It began with a blink—not of the eye, but of reality itself.
The Colosseum, now titanic in scale, pulsed with energy. No audience needed. No chants. No drums. Just silence thick with the weight of the impossible.
Across the field stood 99 champions, handpicked from among the chosen of gods, titans, and ancient realms. Every warrior, priestess, monk, or elemental, was healed to their peak—scars gone, bones knit, power thrumming through their blood.
They were the best of every pantheon.
And they all now faced…
A barefoot, blind old lady.
Holding a flapping giant fish by the tail.
She stood alone.
Her knees popped when she shifted her weight.
She reached down, adjusted her soggy wrap, sniffed, and then—
"I ain't got all day," she said.
"My grandson hungry, and this fish gotta hit the grill before sunset."
No one moved.
Then she took a step forward.
The ground cracked.
Power lanced outward in every direction like a sonic boom — a ring of invisible pressure that sent the front rank of champions staggering back.
The monk from the Himalayas murmured, "Impossible…"
The Xianzhou strategist whispered, "That was… pure chi manipulation…"
The priestess of Isis narrowed her eyes. "She just reshaped the battlefield with a footstep."
Jalen leaned toward Ayira and muttered, "…we should've brought snacks."
Then—
She charged.
Like lightning in human form.
Kòkò Miray, 76-year-old blind fisherwoman, moved like a storm of memory and madness. She hurled the fish like a meteor. It smacked the earth with such force it created a crater and launched three surprised warriors into the air.
"You're not using the fish again, are you!?" cried a panicked mage.
She did.
The fish boomeranged.
CRACK—CRACK—WHACK—SLAP—
Each strike was a ballet of ridiculous devastation.
The chosen of Varuna summoned a shield of water—shattered with a slap.
The fire-blooded sons of Kasa launched flames—snuffed with one wet twirl of the fish.
By the seventh minute, twelve warriors were down.
"She's dancing between space and time," shouted the Oracle of Zianzhou.
"That's not just combat—she's weaving fate with her footsteps!"
Indeed, Kòkò didn't simply dodge—she knew where the next strike would come from. A spear from above? She leaned left. A dagger from behind? She elbowed back without turning.
She caught a celestial hammer between two fingers. Then sneezed. Then used the sneeze to send a shockwave that knocked down four more chosen.
"This doesn't make sense!" shouted one of the Egyptian twins.
"She's blind!"
Ayira muttered, "Maybe you blind."
By the half-hour mark, she had reduced the field to twelve.
She took a break to adjust her bun.
"Y'all don't even stretch," she sighed. "This the new generation?"
The chosen of Mitra, glowing with radiant energy, stepped forward.
"This ends now," he said.
He launched a divine strike—pure justice, backed by stars.
She parried it.
With the fish.
And then she threw him out of the arena.
"Too much talk. Not enough groceries," she said.
Now it was just her.
And one last line of warriors.
Zion watched, trembling. Not from fear—but from awe.
She wasn't just fighting. She was teaching. Every slap, every sidestep, every strike was a lesson etched into the bodies of divine warriors.
Papa Legba whispered, "She always was my favorite lesson."
Even Tijan Petro, holding his cracked skull, muttered, "…I love this woman."
And finally, standing in the middle of 99 fallen champions, Kòkò Miray took a deep breath.
She adjusted her wrap again.
Picked up the now slightly limp fish.
"Alright. I'm goin' home. Y'all clean this up."
And just as casually as she'd arrived, she vanished—teleporting herself back to the ocean depths.
A single fish scale floated to the arena floor.
The Colosseum fell utterly silent.
Then—
Her name appeared at the top of the stone.
All others fell beneath it.
And next to it, inscribed by fate itself:
Champion of Twaile. Slayer of Pride. Grandmother Supreme.