In his cell perched above the arena, Mordred didn't move. He sat motionless, arms resting on his knees, leaning slightly forward, eyes locked on the sand.
But his pupils… they weren't still.
The orange tint within them was deepening slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if a smoldering heat simmered behind his gaze. A silent pulse. His mana core, even in this muted world, seemed to stir.
Down there, on the Colosseum's sand, the old man was teaching death.Not through spectacle. Not through magic. But through absolute mastery.
The six-armed ogre, known for having gutted two minotaurs in a single fight, couldn't land a single hit.Not once.
His attacks were raw, brutal. Six muscled limbs, each wielding jagged blades, rained down on the old man in a chaotic ballet of steel and roars. Blades slashed the air, struck the ground, erupting plumes of sand with every impact.
But the old man…
He slid.
He didn't dodge.He slid.
