Angelo’s eyes widened in disbelief as a chunk of his shield cracked and broke—just like that. This wasn’t some average piece of equipment—it was a Legendary Artifact, a treasure said to withstand the fury of all but the highest High Legendary Tier attacks. And yet... it shattered under the force of that rusty, unassuming sword.
But Angelo had no time to process the shock. In the very next breath, Lucius’s foot slammed into his chest. The blow sent Angelo tumbling across the arena floor like a ragdoll, each impact leaving a crater in the hardened ground. Lucius’ sword was overwhelming, but so too was his raw, physical power.
And then, as Angelo tried to regain his footing, he saw it—Lucius’s eyes burning with pure, concentrated killing intent. A dark light, subtle yet suffocating, radiated from them. It was a power so deeply hidden, so expertly concealed, that not a single powerhouse in the podiums noticed it.
Without a word, the rusty sword ignited into a blaze of dark flames, and Lucius leaped forward like a predator, swinging the weapon down in a vicious arc.
A massive wave of dark fire erupted from the blade, cutting through the air like a storm of annihilation. The arc of destruction ignited the very air in the arena, turning it into a swirling inferno that roared toward Angelo like a doomsday meteor.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
The impact shook the entire arena, sending shockwaves through the stone and sand. The explosion engulfed Angelo, swallowing him whole in a torrent of black flames and energy.
Gasps and cries erupted from the crowd.
They watched in stunned silence as the proud Viking warrior, their symbol of resilience, was consumed by the firestorm. The powerhouses in the podiums exchanged somber glances, some sighing, others shaking their heads. None believed Angelo could have survived that level of destruction.
Yet as the smoke and flames began to fade...
He was still standing.
Or rather, kneeling—his axe and shield destroyed, his armor shattered, his body bloodied and broken—but alive.
Around his neck hung a simple necklace, one that seemed unremarkable at first glance. But now, it pulsed with waves of life force, wrapping Angelo in a cocoon of protective energy, bolstering his defenses just enough to keep him breathing.
Lucius’s confident smirk faltered, his arrogance twisting into a moment of disbelief. He had intended to kill Angelo here and now, to punish him for daring to interfere with the plans of his lord. And yet... the Viking refused to die.
"Hmph," Lucius sneered, his face twisting into a cold mask. He was ready to finish it, to strike the final blow before Angelo could surrender—when, suddenly, the Viking collapsed, unconscious.
The moment Angelo’s body hit the ground, a dozen powerful auras locked onto Lucius from the stands. The air around him froze, heavy with silent, unspoken threat.
The powerhouses of Valhalla would never interfere in a battle—that would bring dishonor and shame. But now that Angelo had fallen unconscious, the fight was over. And they would not allow Lucius to kill a proud son of the Viking race in cold blood.
No matter how arrogant Lucius was, no matter how powerful his backing, he dared not openly challenge the collective will of the powerhouses watching.
With a soft nod, his aloof smile returned, and Lucius turned away, leaving the battlefield behind him without a word.
Mere seconds later, powerful Viking healers rushed onto the field, carrying Angelo’s battered form away for treatment. The arena floor was cleared, and the Legendary battles resumed.
Yet as spectacular as the other clashes were, none matched the ferocity, intensity, and sheer brutality of the fight between Lucius and Angelo.
By the seventh day of the second phase of the Tournament of Destiny, only four warriors remained. Among them were Lucius... and Freya.
Freya took a deep breath as she stepped onto the battlefield, her heart steady, her mind focused. She glanced at her opponent—Mika.
Mika was a fierce warrior, one of the "well-meaning" ones who thought that by winning the tournament and granting Freya her freedom, they could win her heart. While such intentions seemed noble on the surface, they were ultimately selfish. They treated Freya like a prize to be won, a future reward to be claimed.
So while Freya held no killing intent toward Mika, there was no goodwill either.
Their eyes locked—sharp, focused, and unblinking. The countdown flamed closer and closer to zero.
Freya’s grip tightened around her black mace. She could feel the demonic souls within it, thrumming with suppressed power.
"There are so few left..." She gritted her teeth. The black mace was immensely powerful—capable of overwhelming even Legends—but it had a finite number of demonic souls bound within it. Each attack burned those souls, consuming their essence for devastating strikes.
"If I want enough left to face him in the final... I need to end this battle in one blow."
Her grip tightened so hard that blood dripped from her palm, running down the haft of the mace.
No matter what, she was determined to win this tournament—not just for herself, but for the world to see that only she had the right to determine her destiny.
The countdown reached zero.
The two Vikings lunged toward each other in perfect synchrony.
Mika swung a massive axe, his eyes focused, his intent clear: to neutralize Freya in a single strike.
But just as they were about to collide, Mika trembled.
He felt it—four invisible auras piercing into his mind. There was no energy signature, no spiritual force—just a cold, etheric pressure that sank into the back of his skull like a blade. They were horrifying—each one an embodiment of some ancient, primal sin—and then, as suddenly as they appeared, they vanished.
But that split-second of distraction was enough.
Freya’s mace smashed into Mika’s ribs, striking with overwhelming power, the impact shattering bone and sending him crashing backward, blood leaking from his mouth and all the strength leaving his body.