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."
