The smoke slowly faded from the arena. All that remained were the charred metal wreckages—the remains of the fire truck that had now become a silent monument to human courage.
In the eastern stands, the humans stood in silence.
There was no applause. No victorious cheers.
Only silence in its purest form.
Not because they had lost.
But because they had lost heroes.
The President stood tall upon his throne. His face remained stern, yet his eyes trembled.
He gazed toward the sky, the wrinkles upon his face deepening beneath the weight of burden and age.
"Farewell, firefighters," he murmured softly.
"You were not merely rescuers. You were the small flame that gave humanity the courage to challenge the heavens."
Johan stood behind him. Both fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. The look in his eyes was more than grief.
It was restrained fury.
All his calculations, his brilliant strategies, his scientific concoctions—everything had collapsed before a power beyond logic itself.
He lowered his head and whispered bitterly,
"Even science is powerless when justice refuses to stand on its side."
In the western stands, the mythological beings roared wildly.
Their cheers shook the heavens. Victory cries from a race that believed itself restored to the throne of the world.
The dwarves slammed their hammers against stone in triumph. The trolls pounded their chests while laughing thunderously.
To them, this victory was more than the outcome of a battle.
It was proof that they were still feared.
But not everyone celebrated.
Yue—the young Huli Jing—still stood upon the balcony.
Her expression was gloomy. Her eyes followed the dragon's silhouette as it flew farther into the distance.
She lowered her gaze. The fur of her tails trembled faintly in the silence.
At the center throne, Libra stared at the golden scales in her hand, still swaying gently as though unwilling to stop.
"Human courage adds weight to the immeasurable side," she whispered softly.
She looked toward the President from afar, as though wanting to say something, yet she ultimately chose silence.
And above them all, The Ancient One stood proudly and magnificently.
Its golden wings spread wide, radiating overwhelming authority.
It gazed upon the Sky Colosseum with a victorious smile, while the light from the solar pillars behind illuminated its face as though carved from heavenly marble.
"This is how the world is meant to be," it declared in the language of the gods. "Power alone has the right to write destiny."
The cheers continued.
The echoes of victory seemed to pierce through the clouds.
The Ancient One slowly rested its wings against the back of its throne once more, enjoying the frenzy that still consumed the arena.
Suddenly, the feathers along its neck stiffened.
A strange gust of wind whispered near its ear—cold, sharp, and carrying a distorted voice.
"I know you cheated, Bird. And you think I'll stay silent about it?"
Instantly, the smile vanished from its face.
Its eyes narrowed. Its wings flapped once, creating subtle tremors in the air.
It turned quickly to the right.
Then to the left.
But no one was there.
Only empty air amidst the roaring crowd, utterly unaware of what had just happened.
Its thoughts began to churn behind its calm expression, as though something—or someone—was moving behind the veil of the Sky Colosseum itself.
Who would dare challenge it so boldly… and so subtly?
The light above the Colosseum slowly dimmed.
The cheers of victory faded into distant echoes.
Sky Colosseum — Before the Third Match
Behind the rows of marble seats, the elves stood proudly with their heads held high.
Two victories over humanity had intoxicated them with triumph.
Songs of praise for The Ancient One echoed throughout the entire Colosseum. The voices of the elven singers were so beautiful that each note seemed capable of shaking the souls of mortal beings.
The melodies rolled through the air, rising all the way to the heavens above the arena, accompanying every step of The Ancient One as it stood.
The Ancient One gazed upon the elegance of the elves and the weapons raised in their hands.
For the first time, it began to see the tremendous potential within their race.
Its gaze swept across every corner of the stands filled with those beautiful and graceful beings.
"For the next match…" its heavy voice echoed, forcing every head to turn toward it.
"From the mythology faction, I command one of your race, O Elven People," it continued proudly, causing several elves to swallow nervously as tension spread among them.
"I command the strongest among your race to accept this duty of honor and pride. To represent the mythology faction in the third match."
Cheers exploded across the heavens once more.
Thousands of elves immediately praised the name of their prince with burning pride. Golden light reflected from elven swords like an ocean of sunlight.
Beautiful.
Yet sharp enough to sever a human neck in a single swing.
The Fourteenth Elven Prince of the Kingdom of Light.
A prince who had only recently been crowned, a mere 315 years by the standards of elven lifespan.
On the human side, the President closed his eyes briefly before smiling faintly.
"Light, hm?" he murmured softly. "Perhaps I know someone capable of extinguishing that light."
Hearing the certainty in his tone, Johan immediately looked toward his superior with confusion.
"Have you already found the right candidate for the next battle, sir?" he asked respectfully in a low voice.
The President opened his eyes again, their sharpness returning.
"An assassin who makes shadows his ally. And when he appears… everything is already too late."
He looked toward Johan before adding firmly,
"Request that the arena be transformed into an eternal night. No stars. No moon. Let the darkness become his companion."
"Yes, sir," Johan replied with a bow.
"But with such specific conditions… do you mean one of the shadow warriors from the Middle East? Or perhaps the grandson of a Vietnam War veteran skilled in navigating underground tunnels?"
The President smiled faintly.
The smile of a leader beginning to rediscover the embers of his conviction.
"No, Johan," he said softly, yet with authority.
"The one I mean comes from the Land of the Rising Sun."
Johan's eyes widened, as though he already understood what his superior was thinking.
"Someone who lives without a name. And who has studied the art of deathly shadows for centuries."
The President stood and gazed toward The Ancient One in the distance.
"To face the Prince of Light from the Elves…"
"I will send a Shinobi."
Because even the holiest light still creates shadows.