The sound that came from Atheon wasn't human.

It was a roar—raw, primal, torn from somewhere deep and ancient where reason didn't exist.

His soul force erupted.

It was neither controlled anymore nor measured.

Just pure, unfiltered rage.

The arena floor cracked beneath his feet as he moved.

The fist of men was not running to attack. He launched himself like a ballista primed for fire.

The halberd-wielder tried to intercept—raising his weapon, bracing for impact—

Atheon's fist went through the halberd.

Shattered it.

And kept going.

*CRACK.*

The blow connected with the man's chest plate, crushing it inward like paper.

The halberd-wielder's eyes went wide.

Blood sprayed from his mouth.

He flew backward, hit the arena wall with bone-shattering force, and crumpled.

He didn't get up.

-----

In the stands, Bright's breath caught.

"Gods," Duncan whispered.

Adam stared, notebook forgotten. "That's… not regulation force."

"That's not force at all," Baggen muttered. "That's pure murder, didn't know the captain could get down."

Mara's hands gripped the railing, knuckles white. "He's going to kill them all."

Rolf said nothing.

Because what was there to say?

-----

The axe-wielder—the one who'd taken Maren's arm—stumbled backward, weapons raised defensively.

Atheon turned toward him.

Slowly.

His eyes were empty. Clouded from emotion, and fueled by his broken restraint.

"Wait—" the axe-wielder started.

Atheon didn't wait.

He closed the distance in two steps.

The axe-wielder swung—a desperate, wild strike meant to create space.

Atheon caught the axe mid-swing.

His hand closed around the blade.

Blood dripped from his palm where the edge bit into flesh.

He didn't flinch.

"You took her arm," Atheon said quietly.

Then he ripped the axe from the man's grip and drove it into his skull.

*CRACK.*

The axe-wielder collapsed, twitching once before going still.

The crowd gasped.

Some cheered.

Others went silent, horrified.

Because this wasn't a fight anymore.

This was an execution.

-----

Vaelith's smile faded.

For the first time since the match began, his expression shifted—not to fear, but to calculation.

"Interesting," he murmured.

His remaining support casters backed away, barriers flaring desperately.

One of them—the frequency manipulator—released another pulse, trying to disorient Atheon.

Atheon walked through it.

The sound hit him. Vibrated through his bones. Should have disrupted his concentration.

It didn't.

Because concentration required thought.

And Atheon wasn't thinking anymore.

He grabbed the frequency manipulator by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the dirt so hard the man's ribs shattered audibly.

The healer turned to run—

Atheon caught her by the back of her coat, spun her around, and drove his fist into her sternum.

She collapsed, gasping, unable to breathe.

The last support caster—a barrier specialist—raised both hands, creating a dome of shimmering energy around himself.

"Please—I yield! I YIELD!"

Atheon's fist came down.

*CRACK.*

The barrier shattered like glass.

The caster fell to his knees, sobbing.

Atheon stood over him, breathing hard, blood dripping from his hands.

Then he stepped past him.

Toward Vaelith.

-----

Vaelith Crownhold stood alone in the center of the arena, hands still clasped behind his back.

His squad was gone.

Broken. Bleeding. Defeated.

And Atheon walked toward him like death given form.

"Captain," Vaelith said calmly. "This is excessive."

Atheon didn't answer.

"You've made your point," Vaelith continued, voice smooth despite the carnage. "You're strong. Loyal. Willing to sacrifice everything for those you care about."

He tilted his head.

"But strength without control is just… destruction."

Atheon's fist clenched.

"You started this Crownhold, you and your petty games." he repeated, voice low, dangerous.

"I didn't," Vaelith replied. "My soldier did. And he paid for it."

"Not enough."

Vaelith's smile returned—thin, cold.

"Then what will be enough, Captain? My death? Will that heal her? Will that undo what's been done? What is this lieutenant really worth to you?"

"I don't have to answer your questions Crownhold, still your demise ," Atheon said quietly. "Will make me feel better."

He surged forward.

Vaelith moved.

Not to attack.

To speak.

"You're better than this, Atheon," Vaelith said, voice cutting through the rage like a blade. "You've spent years building loyalty, trust, discipline. And now you're throwing it away because your feelings got hurt."

Atheon's punch missed by inches.

Vaelith sidestepped, still speaking.

"Your squad is watching. Your soldiers are watching. And what are you showing them? That when things get personal, you lose control. That your strength is conditional. That you're just another animal pretending to be a leader."

Atheon roared, swinging again—

Vaelith ducked, voice never wavering.

"Is this what your little lieutenant would want? You destroying yourself for her? Making her sacrifice meaningless?"

Atheon froze.

Just for a heartbeat.

And Vaelith struck.

Not physically.

With words.

"She's watching you right now," Vaelith said softly. "Bleeding. Broken. And the last thing she sees is you proving that I was right. That she is your weakness. That your love makes you vulnerable. It really saddens me that great men such as yourself could be brought down by such a paltry feeling."

Atheon's fists trembled.

"Shut up."

"You can't protect her by destroying me," Vaelith continued. "You can only protect her by being stronger than this. By proving that your feelings don't control you."

"SHUT UP!"

Atheon's fist came down—

And stopped.

Inches from Vaelith's face.

Trembling.

Held back by sheer force of will.

Killing a noble of House Crownhold was a one-way passage—for him, his crew, and anyone foolish enough to be associated with them. An invitation to dine with the Great One himself.

The only condition was simple: they would have to leave their bodies at the door.

Vaelith for all his sickening smirks and taunting was right.

And Atheon hated him for it.

-----

The arena held its breath.

Atheon stood there, fist raised, soul force crackling around him like lightning.

Vaelith stood beneath it, calm, unafraid.

"You've won, Captain," Vaelith said quietly. "My squad is defeated. I yield."

The judge's horn blared—hesitant, uncertain.

"VICTOR—CAPTAIN ATHEON!"

The crowd erupted.

But the cheers were… wrong.

They were not triumphant nor celebratory.

The vibe was uncertainty.

Because yes, Atheon had won.

But at what cost?

-----

Atheon lowered his fist slowly.

Turned.

Walked back to where Maren lay, surrounded by medics desperately trying to stop the bleeding.

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands shaking.

"Maren," he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open, pale, weak.

"You… won," she managed.

"I don't care," Atheon said, voice breaking. "I don't care about winning. I just—"

"I know," Maren whispered. "I know."

Her remaining hand reached up, touching his cheek.

"You're an idiot," she said softly.

Atheon laughed—a broken, desperate sound.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I am."

-----

In the stands, Bright exhaled slowly.

"He won," Duncan said quietly. "But it doesn't feel like it."

"Because it wasn't a victory," Adam replied. "It was a breakdown."

Mara stared at the arena floor, where Atheon knelt beside Maren, surrounded by bodies.

"Vaelith wanted this," she said. "He wanted Atheon to break."

"Did he break?" Baggen asked.

"No," Bright said quietly. "He bent. But he didn't break."

"What's the difference?" Rolf muttered.

Bright watched as medics lifted Maren onto a stretcher, Atheon walking beside her, refusing to let go of her hand.

"The difference," Bright said, "is that broken things don't get back up."

-----

Across the arena, in the private box, Silas sat frozen.

Bessia had her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.

Tyven's expression was unreadable.

"That…" Kora whispered. "That was brutal."

"That was war," Tyven replied quietly. "Real war. Not the sanitized version we train for."

Garren leaned back, face pale. "Did you see how fast Atheon moved? When he… when he lost control?"

"That's what adepts are," Tyven said. "When you strip away the discipline, the training, the control—they're just people with the power to reshape reality. And when people with that much power unravel…"

He didn't finish.

He didn't need to.

-----

In the nobles' gallery, Lady Veylin set down her wine glass.

Her hands were shaking.

Just slightly.

"That," she said quietly, "was not what I expected."

Sergeant Marcus Thane nodded slowly. "Atheon won. But Vaelith achieved his objective."

"Which was?"

"Proving that even the strongest can be manipulated," Marcus replied. "Atheon's rage made him predictable. Exploitable. If this had been a real battle—not an arena match—Vaelith would have used that."

Lady Veylin's gaze drifted to the arena floor, where Vaelith walked calmly toward the exit, utterly unbothered by his defeat.

"He's not done," she murmured.

"No," Marcus agreed. "He's just beginning."

-----

Far from the main seating, Rowan Kadesh turned away from the arena.

His face was tight.

His fists clenched.

He'd seen what he needed to see.

Atheon had won.

But in doing so, he'd shown his weakness.

His exploitable, fatal weakness.

And in Vester, weakness was a death sentence.

Rowan walked away, boots echoing on stone.

Disappointed.

Not in Atheon's strength.

But in his restraint.

Because restraint—especially restraint born from emotion—was just another word for hesitation.

And hesitation killed.

-----

In the arena, as medics carried away the injured and the dead, Vaelith Crownhold paused at the tunnel entrance.

He looked back.

At Atheon, kneeling beside Maren's stretcher.

At the blood soaking into the dirt.

At the bodies of his own squad, broken and discarded.

And he smiled.

Small.

Cold.

Satisfied.

Because he'd learned everything he needed to know.

Atheon was strong.

But love, the baseless sentiment made him fragile.

Vaelith turned and walked into the darkness.

Already planning his next move.

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