Dalab was lit—literally and emotionally. The arena was packed, the crowd buzzed like they were pre-gaming a cosmic Super Bowl. One day to Judgment Day and the city was already partying like it had front-row tickets to the apocalypse.
In the center ring stood the seven gladiators. No warm-ups, no introductions, just tension thicker than Fien's eyeliner. The queen herself was in the royal box, sipping something sparkly and scanning her champions. This was her pre-show. A little sneak peek to see whether her new toys would be entertaining enough for her Very Important Visitors tomorrow.
And these poor souls weren't up against regular Miteons or Denefremims, not even the broody, abs-for-days Ozeleans. Nope. They were fighting a Sham.
Now, Shams? Shams were what happened when Setrums got a little too friendly with Senedro's locals. Spirit hybrids. Freaky powers. Think part-demon, part-who-invented-this. They weren't supposed to be in Senedro at all. Shams were meant to dwell in mortals—possess, whisper, maybe throw a chair or two. But Earth was getting smarter, holier, casting them out like expired coupons. So the unlucky ones got stuck in Senedro, wandering around like disgruntled interns.
That's where Gideon came in. He and his squad hunted Shams like rare Pokémon—dangerous, glowing, and not great for parties.
So now, in the middle of the ring, you had Gulutel, Jim, three Miteons, and two other Denefremims—none of them exactly thrilled to be there.
And then they brought out the Bala.
The Bala was a box. Small. Unimpressive. Like something you'd keep earrings in, if your earrings could vaporize a planet. Then they opened it.
The Sham stepped out like it had just finished a spa day in hell. Four hands, four wings, glowing like judgment and vengeance had a baby. You could tell by the shape—it was half Setrum, half Miteon. Built like a boss level. Wings flared. Eyes burning. Definitely not here to make friends.
The ring was already active—an invisible force field kept the gladiators from bolting. Which was a shame, because bolting sounded like a really solid idea.
Then the Sham roared—and lunged. Showtime.
The Sham attacked at full speed. No warm-up. No dramatic entrance music. Just violence on autopilot.
The two Denefremim gladiators—those muscle mountains clearly born for war—charged like they were auditioning for the afterlife. Spoiler alert: they got the part. The Sham split them like soggy firewood. Clean halves. Like it was slicing cake at a birthday party no one wanted to be invited to.
And that's when everyone else in the ring had a holy-crap moment. This thing wasn't just here for show. This was survival, with a side of trauma.
But the crowd? They were losing their minds. The more limbs flying, the louder the cheers. Senedro folks were clearly not okay.
Fien, though? Not impressed. The queen wanted drama, sure, but not fast drama. She preferred her bloodbaths with a bit of foreplay. Gladiators were supposed to put up a fight—at least dance around the death a little.
So they threw in swords. Five-on-one. Now we're talking.
The two airborne Miteons launched from above. Gulutel, the one-winged wonder, and Jim took the ground. Formation like a boy band with trauma—tight, synchronized, and angry.
The queen perked up. Now this was entertainment. The Sham was surrounded—pressure above, steel from below. But then it got mad. Like really mad.
The thing launched into the air, wings flapping like judgment day. It hit the airborne Miteons with a shockwave that knocked one straight out of rhythm. He dropped like a stone and exploded on impact. Literal confetti.
Then the Sham ripped the other Miteon apart mid-air like it was plucking petals. She loves me, she loves me not… splat. One more on the ground tried to run interference—bad call. He got skewered so fast it felt personal.
And then there were three.
Jim. Gulutel. One-winged Miteon.
All holding swords. All staring down the beast like they hadn't just watched four coworkers get shredded like office documents.
They didn't move. Didn't flinch. The Sham charged, claws out, ready to erase someone's existence.
Jim blinked. Slow motion kicked in. His world slowed like the Wi-Fi just died mid-video. He dropped low, rolled beneath the beast, and sliced one of its legs. Screech.
One-winged Miteon leapt like gravity was a rumor. Landed on the Sham's back, hacked off two wings in a clean swipe. No flight for you.
And before the monster could even feel the pain—shunk—a sword right into its heart. Gulutel. Quiet, deadly Gulutel. Surgical precision. Classic.
The beast collapsed, one final breath sounding more like a confused apology.
The arena? On fire. Not literally (yet), but emotionally—screams, chants, a wave of chaos in the stands. The crowd loved it. They didn't even care they were cheering over bodies.
And Fien? She was smiling. Not just because they won, but because they fought together. Unified. Brave. Skilled. This wasn't just entertainment anymore. This was a problem.
A glorious, shirtless, sword-wielding problem.
The energy in Dalab was electric. Gladiator fever had gripped the city. As the survivors were escorted out of the arena, the crowd went ballistic—cheering like rock fans at a reunion tour. Names echoed from balconies and alleys alike.
"Gulutel! Shean! Nameless!"
Nameless, of course, being the one-winged Miteon. Because nothing screams mystery like not having a proper name.
Back in their prison cage, the vibe had changed. These weren't just prisoners anymore. They were the main event. The hottest ticket in town. And apparently, someone up high had taken special interest.
A few minutes later, guards showed up and barked, "You. The skinny one. The quick one. The queen wants you."
Jim blinked. "Wait—me?"
Before he could process it, he was being marched through velvet-lined halls like a VIP guest who forgot to RSVP. The palace was exactly what you'd expect from a queen who used to be a Setrum—gold, drama, and an air of "I could kill you with a sigh."
And there she was.
Fien. The Queen of Dalab. Former celestial powerhouse. Currently: completely naked.
Jim froze. He'd faced bears, swords, and a demon-Sham with four arms—but this? This was danger on a whole new level.
She sat on a golden bed, legs crossed like temptation itself. Her body was flawless, like it had been sculpted by a very determined pervert with a divine chisel. Small, perfect breasts. The kind that could haunt a man's dreams. Skin that looked like it had been blessed with permanent candlelight. And yes, she stood. And yes, she walked right up to him.
Jim didn't breathe. He wasn't even sure his heart was still doing the job. And then she stopped. Just inches away.
He saw everything. And by everything, we mean everything. She didn't hide it. Didn't care. It was less about seduction and more about presence. Power. The former Setrum wasn't trying to sleep with him—she was reading him. Like a puzzle.
She tilted her head, like she was trying to figure out if he was real. He didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just swallowed hard and tried not to pass out from either awe or confusion.
Then, just like that, she stepped back. Slipped into a robe with the grace of someone who didn't need to say a word to make people obey. She turned, looked him in the eye, and gave the faintest nod. "That'll be all."
Moments later, Jim was escorted back to his cell. A little dazed. A little breathless. And very aware that he'd just been face-to-face with a queen. Literally. And possibly metaphysically.