Nymia's voice tore through the arena like a wounded animal's cry—raw, desperate, breaking.
"The Nymph Empire has invaded our lands!" she screamed, pulling her daughters close as she pushed through the crowd. "We need to be on alert! They are coming for the king! Prince Aloysius has betrayed us—he gave them our secrets! They will be here any moment! I barely escaped with my life!"
But the arena was a world locked in its own excitement.
Most people didn't even turn. Their eyes stayed glued to the match between Camille Ajun and Khan Michaelson. The clash of sword and spell drowned the warning of a woman who sounded too panicked to be taken seriously.
A few spectators frowned.
Some chuckled nervously.
Others simply ignored her.
But then—
A presence cut through the noise.
Naze arrived like a snap of lightning—silent, sudden, devastatingly clear.
The crowd parted instinctively. No one needed to see his face or even his eyes. The sheer weight of his aura forced them to step aside, bowing subconsciously, as if the air itself had commanded it.
The guards restraining Nymia tightened their grips, trying to contain her frantic movements. Naze's head tilted slightly—he could feel it: the roughness of their hands, the improper grip on her arm, the tremble of fear in his daughters' breaths.
A subtle shift in his stance was the only warning.
Before any of the guards could blink, their forearms separated from their bodies—clean, precise cuts so fast that even trained eyes missed the movement. They collapsed, screaming, clutching at the air where their limbs had been.
The arena froze.
Silence fell—thick, suffocating, fearful.
No one dared move.
No one dared even breathe too loudly.
Because if the Blind Swordsman chose to strike again… none of them would survive long enough to understand why.
Free at last, Nymia rushed into Naze's arms, sobbing into his chest. He held her gently, turning slightly as the two girls collided into him, hugging his waist with desperate relief.
"Daddy!"
"Daddy!"
Their voices cracked, raw with the terror they had held inside for too long.
Whispers erupted among the spectators:
"So the rumours were true…"
"That woman—is she truly his wife?"
"They separated years ago but… he watched over her from afar."
"They must have reunited…"
"Then those children—are they—?"
Naze ignored all of it.
His hand softly cupped Nymia's cheek. "Nymia… what you said earlier—was it accurate?" His voice was calm, but beneath it lay a razor's edge.
He trusted her—but he needed clarity, not panic-clouded words.
She nodded, trembling.
Her daughters clung tighter.
Naze inhaled sharply. "Then we need to act fa—"
He never finished.
A sound like the sky tearing apart thundered overhead.
Then shadows fell.
An entire alien army descended onto the arena—armor glinting, weapons raised, banners of the Nymph Empire fluttering in the sky. Massive winged beasts swooped low, scattering dust and terror like shrapnel.
Screams erupted.
Chaos spread instantly.
People shoved, trampled, clawed their way to exits as a violent stampede tore the arena apart. Spells flew. Stone cracked. Bodies fell.
The attack had begun.
And it was far, far worse than anything Nymia had feared.
Naze was no ordinary warrior. He was a seasoned veteran, a man who had survived more wars than most soldiers had lived through. One of the Thirteen Generals of the Emperor, his instincts were honed sharper than any blade in the empire.
The moment the first alien foot touched the arena floor, his voice—usually calm, soft, unassuming—became thunder.
"Soldiers! Assemble!"
The shout cracked across the chaos like a whip.
Every trained fighter in the vicinity reacted at once. Even panicked, they obeyed the Blind Swordsman's authority with the same urgency as obeying the emperor himself.
"I need all thirteen divisions! Form thirteen united fronts—each division takes one sector of the arena!" Naze barked, already calculating positions from the vibrations under his feet, from the density of movement in the air.
"For sectors one through ten—form the Ox Formation and the Bear Formation! Lock shields! Anchor your mages behind you!"
"Yes, sir!" dozens of voices roared back, boots slamming against the stone as soldiers sprinted to carry out orders, cutting down scattered enemies as they moved.
"For the final two—use the Star Formation! Keep the healers in the center and don't break rotation!"
"Sir! Yes, sir!"
In seconds, order began to rise from the ashes of chaos—because Naze had spoken.
Then his tone shifted, lower, colder.
"This unit," he said, pointing without seeing, yet perfectly accurate, "you are with me."
The soldiers stiffened.
"We prioritize civilians. Anyone in our path is shielded or escorted. And above all—"
His jaw clenched.
"—we protect the emperor."
"Sir! Yes, sir!"
They formed around him instantly, a protective wedge formation with Naze at the spearpoint. Nymia and the girls stayed within the center of the cluster, guarded on every side.
Naze moved first.
They marched—no, cut—through the battlefield, sweeping aside monsters and invaders like a scythe through tall grass.
---
At the opposite end of the arena, chaos had swallowed a squad of martial arts students. Ten massive cyclops warriors lumbered toward them, their weapons raised, each footstep shaking the earth. The students fought bravely—fists flying, blades clashing—but their combined strength was nothing next to the hulking giants.
One cyclops lifted a student by the head.
Another raised an axe to cleave three at once.
The students braced for death.
But then—
A whisper.
A flicker in the air—too fast to see.
A sound like silk being sliced.
Swii— Swii— Swii—
The cyclops froze.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
Ten bodies fell apart in perfect symmetry, diced as neatly as festival cake. Limbs slid one way. Torsos collapsed another. Heads rolled across the sand with dull thuds.
The students stared, horrified.
They spun around, looking for their savior—
—but they saw no one.
Only the chilling realization:
Something had moved.
Something incredibly fast.
Something lethal.
Moments later, Naze emerged from the smoke—walking steadily, wife and daughters protected behind him, a full unit of soldiers marching at his back.
The students understood instantly.
Their faces filled with awe and trembling relief.
"It's him," one whispered.
"General Naze…" another breathed.
"The Blind Swordsman…"
"The legend…"
They bowed without thinking, gratitude choking their voices.
Because in the middle of an invasion—
—when death descended from the sky—
—Naze, the living myth, had arrived.
And the battlefield had started to grow bloodthirsty.