For Thutmose, it happened in the span of a breath.
One moment, he was preparing for the battle of his life.
His knees had bent slightly, khopesh angled in a reverse grip. His aura curled tighter around him like a coiled serpent, ready to strike. Every nerve had been primed, every scenario played out in his mind. He had felt it—this would be the moment he'd have to play all his cards. No holding back. No room for mistakes.
And then—
Mankhaura collapsed.
Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he crumpled—bloodied, twitching, and then still.
His body struck the shattered arena floor with a dull, bone-heavy thud that should have echoed louder than it did. The vortex of corrupted power that had once raged around him faltered, sputtered, and finally fizzled out like a dying storm, scattering glowing embers into the wind. They shimmered briefly, then vanished, leaving only the stench of ozone and burnt flesh behind.
Thutmose didn't move.
