Beneath the Temple of Life, far from the reach of sun or sky, silence reigned.
No flame dared flicker here. The air was still, suffocating. Shadows pulsed along the ancient stone walls like silent heartbeats, shaped by unseen forces. It felt like the whole room was a part of darkness itself.
At the center of the chamber, seven figures stood in a perfect circle. They were robed in white, but there was no purity in their presence. Their garments caught no light, and their stillness seemed rehearsed. Every breath, every motion, felt measured—like part of a ritual that had started long before this moment.
A voice finally broke the silence. Calm. Composed. But beneath it ran something jagged—like a blade dipped in honey.
"How are the preparations?"
Another voice replied, this one brittle and tired, as though it had whispered too many secrets already.
"It is going well."
A third voice chimed in, almost reverent, almost worshipful. "The seeds have been planted."
"How long until we are ready?" the first voice asked again.
"Five days. At the least."
Silence again, thick and clinging. The lead figure shifted, lifting his chin just slightly. Though hidden by his hood, the gesture carried weight.
"Five days," he echoed. "So it begins when the winners of all the blocks are chosen. Perfect. I've heard all five Elders will be in attendance that day."
A murmur passed through the circle like a breeze through dry leaves.
"That will be good for us," one said.
"But what of the King?" came another voice, cautious, uncertain.
The figure at the head chuckled—low and bitter, like a man who had once feared the storm but now commanded it.
"We no longer need to worry about the King."
He let the words hang, then added, "The Pope will take care of him. Personally."
Gasps erupted, uncontrolled.
"The Pope?"
"He is with us?"
"How can that be?"
"Is this a trap?"
The head priest raised one hand, and the room obeyed—instantly silent.
"I understand your doubts," he said. "But I have seen it with my own eyes. He has cast aside the lie he once preached. He has embraced the truth—the real truth. He walks alongside with us now."
Their silence this time was different—thicker, heavier. It was the weight of hope twisted into something darker.
Then one voice, stronger now, spoke with fire.
"With the Pope on our side… no one can stop us."
Laughter followed—not from joy, but from certainty. It was the sound of a scythe brushing through wheat. Cold. Ruthless. Final.
...
Meanwhile, in the arena.
The sun hovered just above the horizon, bleeding gold and crimson across the sky. Its light stretched long shadows across the arena floor. The coliseum was electric—buzzing, stomping, alive with voices that rose like a storm.
"Warriors and witnesses—what a thrilling day it's been! We've seen power, strategy, and an unshakable spirit shake this arena to its core!
But as the sun dips low and the crowd still buzzes with excitement, it's time to bring this electrifying day to a close.
So, to end on a high note—brace yourselves—as we step into the final match of the day!
Get ready for one last clash of strength, skill, and sheer willpower!" Sushant the Snake announced.
"From the Bear Clan—Ravinder!"
The gates opened with a rumble. Ravinder stepped out, a walking monolith. Each step cracked the dry earth. His fur shimmered with a dark bronze sheen, and his muscles rippled like tension given form. Aura wrapped around his claws like fire trapped in crystal.
He was more than a fighter—he was a force of nature.
"And from the Turtle Clan—Kuldeep!"
The other gate creaked open, slower, quieter.
Kuldeep emerged—not with power, but with gravity. Shorter. Slower. But every step carried purpose. His moss-colored shell, etched with ancient symbols, pulsed faintly with aura. He wore no Armor. He was the Armor.
He looked at no one. Just the ground, the sky, and then Ravinder.
Some in the crowd snickered.
"A turtle? Against him?"
"He looks like he just crawled out of bed!"
But those who had seen real battle didn't laugh. They leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Turtle," one whispered. "Don't blink."
The horn sounded.
And Ravinder charged.
No hesitation. No testing. Just pure, brutal force.
The ground cracked beneath his momentum. He swung a claw wide, aimed at Kuldeep's skull. But the turtle moved—not fast, but precisely. He turned just enough for the blow to slam into his shell.
CRACK.
Kuldeep slid back, dust trailing behind his feet.
But he did not fall.
Ravinder came again. Left claw. Right claw. An overhead smash. Each strike was a thunderclap. The earth fractured beneath them. The air shook with each impact.
Kuldeep didn't strike back.
He absorbed.
At the last moment before every blow, he angled his body, shell-first. Letting the aura-hardening do the work. But even stone erodes.
Cracks began to bloom along his shell. Small. Hairline. But growing.
Kuldeep's arm trembled after the last swipe. His breathing deepened.
"Come on!" Ravinder snarled. "Is hiding all you can do?"
He leapt.
Both fists crashed down like a thunder.
BOOM.
The crater swallowed them both in dust.
The crowd went silent.
Something moved.
Not Ravinder.
Kuldeep.
He rose.
Slowly. Steadily. Like the earth itself.
Ravinder's fists were still on his shell, but they trembled. The bear's face twisted, caught somewhere between rage and disbelief.
Then Kuldeep moved.
His fist snapped forward, blunt and brutal, colliding with Ravinder's jaw. The bear stumbled.
Kuldeep stepped in—fast, impossibly fast for his size—and drove his entire weight into a full-body tackle. Shell met flesh.
The sound was monstrous.
Ravinder flew—flew—across the arena. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and groaned. Blood painted his lip.
But he stood again. Burning.
"TURTLE!"
He slammed his claws into the ground, ripping up stone and flinging it at Kuldeep like shrapnel. Then he charged behind it, hidden in the chaos.
Kuldeep didn't dodge.
He planted his feet.
Stone shattered on impact.
Ravinder burst through the dust, claws raised. Kuldeep turned and struck with a heavy uppercut—a slow-moving arc that landed with bone-breaking force.
Ravinder's head snapped back. His knees buckled.
Then came the spin.
Kuldeep twisted, using the full momentum of his shell, and slammed into Ravinder's side.
The bear tumbled, dust trailing behind him like smoke from a fallen star.
He tried to rise.
Once.
Twice.
He made it to his knees, claws digging into the earth, pride flaring brighter than pain. His body shook. One eye swollen. Blood dripping from his nose.
Still… he stood.
The crowd gasped.
But it was too late.
Kuldeep was already there.
He gripped Ravinder's arm, yanked him forward, and drove his head into Ravinder's chest with terrifying force.
CRACK.
Ravinder's mouth opened, but no sound came. His eyes glazed. His limbs fell slack.
He collapsed—not like a man, but like a mountain giving way.
The referee rushed in, knelt, checked him.
Stillness.
Then the arm rose.
"Winner: Kuldeep of the Turtle Tribe!"
The crowd exploded.
Some screamed. Some were silent. A few simply stared, haunted by the image of a man built like a fortress… broken.
Kuldeep didn't raise his fists.
He didn't smile.
He just stood.
Back straight. Shell fractured. Breathing heavy—but eyes steady.
A warrior does not celebrate his wins.
He simply fights…
Until the world disappears around him.