As the dust settled from the last bout and the crowd murmured in wonder, a voice split the heavens like thunder dipped in laughter:
"ENOUGH of the slow blood! Let the mad ones dance!"
The voice rattled the bones of every being present. Even gods turned their heads.
Tijan Petro had arrived—not in body, but in sound. His voice oozed from every crack in the Colosseum stone, from the flames of torches and the cold shadows alike.
His mad laughter rolled over the crowd, giddy and impatient.
"Jalen. Ariya. Lovers of blades and fate. Are you hiding? Shall I drag your names to the stones myself?"
All eyes turned.
From the inner circle of Zantrayel's warriors, Jalen and Ariya stepped forward—calm, unshaken, together.
They did not kneel.
They did not flinch.
They smiled.
"You're impatient, Tijan Petro," Ariya said. Her voice was clear and sweet, like a bell carved from moonlight.
Jalen folded his arms. "If you want chaos, give us ten opponents at once. Let your chosen, your gods' champions, your monsters come."
The crowd gasped.
Even some gods leaned forward.
"Ten?!" roared Tijan's voice. "You wish to cheat death in front of me?"
Ariya stepped closer to the center of the arena and raised one brow.
"We'll take ten… if you share rum from your Kalbas. Just a sip. Enough for the flames of our souls to burn a little brighter."
Silence.
Then… the Colosseum shook. The torches flared.
A gourd of fire and smoke descended from the heavens—Tijan Petro's Kalbas, carved with laughing faces and serpents.
A single drop floated from it… and split into two. One drop touched Ariya's lips, the other Jalen's.
Their eyes glowed.
Their hearts caught fire.
"Done," whispered the mad god. "You'll either make me proud… or entertain me until madness reigns!"
The Fight of Ten
The gate thundered open.
Ten champions stepped forth.
A warrior of Ogun, clad in iron.
A burning monk of Savitr, shining like the sun.
A storm-dancer of Shu, blades whistling like wind.
A silent priest of Mitra, casting illusions with every breath.
A jaguar knight of the Aztec gods, snarling in bloodlust.
A chaos-thief chosen by Loki, laughing with knives in both hands.
A sand-witch of Nut, her eyes glowing with starlight.
A spirit-eater child of Rudra, veins crawling with smoke.
A shadow-bearer of Hecate, walking in midnight.
And one masked horror whose god no one dared name.
Ariya held her blade low.
Jalen cracked his knuckles.
Together, they charged