For seven days, the Colosseum of Tijan Petro echoed with thunderous battle cries, bone-shaking clashes, and the pride of a thousand pantheons riding on the backs of their chosen warriors. Victories were earned, losses endured. The arena knew no mercy, only truth.
Each day, names faded from one wall and rose on another—the wall of glory, the wall of Zantrayel.
But on the seventh day, as the heat of the midday sun painted blood-colored light across the arena, a new name was chosen.
Not Ayira.
Not Jalen.
Not even one of the five priestesses.
#64: Damos of the Salt Road
The silence was immediate. Many had never heard the name. Others whispered it like a forgotten song.
Damos—a former fisherman from the southern coast. A man who had once lost everything to a sea storm and rebuilt himself as a wandering fighter. He had no divine parent. No priesthood title. No famed weapon. Only his calloused hands, a curved harpoon of obsidian, and eyes that had seen too much.
Across the Colosseum, the challenger stepped into the sun.
Thorne of the Ennead, chosen of Seth, god of chaos and storms.
A living tempest in jackal-faced armor, wielding twin sickle-blades shaped like lightning bolts. He was undefeated in every arena he'd entered across worlds. He smiled when he saw Damos.
"A fisherman?" Thorne sneered. "You mock the gods by standing here."
Damos only rolled his shoulders and grinned. "You ever fight a sea that wanted you dead?"
The Fight
No one expected it to last beyond a breath.
But Damos didn't just stand his ground—he danced.
He flowed like tides, each movement patient, deliberate. Thorne's speed met the slow rhythm of waves, his fury crashing against a shoreline that would not break.
When Thorne struck low, Damos jumped.
When he came high, Damos ducked.
When he struck true—Damos took the blow and drove his harpoon into Thorne's shoulder.
They bled together, circled again.
And again.
Until the blood on the stone was equal and the breath in their lungs ragged.
When the bell rang… neither had fallen.
A draw.
The crowd stood. Not in rage, not in confusion—but in awe.
The Aftermath
On the left wall, the names of the 99 remained—but beside #64, a glow emerged. Damos' name pulsed with quiet dignity.
And across from it, Thorne's name appeared for the first time, edged with golden light.
In the stands, even the gods were silent.
Seth's eyes narrowed—but he said nothing.
Papa Legba watched, his face unreadable.
Tijan Petro, from somewhere beyond sight, laughed madly into the wind.
"Now that's what I wanted to see!"
Zion, Watching
From above, Zion stood unmoving. No pride. No fear.
Only purpose.
He turned away and whispered, more to himself than anyone:
"Let them come. Let them test Zantrayel. We will give them more than battles