEAKER!?"
Senta rushed towards Thalen and swung a few more times, Thalen now was actually dodging the attacks, and his face quickly turned back to excitement.
"Ohhhhhhh! The Hamburger Boogie flows through my veins!"
In that instant, a barrier was formed around the two of them inside of the arena trapping Senta inside. The outer shell was pitch black so that nobody could see inside.
Sereth and Masaru both leaned forward.
"What the hell?" Sereth exclaimed, "This guy actually has techniques?"
"If he does, then he isn't just chaotic nonsense. There is something to him..." Masaru replied, with a hint of nervousness in his voice. "But can you really call this a technique?"
...
Inside the barrier, it was very dark and Senta struggled to see. Suddenly, the floor shifted into glowing neon tiles, as a disco ball defended from above, with an exuberant Thalen clinging to it.
The room flared to life. Lights blared from the sealing, revealing turkeys hung from imaginary walls, And toilet lids that seemed to be emitting bossanova music were nailed to the floor.
Senta narrowed his eyes and stepped into a low stance, sword ready. He could feel the shift in air—whatever this was, it was his opponent's doing.
Thalen dropped from the disco ball in an aggressive split, slapping the floor. "Wednesday is no longer invited to the sandwich party."
Senta charged.
His blade carved through the space where Thalen had just been, but once again—nothing. Not a dodge. Not a block.
Just gone.
Thalen reappeared behind him, tapping his shoulder with one finger. "Do you remember frogs?"
Senta turned and swung. Missed again.
"Because I don't. But I do remember the feeling of milk falling uphill."
Senta grunted in frustration, unleashing a series of practiced, deadly strikes—but Thalen danced between them like he was catching butterflies only he could see.
"Hot dogs!" Thalen screamed gleefully, spinning on his heels. "Hot dogs in the moonlight!"
In that moment, one hundred hot dogs appeared inside of Senta's armor.
"Fight me!" Senta roared, while trying to free the delicious snacks from the inside of his chest plate.
Thalen gasped and dramatically clutched his chest. "He said the forbidden word… No. Not fight. My laundry isn't sorted for that."
Then, suddenly, Thalen snapped into movement—a twisted, chaotic flurry of limbs. He flowed around Senta like a tornado of nonsense, his motions unpredictable, without any martial rhythm—yet every impact landed. Not because they made sense. But because reality seemed too confused to say no.
Thalen slid across the floor on his knees, threw both shoes at Senta, as they spun like buzzsaws. He then jumped into the air yelling, "Gravy!"
One shoe struck Senta in the shoulder, the other hit his sword mid-swing and knocked it from his grip.
Senta lunged with a punch—raw force.
Thalen caught it. Dead stop.
The floor went quiet.
"No bread," Thalen whispered. "Only the scent of imaginary bicycles."
And then came the real assault.
Thalen exploded into a cacophony of noise and limbs, spinning like a washing machine full of bricks. Elbows, knees, forehead, foot, heel, forehead again—it all landed.
Senta stumbled back, disoriented.
Thalen crouched, as if to drop a deuce.
An arm chair slammed Senta in the chest.
Then Thalen screamed, "SPIRAL TUESDAY!" and backflipped so hard the disco ball exploded into glitter and moths.
He came down heel-first on Senta's chest, shattering the dance floor in a crackling bloom of pink static and polka music.
…
The barrier dropped.
Silence. Horror. Confusion.
Senta lay completely unconscious, twitching gently.
Thalen stood over him, arms outstretched like a bird awaiting applause.
No one clapped.
He slowly turned to the crowd, raised one hand, and muttered, "Two eggs, no yolks, all whispers. Unrelenting Poetry!"
When he said that, a very unfortunate spectator had 400,000 decibels of Shakespeare forced into his brain.
Thalen then collapsed face-first and began to snore.
In the stands, Sereth didn't blink. "What… what was that?"
Masaru just said, "Reality gave up."
Torvak nodded solemnly. "I think I liked it better when I didn't know who he was."
Aeon smiled softly. "A wonderful mess."
The intercom crackled.
"…There will be a short intermission."
And still, nobody moved.