By the eighth dawn, the list of names on the colosseum's obsidian wall had grown heavier—not in size, but in weight.
Whispers now circled across Zantrayel and through the foreign embassies like smoke from sacred herbs:
"Who would be next?"
"Who could follow a one-armed girl who broke a god's chosen in two moves?"
The answer came quietly, without fanfare, without announcement. A boy with tangled locs stepped into the arena barefoot, a large wooden staff strapped to his back.
He looked like a traveler, not a warrior. No armor. No sigils. His face was marked only with the ash of burnt cedar—the sign of Ironwood.
The people gasped.
"Him?"
"He shouldn't be alive."
"That boy is supposed to be a ghost."
His Name Was Tovi
He was born in the cursed village of Ironwood—a place swallowed by the Devoured ten years ago. Everyone believed the entire bloodline perished.
But Tovi lived.
Or something like him did.
He never spoke of what happened in Ironwood.
Only Zion and Ayira knew the truth, and even they didn't speak of it. Zion had once found the boy sitting atop a ruined tree, eyes glazed over, staff humming with the sound of crying children.
"They're still with me," Tovi whispered. "I carry them until they forgive me."
The Challenge
Tovi walked to the obsidian wall. His fingers traced over the list of Zantrayel's own—the left side.
He didn't hesitate.
He chose number 98: Okavon the Thornshield, the former general of the borderlands, known for piercing armor and crushing spirits. One of Zantrayel's hardest and least merciful champions.
The people gasped again.
Even Zion frowned.
"He's not ready," he murmured.
Ayira's eyes narrowed.
"Then you didn't feel the staff hum."
The Battle of Echoes
Okavon towered in full iron-hide armor, his thorn-blade gleaming crimson in the rising sun. The crowd roared for their grizzled hero.
Tovi merely bowed.
"You still carry rage, old soldier," he said quietly. "I carry ghosts. Let's see which weighs more."
The bell rang.
Okavon moved fast for a man his size—like a boulder rolled downhill with purpose. His blade came in an arc meant to split bodies and shatter bones.
But it met air.
Tovi was gone—no flash, no burst. Just absence.
And then—
Thwack!
His staff cracked against Okavon's leg with the sound of thunder. The man dropped to one knee.
Then silence again.
The second strike hit the shoulder.
The third? The back of the helm.
Each blow seemed to echo, and the arena began to ring—not with sound, but with memory.
People began to weep without knowing why.
Some fell to their knees.
"What is this?" cried a Xianzhou emissary.
"He's making them… remember," whispered one of the priestesses.
Even Okavon dropped his blade, his breath ragged.
"They were just children…" he murmured.
Tovi stood above him.
"You were there. You left them. Now fight them, Okavon."
He struck again—and from his staff, dozens of faces flickered into view. Small. Young. Broken.
Okavon screamed and collapsed.
It was over.
The Aftermath
Tovi turned to the wall.
His name appeared beneath Nali's.
The people didn't cheer. They just stared.
For they had seen not just victory…
But redemption wrapped in rage.
And in the skies above, still…
Ginen said nothing.