"What the hell?" one of the assassins tried to speak, but his voice froze mid-word.

The air stilled. Dust particles hung motionless like stars. The king, the hero, the terrified crowd, every soul was frozen in place. Only Nolan moved.

Just as I thought, he mused, his voice low and calm. Something wasn't right. I could feel it long before the final blow. They planned to kill the king and capture the hero, to force him into the cult.

He looked up at the frozen blades, caught mid-air, the metal glinting inches from their victims. He sighed softly.

"Pathetic."

Nolan slid his hands into his pockets, his cloak fluttering in the unmoving air, and began to walk. His footsteps echoed in the silence of the stopped world.

Then he rose, floating gently into the air, ascending toward the royal platform. The wind did not move, but his presence stirred it anyway.

When he landed before the king, the motionless assassins hung around him like statues caught mid-sin. Nolan's eyes burned faintly blue.

"This is over," he said quietly. "None of you… will leave this place alive."

Nolan slowly reached out and removed the knife that had been frozen mid-air, its blade still gleaming just inches from the king's throat.

"That was close," he murmured. He flipped it once in his hand, then let it drop.

He snapped his fingers.

Time stirred.

Lyra and Damian gasped, blinking as motion returned to them. They looked up and saw Nolan standing in the still air above, his cloak swaying even though no wind should move.

"Nolan!" Lyra shouted, flying up to join him. Damian followed right after, wings of mana flaring from his back.

"You two, focus," Nolan said calmly, eyes scanning the arena. "We're not done yet. Those assassins, there are more. At least a hundred and fifty still hidden in the crowd."

Lyra clenched her fist. "Understood."

Damian's expression hardened. "Why stop the whole arena, though?"

Nolan's eyes flickered with faint blue light. "Because my companion, Zuru, isn't answering. Something's happened. He's in battle… and I can feel dark energy everywhere."

Lyra frowned. "You can't summon him?"

"I could," Nolan said quietly, "but I'd rather go to him myself. Something's wrong."

He turned his gaze downward to the sea of frozen assassins below. Their black masks and knives gleamed under the sunlight that never moved.

Damian narrowed his eyes. "Then allow me."

He stretched his hand out. The air around the assassins warped. In the next instant, a crushing gravity field enveloped them.

The ground beneath their feet cracked. One by one, all one hundred and fifty assassins slammed face-first into the sand, bodies pinned down by the weight of Damian's spell.

Then Nolan snapped his fingers again.

Time resumed.

The sound returned, the screaming crowd, the echo of cracking stone, the shock of the assassins suddenly realizing they were face-down in the dirt.

Up in the royal stand, the four assassins who had been moments from killing the king and the hero blinked in confusion. They looked down, their daggers were gone.

Nolan stood before them, the same knife spinning idly in his hand. "Looking for this?" he said coldly.

"How, how did you," one stammered.

He didn't finish. Nolan moved once, a blur of motion.

SLAP!

The assassin's face twisted sideways; his body collapsed before he could even grunt.

Another lunged; Nolan backhanded him with enough force to knock out every tooth in his mouth.

The next two came at once. Nolan dodged the first with a tilt of his head, then drove his elbow into the other's stomach, folding him in half. The last one barely raised his arm before Nolan's punch dropped him unconscious.

All four lay still on the marble floor.

The king, who had fallen backward in shock, stared at Nolan. "W–what's going on? How are you even here? Who are these people?"

Nolan turned, his eyes still faintly glowing. "I don't know yet, Your Majesty. But I'm going to find out."

Alaric stepped forward beside the king, sheathing his sword. "Thank you, Nolan," he said, his voice sincere. "Things could have ended badly if not for you."

Nolan nodded once. "Save the thanks. We're not finished."

He turned sharply, gesturing for them to follow. "Everyone, come with me."

They descended the wide staircase that led beneath the royal stand, moving fast but steady. The King of the Empire and the King of Sindra followed, surrounded by guards.

As they reached the lower floor, the tension deepened. The air was colder, denser. Even the torches flickered strangely.

There, at the far end, stood Alaric and the Hero Dalvin, swords drawn, light from their blades cutting through the gloom.

"Please, my kings," Alaric said without looking back, his tone sharp and protective. "Step behind us."

Both kings obeyed instantly, retreating a few paces.

Alaric raised his sword, its edge burning faintly blue. Dalvin mirrored him, his holy sword blazing white. The two heroes stood side by side, eyes fixed forward, as the shadows ahead began to move.

"Hey, there wouldn't be any need for you to do anything," Nolan said, his tone calm yet cold, echoing across the silent hall. His voice alone carried authority, something ancient, something beyond what anyone in the arena could understand.

He slowly walked forward, his boots echoing with quiet thuds against the marble floor. The air around him rippled slightly, as if reality itself bent to make way for his presence. Dust floated upward. The faint shimmer of his mana caused the torches to flicker, bending their flames toward him.

"Hey, what do you mean by that?" Dalvin's voice cut through the tension. His pride flared; the veins in his neck tightened. "Just because you won the tournament doesn't mean I'm going to obey your order! I'm the Hero! I'm the one who gives the order here!"

Nolan didn't reply. He didn't even look back. His silence was heavier than a shout. It pressed on everyone's chest.

Dalvin's eyes twitched. He's ignoring me? That calm expression, that empty look in Nolan's eyes, it wasn't arrogance. It was something else. Something terrifying.

"Don't ignore me!" Dalvin shouted again, slamming his foot into the ground. The impact cracked the tiles beneath him, mana rippling outward in a golden wave.

Still, Nolan said nothing.

Then, in one breath, everything changed.

The thirteen knights surrounding them moved as one, blades drawn, their armor glinting under the golden light. They charged fast, coordinated, like a storm of steel.

Nolan slowly raised his hand toward them, his fingers relaxed, as if brushing away dust. "Rewind."

A pulse of invisible energy swept through the air.

In less than a heartbeat, time itself bent.

The knights froze mid-stride, their bodies twitching, veins bulging as if something inside them was being torn apart. Their faces twisted in confusion and terror. Wrinkles began to crawl across their skin, one second young, the next, old.

Their hair turned white, armor rattling as their backs bent, joints stiffening.

"What's… happening?" one gasped, voice trembling. "I, I can't feel my strength…"

Another fell to his knees, sword clattering. "My body… it's aging!"

Within seconds, all thirteen of them were trembling, old men. Some tried to lift their blades but couldn't. One collapsed entirely, his breath short and weak.

Nolan lowered his arm casually, eyes half-lidded. "They're small fries. You guys shouldn't waste your energy on them," he said quietly. "There's someone stronger here."

The others stared at him in disbelief. Even Dalvin's golden aura flickered uncertainly.

"Who… who is this guy?" whispered one of the mages nearby. "He fought in the tournament and didn't even use a skill like that! That's… divine magic!"

Another warrior trembled. "That kind of spell, only gods can use it! He reversed their time like it was nothing!"

Dalvin clenched his fists, teeth grinding. "What the hell? How is that possible? He increased their age instantly, it didn't even take three seconds! Who the hell is this guy!?"

Alaric stepped forward, resting his sword on his shoulder, his eyes wide but calm. "Wow… you managed to do that," he said, half in awe. "You're truly outstanding, Nolan. I didn't expect you'd be capable of something like this."

Nolan's expression didn't change. His eyes, cold and unreadable, scanned the area. "Enough talk. Let's ignore them and keep moving," he said flatly. "They're already old. They can't do anything."

He turned away, his coat swaying with his steps. The light bent faintly around him, his mana pulsing like a living thing.

Dalvin and Alaric exchanged a glance. Then, wordlessly, they followed behind him.

The wind howled through the cracked arena walls. The thirty fallen assassins moaned faintly, their weapons slipping from trembling hands. The once-loud arena was now quiet, only the echo of Nolan's footsteps remained, fading into the distance.

Nolan then stopped and turned back, looking at the two kings — the King of the Empire and the King of Sindra.

"Please, you two shouldn't come. Stay here; you'll be safe," Nolan said as he raised his hand, forming a shimmering barrier around them.

The two kings nodded in understanding.

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