Alan's grip tightened around Zarot's massive blade, his fingers curling with deliberate precision as though he were handling something other than a weapon meant to cleave him in two. His expression remained calm, eerily so.
His eyes, reflecting the harsh sunlight, bore into Zarot's in an unsettling way—like a trained soldier looking down at his enemy before he offers death, except it was Alan's hand around the sword, he was the one who stood before a murderous attack, not the other way around.
The crowd, who moments ago had cheered for blood, now fell into a hush.
Their eyes darted from Zarot's hulking figure, still frozen in disbelief, to the leaner form of Alan, whose hand held Zarot's monstrous sword still. The silence of the colosseum was unnerving, hanging like a cloud, they all anticipated the next move.
Zarot growled, wrenching his sword back with all the brute strength his body could muster, but Alan released the blade with a casual flick of his wrist. Zarot staggered back, the weight of his own weapon nearly throwing him off balance.
"A boy from the streets," Darius had once thought "An orphan with no lineage, no ki, no mana—he'll serve as a perfect guard for the fourth prince. A fitting joke."
How wrong Darius was.
Alan's life had been far from the velvet cushions of royal halls. The streets of the imperial city had been his home—cold, unforgiving, a place where a boy like him had two choices: starve or fight.
By the age of ten, Alan had already learned how to fend off the thieves and cutthroats that preyed on the helpless. His fists were his only defense, his resolve his only shield.
He was picked from the streets one day, not for his skill but because the city guard needed bodies—warm bodies to train and mold into foot soldiers, expendable pawns to stand in the background while real warriors claimed glory.
It didn't matter to Alan then. He had a place to sleep, food to eat.
He trained harder than anyone else, fought until his knuckles bled and his vision blurred. But no amount of effort could change the fact that he had no ki, no mana flowing through his veins. While the lucky ones with ki or mana were sent to the Imperial Guard Academy, Alan remained behind, discarded, forgotten in that shabby corner of the empire.
"You were always too hasty, brother," Valen said quietly, though his voice carried enough weight to make Darius flinch. His eyes, cold and emotionless, remained fixed on the arena below.
"Now look at the mess you've created."
Darius didn't reply, his gaze locked on the spectacle unfolding before him.
Zarot roared in frustration, raising his sword once more. He lunged at Alan with reckless fury, his ki flaring to dangerous levels, the force of his strike enough to shatter stone.
But Alan moved again, faster this time. He ducked beneath Zarot's swing, his body blurring with speed enhanced by the MPG armor. As Zarot's sword slammed into the ground, raising a cloud of dust, Alan shot forward.
His fist connected with Zarot's jaw, the impact sending a ripple of shock through the colosseum. Zarot's massive form wavered, his grip on the sword loosening as his body staggered. Blood spurted from his mouth, and he crumbled to one knee.
"Leave him half dead," Darius had said. But now, it was Zarot who was left broken and bleeding, while Alan stood over him like an inevitable loss.
Alan's voice cut through the heavy silence that followed.
"You're not done yet. Shall we continue?"
Zarot growled, blood dripping from his split lip as he clambered back to his feet, his sword dragging through the dust. His ki surged again, brighter, fiercer, like a wild flame barely contained within his massive frame.
His muscles bulged as the energy coursed through him, veins standing out across his arms and neck like cords of tension ready to snap. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with fury and desperation, but also a growing sense of dread.
He raised his sword and slammed it into the ground, sending a shockwave that rippled through the arena.
"Oh?" Alan muttered, intrigued.