Ren laughed.

  Not loudly.

  Not carelessly.

  "I thought you would be easy," he said, adjusting his grip. "But you're harder than I expected."

  The Black Knight straightened, the metal of his armor settling into place.

  "Even so," he replied, voice steady, "you are still a child compared to me."

  Ren's expression did not change.

  "We'll find out."

  They shed what restrained them—armor and cloaks falling away—revealing bodies shaped by years of battle. Ren rolled his shoulders once, exhaling slowly.

  "That was only preparation," he said.

  "Now it begins."

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  The Black Knight answered with movement.

  He charged, Viora surging through him, reinforcing muscle and bone until each step cracked the arena floor. Ren met him without hesitation. Their swords collided, and the impact spread through the colosseum like a deep tremor. The audience felt it not as sound, but as pressure.

  They exchanged blows—measured, deliberate, relentless. Ren struck with precision; the Black Knight with overwhelming force. Neither yielded.

  In a brief exchange, both weapons were knocked from their hands.

  For a moment, the arena held its breath.

  Then the Black Knight's sword returned to him on its own.

  Zenkyou stiffened.

  Before she could speak, the blade changed—expanding, reshaping, becoming something far heavier than it should have been.

  The Black Knight hesitated.

  "This wasn't—"

  The sword moved by itself.

  It swung outward, not at Ren, but at the arena itself.

  The evacuation was immediate.

  Not through teleportation—through speed and coordination. Soldiers moved among the stands, lifting civilians, redirecting falling debris, pulling people away as the shockwave tore through the colosseum.

  Yun Shi intercepted the blade.

  The collision echoed across Aethelgard, a single sound that seemed to press against the world.

  But the structure had already begun to fail.

  Cracks spread through the quartz walls. Pillars fractured. Sections of the colosseum collapsed inward, stone breaking under a force it was never meant to endure.

  Shura shielded Yura as the ground split nearby. Dust filled the air, and the cries of the crowd were swallowed by the sound of collapsing stone.

  "This isn't teleportation," Shura said, watching the guards move. "They're… running."

  Yura nodded, her voice quiet but certain.

  "True teleportation would take centuries to prepare. And only six people in this world can use it."

  Shura looked back at the collapsing arena—at Ren, at the Black Knight, at the sword that had acted on its own.

  Then the colosseum gave way completely.

  What was meant to be a contest became an incident.

  And from that moment on, the festival was no longer a celebration—but a reminder of how fragile order truly was.