The arena was as silent as if the unfolding scene had stolen the collective breath of the crowd. It was so silent that it seemed to drape the space in an invisible shroud, holding every soul captive. Those supporting Onyxelle stood frozen, their eyes wide with anticipation, like statues waiting for that final touch of the sculptor, their faith in her victory etched into every taut expression. Everok's supporters leaned forward from their chairs; their knuckles were clenched so hard that the cracks of bones echoed in the oppressive stillness of a desperate prayer for an impossible miracle.
This tension, raw dichotomy of hope and despair, meant nothing to Nyxander, whose gaze remained fixed on the fighters below with a near serenity of detachment. The intensity of the battle stirred something deep inside of him, a burgeoning understanding of what it might mean to be the essence of a Primordial. Before him, it was not a fight of warriors but the domain of legends where power and will had molded the very substance of existence.
On the arena floor, Everok lay sprawled, his upper body propped weakly on shaking arms, defiance flickering in his eyes but his strength utterly spent. Onyxelle's void blade hovered mere inches from his throat, its razor edge gleaming with the promise of finality. She stood poised like a predator savoring her triumph, her voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade through still water. "Will you yield, or should I finish this off properly?" Her words were cold, measured, and edged with the faintest mockery as she feigned a jab of the blade closer to his vulnerable neck.
"Alright, alright. I yield," Everok muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the smothering quiet. The admission was like a thrown stone upon a glassy pond, small but unmistakable.
"Hahaha, finally, we have reached the end of this match!" A booming voice cut through the silence, and Zarok appeared as if from nowhere, standing on a shimmering fragment of the void itself, as if reality bent to accommodate his presence. His declaration had weight, ringing with authority throughout the arena. "The winner of this match for this round is Onyxelle."
It was as if a dam had broken, spilling out an incoherent sea of sound across the venue. Supporters of Onyxelle yelled triumphantly as their voices thundered across the arena with an unrivaled enthusiasm, washing the audience with kinetic energy. Opposition fans slumped backward into chairs as weight from disappointment pushed down on their chests until their spines leaned fully against the chair rests. Their polite applause, thin and scattered, was drowned beneath the tidal roar of Onyxelle's victory.
As the noise subsided, two more matches followed, each adding to the spectacle but unable to recapture the ferocity of what had just transpired. Finally, the battle arena was called to an end, the echoes of clashing blades and triumphant cries hanging in the air like the dying embers of a great fire.
The crowd dispersed, some leaving with triumphant smiles and bounding strides, others with heads bowed, dragging their feet as though apologizing to the earth beneath them. But Nyxander, unbothered by victory or defeat, walked with a spark of enlightenment in his eyes, the flames of his intrigue stoked by the sights he had witnessed.
Struggling to move within the sea of Primordials, his small Titan frame was jostled and shoved as the crowd poured from the arena like water bursting from a ruptured dam. After minutes of relentless pushing, Nyxander finally emerged, his Titan body breaking free from the massive throng.
"Ha-ah, finally. I can feel the cool surroundings compared to the tension inside," he muttered, stretching his body as though shrugging off invisible chains. His thoughts wandered back to the arena, a grin tugging at his lips. "What an interesting way of manipulating the void. One folds it, another solidifies it, and both do it so masterfully." His musings were interrupted by a breeze carrying snatches of conversation to his ears.
He turned toward the source and was startled to see Umbrazel, flanked by ten subordinates, his presence commanding like a storm in still air. Umbrazel spoke to a group of Primordials with animated gestures, his hands slicing through the air. "Have you seen a young child about ten feet tall?" he asked, his voice sharp, his movements exaggerated for emphasis.
"Not really. We haven't," came the indifferent replies, leaving Umbrazel visibly frustrated. Nyxander watched from the corner of his eye, ready to slip away, when another voice cut through, raising his concern.
"Yes, I did. He was sitting right in front of me at the arena," the Primordial said, pointing emphatically.
Umbrazel's eyes widened, his grip tightening on the Primordial's shoulder like a vice. "Really? You're certain?"
"Yes. You'd better move fast before he gets too far," the Primordial replied, nudging Umbrazel back on course.
"Quickly! To the arena!" Umbrazel barked to his subordinates, his voice like a blade slicing through the noise. "Secure every exit. We can't afford to lose him!"
Nyxander's heart sank at the urgency in their movements. Without hesitation, he shrank his towering frame, his Titan body collapsing inward until he was no larger than a human baby. Like a shadow slipping between cracks, he darted through the dense crowd of Primordials, weaving between their towering legs and vanishing into narrow alleyways. Each stride was calculated, his movements fluid as water cutting through stone.
When he was certain he had shaken off his pursuers, Nyxander exhaled, his body swelling back to its original size. He leaned against a wall, catching his breath, his mind racing.
"Ha! Finally, some peace," he murmured, only to freeze as a voice whispered beside him, dripping with malice.
"Wow, what a big fish to catch," the voice hissed, low and sinister, wrapping around him like a predator's snarl.
Nyxander's gaze darted around, searching for the source. His eyes fell downward, and his breath hitched. Standing before him were twelve demons, their forms exuding dark, sinister energy. Each stood at the height of a human teenager, their twisted horns curling like cruel crowns, tails flicking with serpentine precision. The air around them pulsed with a palpable malevolence, their aura suffocating and unrelenting.
Bring out the net," said one of the demons. His voice cut through the tension like a blade. He had no horns or tail, but his eyes blazed with a cold and unyielding authority-these marked him as the leader. His tone spoke of utter dominance, so the others moved to follow his orders without any protest. Four of the demons stepped forward, reaching into a massive, jagged bag that seemed to radiate an unnatural chill. From within, they drew out a net—its sinister design unlike anything Nyxander had ever seen.
Every strand of the net shone like obsidian, as thick as commercial bridge poles, and pulsed with an eerie light, faintly, as if it were alive with dark energy. The ground seemed to quake as they unfurled it, the very sight of it a silent proclamation of inescapability. Without warning, the demons hurled it at Nyxander with brutal precision.
Let make this quick," the hornless demon sneered, curling his lips into a cruel grin as he crossed his arms over his chest. The rest began to murmur among themselves, their voices poisonous with envy and servitude as they tried to please him.
"With this, your position is as good as secure, leader," one hissed, his tongue running over his lips as if savoring the victory.
"True! Gaining the Overseer's favor with a catch like this? The rewards will be unimaginable," another chimed in, his voice dripping with sycophantic glee.
"And don't forget us, leader," a third added, his tone both hopeful and desperate. "Your success means we'll share in the spoils—perhaps some minor benefits from the Overseer!"
Their sycophantic babble faded into the general hum of background noise for Nyxander, who confronted the net as both instant and inescapable reality. The ropes wracked taut across his body, binding in enormous form with a force he could hardly conceive, against which he struggled until bulging muscles and heaving veins pulsed with raw, potent Titan energy; and it would not yield-the tenebrous filaments digging into his flesh with the tenacity of the remorseless predator's jaws.
Sweat dripped from Nyxander's brow as he fought the suffocating trap, the demon leader's sinister laughter echoing in his ears. It was as if the arena of his escape had become a cage of shadows, and the weight of their malice bore down upon him, threatening to extinguish the Titan flame within.