The colosseum's air stilled again. Then, like a breath released by something ancient, it trembled.
Vrean stepped forward.
His armor was a sleek mirror of black and silver veins, every plate humming faintly with psychic tension. No crest adorned him, no marks of distinction or nobility, only the sigil of the Citadel engraved in pale gold at his collar. He didn't look like a warrior so much as an instrument built for a single note: annihilation.
Mudhand's pulse quickened. He wanted to shout again, to command his soldiers to rush, but the words caught in his throat. The goblins below were shifting restlessly, weapons trembling in their green hands. A few looked back toward the stands as if expecting mercy; others crouched low, preparing for a desperate lunge. None of them could escape.
"Begin," Myrith said, voice serene.
Vrean raised one hand, slowly, like a man adjusting his glove and the entire arena bent toward him. The sound of grinding marble filled the space as hundreds of small stones rose from the ground, hovering in a slow, circling spiral.
The goblins screamed.
The stones shot outward like slings of invisible wrath. One heartbeat later, thirty goblins dropped, skulls opened like ripe fruit.
The rest charged.
Mudhand shouted something, maybe a curse. His own voice sounded thin, lost under the rising storm. The goblins hurled spears, spells, axes, shards of bone; all froze midair, each weapon and spell halted a hair's breadth from Vrean's armor. They hovered, glittering briefly in the cold light of noon then turned, spinning back with impossible force.
The projectiles tore through their former masters.
Vrean didn't move much. His left hand turned slightly, palm downward. A ripple spread across the marble floor, not fire, not wind, but force itself, compressing into a rolling wave. Goblins were thrown upward like dolls in a flood. Some slammed into the colosseum walls and burst into damp, green and red stains. Others were caught midair and twisted, bones snapping audibly before their bodies even hit the ground.
He lowered his hand. Silence, again, but filled with wet noise, the kind that makes men swallow bile.
Mudhand's vision blurred. His people, hundreds of them gone within breaths. He turned toward Myrith, who stood with that same elegant indifference, her expression calm, as though she were watching a dance performed exactly as choreographed.
"Stop this!" he rasped. "He's not even... these are soldiers! They fought for their digni—"
"—for their lord," Myrith interrupted softly, not looking at him.
Mudhand wanted to throw something at her. Anything. He could not. His knees had started to shake.
Down below, Vrean reached out again. This time, his gesture was sharp, fingers slicing through the air.
A telekinetic pulse burst from him, barely visible but heavy enough to split stone. The first rows of goblins shattered against the shockwave; limbs bent in directions nature hadn't planned. The ones farther back tried to flee, but invisible hands gripped their bodies and slammed them together, skull to skull, rib to rib until the sound became rhythmic, mechanical.
He paused only when there were too few left to make noise.
From the audience above, the Esper Knights remained utterly still. Only one, perhaps younger or less hardened, turned his head slightly, as if to look away, but Myrith's quiet voice drifted toward them.
"Watch," she said. "Every knight should remember what one of us is worth."
Mudhand stared through his fingers. He had fallen to one knee without realizing. His breath came in ragged bursts, every exhale a protest against what his mind could not reason with.
Vrean walked through the corpses. His boots did not leave marks, they hovered a fraction above the ground, light bending faintly beneath him. A goblin lunged from behind, clutching a jagged spear and howling with whatever courage madness allows. The spear froze mid-thrust. The goblin didn't. His body kept moving until his bones tore themselves free, snapping out of the skin like shrapnel.
Vrean turned to the next.
Another wave of his hand, a faint flick and a dozen goblins simply imploded, as if their insides had been crushed by an unseen powerfulfist. Blood mist hung in the air, slow, almost graceful.
Mudhand screamed something again, incoherent and broken but even his voice was drowned out by the hum of psychic energy.
When Vrean finally stopped, only fifty goblins remained. Fifty from three hundred. They trembled, crouched, pressed flat to the earth.
"Still too many," Myrith murmured.
Vrean moved again.
This time it was slower, deliberate, almost ritualistic. He extended both hands and closed his eyes. A soft wind began to stir, drawn from nowhere. The fallen weapons around him started to rise: swords, bones, chunks of broken armor, all orbiting in expanding circles.
The goblins backed away, eyes wide.
"W—wait! Stop! We surrender!" one shrieked. "Please!"
The plea hung there, unanswered.
Vrean opened his eyes. For the first time, something flickered across his face, not anger, not joy, but distant curiosity, as if wondering whether a plea could alter gravity.
The spinning metal accelerated.
It became a storm, a halo of telekinetic shards, every fragment screaming as it cut the air. When Vrean raised his hand again, the halo contracted.
The goblins didn't even have time to run.
It was not a battle anymore, it was a massacre. The blades and debris tore through them in coordinated arcs, each movement perfect, efficient. Limbs separated cleanly, torsos were bisected with surgical precision. By the time the wind died, the marble floor had turned into a red lake reflecting the clouds.
Only four shapes still moved.
Mudhand. And three others barely alive, clutching at wounds that refused to close.
Vrean stood amidst the silence. His armor was spotless. He looked down at his work and tilted his head slightly, as though checking if the symmetry pleased him.
From above, Myrith lifted her hand. "Enough."
The word carried weight. Vrean froze mid-motion, his fingers lowering instantly. The storm ended.
Myrith descended from her dais, floating down the steps rather than walking. Her boots touched the floor beside Vrean's. The knight bowed once, no more, no less.
"Excellent," she said softly.
He didn't answer. He simply stood, eyes still fixed forward, waiting for her next command.
Myrith turned her gaze toward Mudhand.
The goblin warlord was on his knees, trembling. Blood streaked down his face, not his own, but from those who had been closest to him. He stared at the remains of his soldiers, at the piles of meat and metal that had once followed him through deserts and wars, and felt something hollow open in his chest.
"This," he croaked, "this is not war. This is butchery."
Myrith regarded him with mild interest. "Weren't your group did the same to us humans? To any other races your war against?"
He tried to glare at her, but his body refused to cooperate. "You... monsters. You pretend at nobility, but you are worse than the enemies that massacred your race."
She smiled faintly. "Why are you now acting like your race is so pure and innocent?"
Her tone wasn't mocking. It was an instructional, almost kind, the way a teacher might correct a child's mistake.
She gestured lazily, and Mudhand felt the air seize him by the spine. His body rose, weightless, thrashing in a grip colder than chains. The other three goblins followed, limbs dangling uselessly as they were pulled upright.
Vrean stepped back, silent as stone.
Myrith tilted her head upward slightly, studying the four of them as though deciding which color suited a painting best. "I'm not a fan of torture," she said, her voice calm, almost conversational. "It's wasteful. It breeds lies. And honestly, it's boring."
Mudhand tried to speak, but his throat felt compressed by the invisible hand around it.
"So," she continued, "let's make this quick."
The words hung like a verdict over still air.
Vrean stood to her right, hands clasped behind his back, awaiting the next command. The Esper Knights above remained motionless. And below them, the colosseum held its breath, every soul, human or otherwise, knowing that the next moment would decide whether the goblin warlord's story would end in light or darkness.
The silence stretched.
Myrith's golden eyes gleamed once in the dim sunlight, and for an instant, Mudhand understood, he was no longer standing before a conqueror, but before something older, colder, and infinitely more certain.