The arena had grown still after Nali's triumph. Not silent out of fear—but still from realization. From the celestial palaces of the Xianzhou pantheon to the gilded chambers of the Ennead, from the thundering courts of the Adityas to the shadowy keeps of the Persian Yazatas, a single truth settled over every gathered emissary and chosen:
Zantrayel was not what they thought it was.
These were not backwater primitives.
They were mystery wrapped in pain.
Power grown in silence.
Chosen who had walked through suffering and emerged not as victims—but as flames.
Recalibration of the Divine
In the Xianzhou embassy high above the mountains of Zantrayel, General Mei-Lian, one of the Celestial Sword Bearers, knelt in meditation. Her scribe approached hesitantly.
"General… you've watched the last three fights?"
"I have," she said quietly.
"And your thoughts?"
"They don't fight to win. They fight because something older than war lives inside them."
At the same moment, Osirian tacticians among the Ennead quietly erased previous predictions. Isis's chosen, Anen, marked names he once scoffed at.
"Remove 'Zion' from the underestimated column."
"Add Jalen and Ayira to 'High Threat Potential'."
"Who is 'Nali'?"
"Unknown," said his scribe.
"Then find out everything."
Zion's Role in It All
The chosen of the other pantheons began to approach Zion in private.
A Xianzhou tactician cornered him near the twilight springs of Nouvo Lakay.
"You know our gods' stories."
"Yes," Zion replied. "Sun Wukong's rebellion. Nuwa's sacrifice. The heavenly bureaucracy. Your courts and judgment wheels."
The warrior stared at him in disbelief.
"How?"
"I come from a place that saw your world from a distance—Earth, 21st century. We studied your myths, your legends, your gods."
"And you believed them?"
"More than most of you do," Zion said softly.
They left in silence, changed.
The same happened with a daughter of Varuna.
A son of Mitra.
Even a shadowed Persian blade-dancer of Anahita came to learn from him.
Knowledge as Power
Zion taught them all:
He taught the Adityas' chosen the lost meaning of Dharma—not duty alone, but sacred alignment with truth.
He explained to the Ennead how their funerary rites echoed in Vodou's own respect for the dead.
He walked the chosen of Zianzhou through the stories of their dragon-blooded emperors and reminded them of what honor once meant before bureaucracy swallowed spirit.
He even whispered to the Yazatas of Persia about the old struggle between Ahura Mazda and Angra Mainyu—and how balance, not just light, was sacred.
They had power.
But Zion gave them context.
And with that, their growth exploded.
Their bodies hardened.
Their gifts sharpened.
Their gods began to watch Zion with curiosity… and caution.
But Ginen Remained Silent
While the other pantheons displayed signs and glory, Ginen remained utterly quiet.
No dreams.
No drums.
No whispers from Papa Legba.
No blessings from Erzulie Freda.
No flames from Ogou.
Even Tijan Petro, who caused this entire Colosseum madness, sat now in brooding silence, watching.
"Why?" Zion whispered one night, looking up at the moon.
"Why do you let me lead them, and yet leave me without your voice?"
There was no answer.
But deep in the soil, something stirred.
The silence of Ginen wasn't absence.
It was patience