The crowd had gone silent.
Even the gods watched—some curious, some insulted, all intrigued.
To bargain with Tijan Petro was one thing.
To drink from his Kalbas, like it was ordinary rum?
That was madness wrapped in courage.
But that's what Jalen and Ariya did.
They sipped the mad Lwa's sacred rum as if it were morning tea, then stepped into the center of the Colosseum of Names hand in hand.
The fire of the Kalbas burned through them—not like poison, but like purpose.
They weren't just stronger—they were clearer. Wider. Sharper. Like the world had opened a thousand secret doors all at once.
Tijan Petro laughed so hard the sky cracked open.
"Now DANCE, lovers of war! Let the world remember why mortals fear madness!"
And the gates exploded open.
Round One: The Iron Fang
The champion of Ogun came first—taller than any man, made of forged bronze and hatred. His warhammer alone could crush mountains.
He roared and lunged straight at Ariya.
But she wasn't there.
A blur. A twist. A shimmer of shadow and fire.
Ariya had vanished—and reappeared at his side.
Her blade sliced once—precise, elegant.
A seam split down his armor. Steam hissed from within.
Before he could turn, Jalen drove a spear—summoned from the rum's fire—straight into the exposed joint behind his knee.
The iron giant crumbled.
The crowd screamed.
Round Two: Sunburn
Savitr's monk came next—his skin glowing like gold, fists blazing with solar flame.
He charged both at once, twin suns in his palms.
Jalen took the front—his arms crossed, absorbing the blast of fire.
Ariya leapt over her husband's shoulders and struck with a downward spin—her blade trailing black flame from Tijan's madness.
The monk laughed in awe, even as he dropped to his knees, disarmed and burned, whispering:
"They move as one… like sun and shadow."
Round Three: Storm's Edge
The storm-dancer of Shu attacked with twin curved blades, each movement like wind turned into weapon.
His dance was perfect.
So was theirs.
Jalen blocked high, Ariya struck low.
He spun to dodge her—but she had already anticipated it.
Crack! A palm strike from Jalen sent the wind-dancer into the air—
—and Ariya caught him with her blade upside down, slamming him to the ground.
The wind howled. The crowd held their breath.
Round Four: Mirror of Illusions
The Mitra priest did not fight with blades. He fought with mirrors—illusions layered atop illusions. Ten copies of himself surrounded the couple.
But they were drunk on Tijan's vision now.
Ariya saw beyond sight. Jalen moved through echoes.
They didn't look with their eyes—they felt with their chaos.
The moment the real priest twitched, Jalen roared.
"Found you!"
And Ariya's dagger struck straight through the illusion—into truth.
The real priest gasped and vanished, defeated in one perfect heartbeat.
Round Five: Blood Jaguar
The Aztec jaguar knight roared in bloodlust, claws dripping with power and history.
He was fast. Too fast.
He landed two shallow cuts on Ariya's arm. Nearly clawed Jalen's cheek.
But this time, the couple fought wild. Ferocious.
Ariya lured the jaguar in with feigned weakness. Jalen tackled him mid-pounce, flipping him midair.
Ariya finished it with a slash that left a trail of glowing red light—a wound not of flesh, but of soul.
Round Six: The Trickster's Chosen
Loki's thief moved like a shadow within shadows—unpredictable, insane.
Daggers flew. Illusions danced. Nothing was real, yet everything cut.
But he made one mistake—he talked.
He laughed too long. Mocked too loud.
And Tijan Petro, watching with joy, whispered through Jalen's ear:
"The trickster bleeds from pride. Cut there."
Jalen obeyed.
One strike to the throat silenced Loki's chosen forever.
Round Seven: Daughter of Stars
The sand-witch of Nut summoned galaxies with her hands, dust of constellations spinning around her.
She floated. She wept for stars.
But Ariya looked at her with pity, not fear.
"Your sorrow slows your blade," she whispered, and ended it with a single touch—just enough to knock her unconscious.
No death. Just sleep.
The sand-witch sighed, then smiled.
Round Eight: Smoke-Eater
The spirit-eater of Rudra came next, smoke pouring from his mouth, his eyes wild with hunger.
He moved like disease. Like fear.
Jalen drank the last drop from the Kalbas, smiled wide, and swallowed the smoke.
It burned—but the madness in him roared louder.
He punched the eater once—in the heart.
And the smoke-eater collapsed, exorcised by laughter and flame.
Round Nine: Daughter of Midnight
Hecate's chosen walked through the shadows, disappearing between blinks.
But the couple didn't fear the dark.
They danced in it.
They cornered her in her own domain—Ariya parried her daggers while Jalen lit the shadows with chaos-light.
She vanished one last time—only to find both blades at her neck.
She surrendered.
Round Ten: The Nameless One
No one knew his name.
He stepped from the gate like silence in human form.
The gods shivered.
Even Tijan Petro grew quiet.
A mask. A black robe. A presence that cracked reality.
But Jalen and Ariya didn't care.
They fought.
They bled.
They burned.
They screamed.
And in the final moment—together—they drove a blade into his shadow.
And the Nameless One… bowed.
Then disappeared.