The sand of the Colosseum had barely settled from Twaile's arrival when it rippled again—but this time not with divine fury.
With no warning, space cracked like wet cloth torn in half, and from the break—
An old blind woman stumbled in, holding a fish by its tail.
The fish, massive and silver-scaled, still flapped midair, dripping ocean water onto the sacred arena sands.
She stood confused, barefoot, dressed in a tattered fishing wrap soaked from head to toe. Her long white hair clung to her skin. A pair of salt-stained sunglasses dangled from her neck, forgotten.
Her brow furrowed.
She sniffed the air.
"What in the name of salt and rum is all this?" she mumbled.
"I was fishing… four hundred feet down… then—bam!—I'm in the middle of a damn parade."
All around her, the gods stood in stunned silence. The chosen of Xianzhou, Zantrayel, Egypt, India, and beyond… blinked, unsure if this was a joke or a divine trap.
At the far edge of the Colosseum, Twaile watched her champion with a smile like a lion who'd waited centuries for its prey to walk willingly into its jaws.
The old woman turned—and froze.
Her unseeing eyes stared in the direction of the beautiful, terrible being she had once bargained with in the deep coral caves of the Underblue.
"No," she whispered.
"You…"
Twaile stepped forward, her presence distorting the heat and light around her.
"Yes, Kòkò Miray," she said sweetly. "You made a promise. You asked me to save your grandson. I did. And now… you are my champion."
Kòkò Miray dropped the fish.
SPLAP.
The fish flailed once more, then gave up.
The old woman blinked slowly. "I'm seventy-six years old… I'm blind… and I got one bad hip."
"And yet," Twaile purred, "you are stronger than any of them. You've endured. You've survived. And that… is all I require."
Then, without warning—
Twaile lifted her hand.
Reality twisted like wet silk. The sky cracked. The ground beneath the Colosseum roared.
The arena stretched, widened, its borders expanding to accommodate the impossible.
All the chosen—every last one across the lands—were pulled into the center of the Colosseum.
Their bodies shimmered and vanished from temples, camps, fortresses, palaces—and reappeared here, facing the old blind woman with bare feet and a fish beside her.
Zion was yanked mid-discussion with Jalen. Ayira stumbled into place beside the priestesses. The warriors of fire from Kasa, the monks of the Vedic peaks, the strategists of Xianzhou, even the silent assassins of the Persian pantheon—all gathered.
Confusion reigned.
Then Twaile spoke, her voice like thunder in velvet.
"You may all fight. Together. Test yourselves against my chosen. No excuses. No escape. You will not leave until this ends."
The crowd erupted into chaos.
The gods shouted in protest.
Only Papa Legba leaned on his staff and chuckled, whispering,
"She always did like to… stir the pot."
And in the center of the storm stood Kòkò Miray, blind, barefoot, and slightly annoyed.
She cracked her knuckles.
Reached down.
And picked the fish back up.
"Well then," she muttered, "which one of y'all I gotta whoop first