The dust had not settled yet.
Fragments of the arena still fell in slow intervals, each impact echoing across the ruined colosseum. Ren stood at the center of it, breathing steady, eyes fixed forward.
Yun Shi approached.
“You fought well,” he said simply.
Ren did not reply.
Yun Shi’s gaze shifted past him—to the Black Knight, still standing, the sword in his hand trembling as if resisting him.
“Leave the rest to me.”
The sword reacted.
Without command, without warning, it twisted in the Black Knight’s grip, forcing his arm back, locking him in place. The metal screamed faintly, as though alive.
Yun Shi drew his blade.
Not hurried.
Not dramatic.
He stepped forward.
“Where did you take that sword from?” he asked.
The Black Knight strained against it. “I bought it,” he said. “From the market.”
Yun Shi’s eyes narrowed slightly.
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“You know the rules,” he said. “Relics are forbidden in battle.”
The Black Knight hesitated.
“I didn’t know it was a relic,” he replied. “I thought it was just a weapon.”
Yun Shi closed the distance.
The clash that followed was not a fight.
It was correction.
Steel met steel faster than the eye could track—one strike, two, three—each parried before it fully formed. The Black Knight was forced back, step by step, until his footing failed.
Yun Shi turned his wrist.
The sword slipped free.
It fell.
Before it touched the ground—
Zenkyou appeared.
She caught the blade barehanded.
The sword vibrated violently, resisting her grip, pressure building in the air around it.
Zenkyou smiled.
“I don’t think this thing has the guts to suppress me.”
The sword went silent.
Yun Shi looked at her, a faint smile touching his face.
“After all,” he said, “you are the strongest.”
Shura felt a presence beside him.
“Hey, Shura.”
He turned.
Master Juro stood there, calm as ever, hands folded behind his back.
“Hey, Yura,” Juro added casually.
Shura blinked. “Master—what is—”
Juro glanced toward the shattered arena, the immobilized Black Knight, the sword now quiet in Zenkyou’s hand.
“I know,” he said, looking back at Shura, “you have an infinite number of questions.”
Then his gaze sharpened.
“But first,” Juro continued, “let me see what happened here.”
Master Juro vanished.
Not with sound.
Not with movement.
One moment he was beside Shura—
the next, the space was empty.
Shura blinked. Then again.
“…Master Juro?”
He stared at the spot. “How fast are you?”
No answer.
But Juro was already elsewhere—eyes scanning the ruined arena, the relic sword, the silent Black Knight, the soldiers holding formation. He took it all in without speaking.
Then—
The air shifted.
One by one, the Emperors and Empresses of the six kingdoms stepped forward, their presence alone calming the crowd.
A voice echoed, amplified but steady.
“There is no need to worry. Everything is under control.”
Murmurs spread, panic slowly dissolving.
“We apologize for the disturbance.”
A pause.
“There are three days left before our Eleventh Odyssey returns.”
The words carried weight.
“He must defeat that Sentinel.”
Silence followed.
“So,” the voice concluded calmly, “enjoy these three days.”
Shura frowned.
Odyssey?
Sentinel?
Giant weapon?
His head felt full.
Beside him, Yura smiled.
She leaned closer and whispered,
“You know… I can read your mind.”
Shura froze.
“…You can what?”
She laughed softly.
Behind them—
Orin threw an arm around Ren’s shoulder.
“Hey, hey! Look at you!” she said loudly. “Those fatty muscles almost broke the colosseum!”
Ren scowled. “They’re pure muscle.”
Orin poked his arm. Hard.
“It jiggles.”
Ren slapped her hand away. “That’s because you hit it!”
Zenkyou watched them, unimpressed.
“Children.”
Shura sighed.
The arena lay in ruins.
Secrets hung in the air.
Questions remained unanswered.
And yet—
For a brief moment—
Everyone laughed.
The world hadn’t ended.
Not yet.
