After what felt like an eternity-but it was really only 20 minutes-the match neared its end.
Loki, decided he had enough fun, purposely lost the final point.
He let the ball slip right past him, a intentional misstep that looked real.
The crowd erupted in applause.
No one noticed the intentional loss-not even Royd, who was too exhilarated to question it.
Except for the girl. "Hey mama that was fake! He didn't lose!" She declared.
The mother chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Sweetie..."
The one guy who betted and losed, was not happy.
"Why..? I even betted every bit of my money for that." His knees down, his hand slamming the ground.
Losing 25 euros was a lot for him, his friend-laughing in the background making fun of him.
Panting lightly-more from excitement than exertion-Royd approached the net.
"That was a good match," he said, extending a hand for a shake.
"Haven't had a challenge like that in ages. It was nice meeting you!"
Loki accepted the handshake, his grip firm but casual, still internally bemused.
"You too." He didn't even know how he got in this situation; he just wanted a normal tennis match...
Royd's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pull it out, glancing at the screen. "Oh, someone is calling. Need to go-bye!"
He waved proudly, already running off the court, "Hope we'll meet again!"
The crowds was starting to fade after witnessing the best Tennis fight in history.
"Welp, he completely forgot about the 'whoever loses they'll buy a coffee for the winner' bet. Lucky me."
He put the racket straight to the bin (It's kinda shredded and useless no one probably gonna use it.)
Just another weird detour in his endless, boring days.
But for once, as he headed home, a faint smile lingered.
"Not bad for a warmup." he mumbled.
He'd only made it a few steps down the path when a voice called out behind him. "Hey, wait up!"
Loki turned, eyebrow raised, to see Royd ran back at him.
Royd grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Almost forgot-about that coffee. You lost, right? But fair's fair; you owe me one. What's your number? We can grab it someday."
Loki blinked, caught off guard for a split second. Thought he'd get away with it.
He sighed inwardly but pulled out his phone, exchanging numbers with a shrug. "Sure. Whatever."
Royd patted his shoulder walking past him.
"Cool! I'll contact you tommorow or the day after that. See ya." He dashed off.
The demon cult members froze, their enhanced senses finally picking up the subtle hum of the threads.
One reached out tentatively, his finger brushing a strand- it sliced through his glove like paper, drawing blood.
"What the-?" another hissed, trying to back away the threads tightening around their perimeter.
Varak's face twisted in realization, rage giving way to panic. "You sneaky little-!"
Yvonne's smirk widened into a cold grin. "You were too busy talking to notice."
With a flick of her wrist, the threads activated, contracting like a noose.
The web were pulled tautly, slicing through robes, and flesh mercilessly.
Cultists screamed as their limbs were severed, bodies bisected in clean, precise cuts.
One tried to blast through with dark mana but, the threads cut through his body.
Varak, at the center, swung his staff wildly, but a thread looped around his neck, tightening like a garrote.
His eyes bulged as the shadow-thread tightened around his neck.
Panic surged through him, his corrupted mana reserves dwindling but has not depleted yet.
With a desperate snarl, he channeled the last dregs of his power into his staff, the tip glowing with a sickly purple flame.
"Not... yet!" he gasped, slamming the staff downward.
The flames erupted in a burst, burning the threads encircling him.
The enchanted strands sizzled and snapped, burning away like paper in a fire, releasing their hold just enough for him to wrench free.
Gasping for air, his throat raw and bruised, Varak didn't hesitate.
He lunged toward the rooftop's edge, vaulting over the low parapet and plummeting into the alleyway below.
The drop was two stories, but he twisted mid-air, landing in a crouch that cracked the pavement under his boots.
Pain shot through his legs from the impact, but adrenaline numbed it.
He glanced up once-Yvonne's silhouette framed against the twilight sky, her dagger still raised-before bolting into the shadows of the narrow passage.
The alley was a labyrinth of dumpsters, fire escapes, and overflowing trash bins, the air thick with the stench of rotting garbage and damp stone.
Varak's robes were torn and singed, his bald head glistening with sweat and blood from his broken nose.
His demonic tattoos pulsed faintly, a remnant of his fading mana, but he pushed forward, heart pounding like a war drum. "That bitch... she'll pay."
He darted left at the alley's end, emerging onto a bustling side street lined with cafés and boutiques, the evening crowd thickening as office workers headed home.
Sirens wailed in the distance-police, drawn by reports of rooftop disturbances or perhaps the cultists' earlier chase.
Varak cursed under his breath, pulling his hood lower to hide his distinctive tattoos.
He shoved through pedestrians, eliciting shouts of "Hey!" and "Watch it!" A mother yanked her child out of his path, glaring as he barreled past.
He needed to blend, but his ragged appearance and frantic pace made him stand out like a wolf among sheep.
Behind him, the whine of sirens grew louder.
Two police motorcycles peeled around the corner, blue lights flashing, engines revving as officers spotted the fleeing figure.
"Arrêtez! Police!" one shouted through a megaphone, accelerating in pursuit.
Varak broke into a full sprint, his enhanced legs carrying him faster than any normal human.
He vaulted over a parked scooter, knocking it over with a clatter, and cut into another alley, hoping to lose them in the maze.
The chase spilled onto Rue de Rivoli, traffic honking as Varak weaved between cars.
A police van joined the pursuit, tires screeching as it swerved to block his path.
Officers piled out, batons drawn, forming a loose cordon.
"Hands up! You're under arrest!" But Varak wasn't done-he hurled a weak bolt of dark mana from his staff, shattering a shop window in a diversionary explosion of glass.
Shards rained down, scattering the crowd and forcing the cops to duck for cover.
He dashed across the street, narrowly avoiding a braking taxi, and plunged into the Tuileries Garden.
The green expanse offered temporary cover-hedges and statues to dodge behind-but the police were relentless.
Foot patrols converged from multiple directions, radios crackling with updates: "Suspect heading north through the gardens-armed and dangerous! All units converge!"
A helicopter thrummed overhead, its spotlight sweeping the paths like a predator's eye.
Varak's breaths came in ragged gasps now, his mana nearly spent, burns from Yvonne's trap throbbing with each step.
He leaped over a fountain, and hid briefly behind a marble statue of a mythological figure-ironic, given his demonic affiliations. But the net was closing.
Police flooded the garden exits, K-9 units barking in the distance.
He tried one last burst of speed, aiming for the Seine's banks to perhaps swim or steal a boat.
But as he burst from the trees onto Quai des Tuileries, he skidded to a halt.
Police barricades blocked the road ahead, squad cars forming a wall with lights flashing in a blinding array.
Officers stood ready, guns drawn and shields up, a SWAT team already in position.
"End of the line! Drop the staff and get on the ground!" the lead officer bellowed, megaphone amplifying his command.
Varak spun, staff raised for a final spell, but more cops closed in from behind, encircling him completely.
He was cornered-trapped between the river and the unyielding line of law enforcement, his escape routes sealed.
Panting, bloodied, and mana-depleted, he raised his hands slowly, the cursed staff clattering to the pavement.
"This isn't over yet! Mark my words!" He shouted, his voice filled with intense anger.
The police advanced cautiously, cuffs ready, as the city lights reflected off the Seine like mocking witnesses to his fall.