The stars above Bassoon shimmered with peace. The chosen from every pantheon trained, mingled, and built. Knowledge bloomed. Zion's dream of unification slowly took shape.
But deep beneath that dream… madness stirred.
Tijan Petro—the fire-eyed Lwa of rage, war, and fury—grew restless.
While Papa Legba and the others watched silently, refusing to move before the time was right, Petro could no longer contain himself.
"Zion has made them soft," he snarled into the fire.
"Let's remind them what strength truly means."
He slipped past the Crossroads—even Legba did not stop him. Whether it was allowance or oversight, none could say. The other Lwa simply watched.
And Petro fell upon Zantrayel like a storm made of blood and laughter.
The Colosseum Rises
No fanfare. No priestesses. No dream.
Just the sudden groan of stone and the splitting of earth.
In the heart of Zantrayel's capital, the ground cracked open. Flames licked at the edges. Smoke rose like incense from the underworld.
A massive colosseum of obsidian and crimson rock exploded into existence—its walls shaped like jagged fangs, its gates bearing veves scorched with Petro's madness.
And at its center, towering over it all, was the Stone Tomb of 99.
A jagged slab of bone-colored granite, pulsing with spiritual heat.
Ninety-nine names carved in fire. Names of the greatest warriors Bassoon had ever known—men and women who had bled for their people, died for their land, and left behind weapons that still whispered through time.
Above them, one phrase blazed in burning Creole:
"Prove yourself. Or be forgotten."
The Challenge of the Mad God
No herald announced it. No priest sanctified it.
But the chosen of the pantheons felt it instantly—a pull. A dare.
A divine summoning.
Those from the Egyptian pantheon stood on balconies, staring at the flames. The Norse gathered weapons. The Chinese emissaries paused in meditation. Even the proud warriors of the Aztec and Vedic traditions felt the blood in their veins answer the call.
It was as if the colosseum had reached into their hearts and awakened something old and primal:
The need to prove.
The need to fight.
The need to rise.
And Petro?
He watched from the shadows of his own creation, grinning like a demon king, whispering:
"Let the gods see what real warriors look like."
Zion's Dilemma
Zion stood atop the citadel when it happened.
He felt the shift in the air—the sudden weight of divine aggression. The birth of a battlefield in the city he swore to protect.
And he knew who had done it.
There was only one Lwa reckless enough, angry enough, mad enough.
"Tijan," he muttered, jaw clenched.
The priestesses came to him, asking what to do. The chosen gathered, eager to test themselves. The city trembled with anticipation.
But Zion did not stop it.
Instead, he looked up toward the silent stars and whispered:
"If this is how the gods want to measure strength… then let them see the fire we carry."
A City Transformed
The Colosseum of Madness became more than an arena—it became a proving ground, a spiritual forge.
Every fight was watched by more than just mortals. Gods watched, hidden in light and shadow.
Each warrior who entered the arena—chosen or Bassoonite—was tested not just in muscle, but in soul.
Those who failed left humbled.
Those who won left changed.
Some pantheon chosen found unexpected rivals among the warriors of Bassoon—descendants of the 99, awakened by Petro's challenge.
And the world learned that Zantrayel's people were not primitive.
They were ancient.
They were ready.
Tijan's Whisper
As battles raged and legends were reborn, Petro stood alone atop the colosseum, arms wide, laughing like thunder.
"Now the gods will remember why they feared the flames of Ginen