"So tell me," Nolan said, his voice echoing through the battered arena, "are you going to apologize for everything you've done? Tell me."

His eyes glowed faintly, light bending around his pupils as dust drifted in the still air.

"Tell me, Luthar."

Luthar spat blood onto the sand, his chest rising and falling heavily. "No," he growled. "Never! I don't care. I don't care what happens. You're going to die!"

He roared and charged forward — claws slicing through the air — but before he could take another step—

Snap.

Nolan's fingers clicked.

The world froze.

Luthar's entire body halted mid-motion, his muscles locked as though caught between moments. The sand beneath his feet stopped shifting, even the air around him stood still. Only his head could move — trembling slightly.

"Wh–what's going on?" he gasped, eyes wide. "I can move my head… but not my body. What is this?!"

The crowd went silent. The stands, once a sea of noise, became a void of awe and disbelief. Thousands of eyes stared at Nolan, who stood calmly in the center of the arena, cloak rippling in the windless air.

The emissary whispered, "He… stopped time?"

Nolan didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on Luthar. He stepped forward slowly, sand crunching beneath his boots — the only sound in the still world.

"You still won't answer me," Nolan said quietly. "Even now."

He clenched his fist, drew it back, and struck.

Boom!

The impact sounded like a thunderclap breaking through heaven itself. The moment Nolan's punch connected with Luthar's stomach, time resumed — and the world exploded with motion.

Luthar's body shot backward like a cannonball, tearing through the sand before crashing into the arena floor. The ground cracked under his weight, a crater blooming outward from the point of impact.

Blood splattered. The scent of iron filled the air.

Luthar coughed violently, struggling to breathe. "Wh–what… what's going on?" he rasped. "I… can't move… can't regenerate…" His hands twitched uselessly against the ground.

Nolan appeared beside him in an instant — the distance between them erased like an illusion.

"Get up," Nolan said.

Luthar blinked. "Wh–what?"

"Get. Up."

Before Luthar could react, Nolan's will seemed to pull him upward. His body, bloodied and broken, lifted helplessly into the air — as though gravity itself had turned against him.

"What—how?! My body… it's moving by itself!" Luthar gasped, his eyes wide with horror. "I'm flying?! No—he's pulling me! How is that even possible? Who is this guy?"

Even the royal mage, watching from the stands, whispered in disbelief. "This… isn't ordinary magic."

Luthar's mind raced. I can't sense any mana. Not a single drop. He shouldn't be able to move like this… unless—

His eyes widened. Could he be the Demon Lord himself? Or something worse?

His blood floated between them now — tiny droplets suspended in the air — drawn by Nolan's power like red stars in orbit.

Nolan caught Luthar by the throat mid-air, his hand tightening slowly. The werewolf's claws scraped at his arm uselessly.

"You made your wife suffer," Nolan said coldly. "You destroyed everything that ever loved you. And even now, you refuse to change."

He drew his fist back and struck again.

Bam!

Luthar's head snapped to the side, blood spraying. His nose broke, his jaw cracked.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The punches came like an unrelenting storm — sharp, rhythmic, precise. Nolan's expression didn't change; it was a mixture of anger and mercy, of sorrow and purpose.

Luthar's face began to morph — fur retreating, claws shrinking — until his true human form reappeared. His eyes, once burning with hatred, flickered with exhaustion and disbelief.

Nolan didn't stop. "You are not going to sleep," he said through clenched teeth. "Not until you tell me the truth. Are you going to apologize to your wife—for everything you put her through?"

He hit him again, the sound echoing like a drumbeat of judgment.

"You're going to be sent away," Nolan continued, voice rising. "Even if I let you live, you won't see her again. You'll only apologize—and then spend the rest of your life in prison."

The crowd was frozen. No one dared cheer now. The silence was heavier than any noise could be.

Luthar glared weakly at him, blood dripping down his chin. "You… bastard," he spat.

Nolan's eyes flashed. "You said you don't want to give up."

Luthar tried to lift his arm, but Nolan caught it mid-motion and struck again — once, twice, three times.

The entire arena trembled with every blow.

The spectators whispered among themselves, voices trembling.

"What's going on?" someone gasped. "How is he—how is he beating the Champion of the Empire this easily?"

"Who is this guy?" another said, gripping the railing. "He's too strong. He's fighting the champion in his real form—and winning!"

The royal mage stood speechless. "His strength isn't just magic," he murmured. "It's… something divine."

And in the center of the arena, under the fractured barrier and the burning light of magic, Nolan held Luthar by the throat — calm, unwavering, absolute.

He was passing judgment.

Nolan kept punching him relentlessly, each strike heavier than the last. Blood sprayed from Luthar's mouth with every hit, but still, he refused to fall.

"Are you going to beg your wife for mercy?!" Nolan roared, his voice thunderous, echoing across the arena. "Choke now!"

Luthar coughed, spitting blood onto the cracked ground. His eyes were half-open, his breathing shallow.

What is happening to me? he thought, dazed. Why am I losing? After everything I sacrificed—after all the lives I gave up for this strength… I couldn't even use it. It's like it means nothing against someone like him.

He trembled, barely able to stand. Have I truly lost everything?

Nolan's expression didn't change. He grabbed Luthar by the jaw, lifting his head slightly. Their eyes met — Luthar's full of disbelief, Nolan's full of judgment.

"Your sins don't disappear just because you got stronger," Nolan said coldly. Then he drove his fist forward.

The punch landed straight in Luthar's chest — a sound like a breaking boulder filled the arena. Bone shattered. His chest caved inward. The impact tore through the arena floor, sending cracks spreading like lightning across the stone.

Luthar's body hit the ground hard. His eyes went blank — consciousness slipping away — but he was still alive, barely.

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Wait…" a voice whispered from the crowd. "Did… did that really just happen?"

"There's no way," another said. "The Champion of the Empire… actually lost?"

"Look! That guy — he's from Sindra!" someone shouted. "How did he defeat Luthar like that?!"

The murmurs grew into chaos, disbelief spreading like wildfire through the audience.

Then the Emissary stood up, raising the wind amplifier device. His voice echoed across the arena.

"The winner… is Nolan!"

Cheers erupted. The entire coliseum shook with roaring applause. People were standing, shouting his name, waving banners. Nolan simply stood there, breathing heavily, looking down at Luthar's motionless body.

"The King will now speak!" the Emissary said, passing the amplifier toward the royal stand.

The King took it, nodding. "Thank you," he said, his tone proud yet composed. "Thank you all for coming. This was the final battle — and what a fight it was."

He turned his gaze toward Nolan. "You've done the impossible, Nolan. I'm proud of you. You are now the new Champion of the Empire!"

The crowd roared again. The sound of celebration filled every corner of the arena.

"And as promised," the King continued, "you will receive one hundred million gold coins. And you will be granted the right to join the Hero Party if you so choose."

Applause burst out. Trumpets flared.

Nolan smiled faintly — but something inside him shifted. His body tensed.

Zuru…

He could feel his boa through their shared link — its pulse frantic, warning him. What's wrong? Nolan thought. You're fighting someone?

He closed his eyes for a moment and sensed it clearly: Zuru had already transformed into his massive form. His energy was flaring — desperate, fierce — but something darker surrounded him.

Negative energy… death aura? No… not just one — many. They're here.

His eyes shot open.

From the audience, people began to stand. One by one.

They wore black — cloaks covering their mouths and noses, showing only cold, glinting eyes. Each held a blade hidden beneath their sleeves.

There were dozens. Then more. Thirty. Fifty. A hundred. Soon over a hundred masked figures stood scattered throughout the crowd.

The joyous noise turned into screams. Panic spread instantly as people began running for the exits, pushing, shouting, tripping over seats

"It's happening…" Nolan muttered under his breath. My first prediction. I wasn't sure before… but it's happening now.

From the royal box — steel flashed. A knife.

One assassin had appeared behind the King — and another behind Alaric, the Hero — blades raised, ready to strike.

Nolan's eyes widened.

"Not today," he whispered.

He snapped his fingers.

Instantly — time froze.

The entire arena fell silent. Even the echoes of footsteps stopped mid-air. Dust hung motionless. The assassins were frozen mid-lunge, their blades inches from their targets.

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