Grand Olympia: Further Horizon - Chapter 38: Fear
Protathlitis staggered back, his breath ragged, his feathers soaked in dark blood that spilled in thick streams from the stump of his missing arm.
The once proud champion, the titan of the arena, let out a guttural cry not just of pain, but of something deeper. Something far more primal. It wasn't the wound that shook him to the core.
His one good eye scanned the arena, watching as the illusory crowd of the phantom spectators who had cheered his every victory, every kill flickered faintly at the edges.
Some had already vanished, their forms unraveling into wisps of light and smoke, swallowed by the void above. Others still stood, cheering hollowly, unaware or uncaring of their champion's state.
He dropped to one knee, not from exhaustion, but from heartbreak.
He had failed them.
For centuries, maybe millennia, he had stood atop this arena, unmatched, worshipped by echoes of adoration. His purpose had always been singular: to entertain, to win, to be the unbroken guardian of the Coliseum.
His strength was a symbol, his presence a comfort to those shadowy illusions he once called his people.
But now this sacred battleground was scarred.
The floor cracked.
The sky above is split open by a single mortal's shot.
The ghostly crowd, his eternal audience, had scattered like smoke.
Protathlitis clenched on his hand into a trembling fist, the knuckles tightening until they bled through torn skin. His wings drooped at his sides, his head hung low.
He looked at the stands and what was left of them.
"I couldn't protect you," he whispered, voice choked with grief.
"I couldn't shield your memory…"
For all his brute force, his terrifying presence, his skill honed across ages he was just a servant to echoes.
…
Lapulapu's chest rose and fell like thunder, each breath heavy with pain and grit. His body was a map of bruises, torn muscle, and dried blood. His shield, his faithful companion through every battle, was cracked along its edge, the wood splintered from absorbing too many crushing blows.
He watched in silence as Billy's body was hurled through the air, spinning limply before vanishing into the illusionary crowd that swallowed him whole.
It wasn't the first time Lapulapu had tasted failure in this arena. But it was the second time he had stood still, forced to watch a comrade suffer while he was powerless to stop it.
His jaw tightened. Rage didn't show on his face but it simmered in his bones.
Blood trickled from his arms, soaking into the grip of his kampilan. His fingers flexed around the weapon, joints aching, knuckles pale. His shield, dented and beaten, still clung to his arm like an old war dog refusing to die. His feet dug into the stone beneath him.
And then he moved.
Not a word. Not a roar. Just motion sharp, full of purpose. The sound of his sandals on stone echoed across the arena like war drums.
Every step was defiance.
His limbs screamed, his ribs ached from earlier blows, but Lapulapu surged forward with the strength of a man who had nothing left to lose but his life.
Protathlitis turned at the last moment. His one remaining arm raised, wings flaring out instinctively but it was too late.
Lapulapu slammed into him like a battering ram. The impact shook the arena, forcing the champion to slide back, his talons digging grooves into the stone floor. He hissed in pain, teeth bared, feathers rippling from the force.
But Lapulapu didn't stop.
He brought his kampilan down in a brutal arc, steel met flesh and bone with a shriek of metal on sinew. Protathlitis snarled, staggering, his massive frame momentarily stunned.
A second blow followed straight to the shoulder joint. Sparks flew as the blade struck, cracking the armor like skin.
Lapulapu stepped in, ramming his shield into Protathlitis's chest. The shield groaned under the force, and so did the champion. The impact pushed him off balance, his wings beating wildly to stabilize.
The champion retaliated with a wild swing of his claws, but Lapulapu ducked low, rolled, and came up with a sweeping slash that cut deep into the upper thigh. Dark blood sprayed in an arc. Protathlitis roared.
Lapulapu was relentless.
He hacked at the elbow next one, two, three strikes in succession, each one shattering more of the bone beneath. Protathlitis cried out, his talon twitching, the limb failing to respond properly.
But he didn't fall.
The champion lashed out again, claws grazing Lapulapu's back, tearing flesh. Lapulapu staggered, pain blooming like fire along his spine. But still he pressed forward.
The shield came up once more, slamming into Protathlitis's wing base. The champion screamed, twisting with rage and fury, but Lapulapu used that momentum.
He stepped inside, closer than any man had dared before.
His eyes were cold.
With a roar that tore from deep in his chest, Lapulapu gritted his teeth and hurled his entire weight behind one final upward thrust. His kampilan, slick with blood and sweat, sliced clean through flesh, sinew, and bone severing Protathlitis' right arm at the shoulder in one brutal stroke.
There was a beat of silence. Then—
A geyser of thick, dark blood exploded into the air, arcing like black oil across the arena. The severed limb flew, spinning wildly, fingers still twitching as it sailed through the air before slamming into the ground with a deafening, wet thud. It skidded across the blood-soaked stone like a discarded weapon, finally crashing into the base of a wall with a sickening crunch.
Protathlitis let out a scream that didn't sound human. It was sharp and broken, a sound of disbelief and fury clashing in his throat. His wings flared in wild desperation, his massive frame stumbling backward, talons scraping furrows into the stone as he clutched at the bleeding stump. For the first time in ages, the immortal champion of Korox, the undefeated god of the arena, staggered like a mortal.
Lapulapu didn't gloat. He didn't roar in triumph.
He stood there, trembling, his arms slack at his sides. His chest heaved with every breath, his face and body drenched in the monster's blood.
The kampilan sagged in his grip, no longer raised, but still held firm. His eyes—those quiet, unwavering eyes stayed locked on Protathlitis like a man staring into the eyes of death and refusing to blink.
"You won't throw anyone again," Lapulapu muttered, his voice cracked, hoarse, but firm.
And then, his legs gave out.
He dropped to one knee not in surrender, not in weakness but because his body had finally reached its limit. Even then, he didn't look away. He was a man forged in war, built for struggle. And he would not yield, not even now.
Musashi, rising unsteadily from the crater where he had fallen, watched the creature reel in pain, its cries echoing across the arena.
For the first time… the champion bled.
For the first time… the champion stumbled.
And for the first time… Protathlitis, the undefeated, the eternal, looked afraid.