In the quiet depths of the colosseum's stone-veiled innards, where torchlight flickered upon ancient walls and shadows danced like forgotten spirits, one voice rose defiantly against the hush.
"I was born for this," Thorne declared, not to any man nor spirit, but to the empty chamber itself. His tone rang with the arrogance of kings and the certainty of storm.
He stood alone, tall and resolute, a figure carved from pride and crackling energy. His divine spear leaned against the bench beside him, humming faintly, ever eager, ever listening. His armor bore the blackened soot of recent victory, though he wore it like a mantle of triumph rather than a scar of war.
Above, the muffled roar of the crowd thundered like distant drums of war. The great bout between the Gentleman Hexer and Kaelivra the Silver Serpent was well underway, though Thorne's attention bent not to the contest but to his own legend yet unfolding.
"Let them duel and dance their little dance," he muttered, adjusting the collar of his crackling cloak. "One toss of my spear and it'd be over. But nooo, they've got flair. And posture. And monologues."
He squinted at the small arcane viewing orb flickering with images of the battle. There she was—Kaelivra, silver-swept and cold-eyed, blades like serpents in her hands. And the Hexer, ever grinning, cane swirling like a conductor's baton, curses spilling like poetry across the sands.
"Cool tricks," Thorne admitted to himself with a nod. "But they lack the boom. They lack the zing. They lack me."
He paced the chamber, boots clacking rhythmically upon old flagstones smoothed by the passage of many feet long gone. On the wall, a single banner of the Champion's House stirred in the breeze of a draft unseen, as if in quiet anticipation.
Thorne paused. His eyes drifted to it—gold thread on black, a sigil shaped like a blade split by thunder. The thought struck him not with subtlety, but with clarity as sharp as lightning itself. This is his tale now. Let the world catch up in it.
And then, still alone, he struck a pose. Not because anyone watched—but because he was watching. And in his mind's eye, thousands cheered, legends whispered his name, and the heavens themselves made room.
Far above, the match continued, but Thorne did not care.
For the wind already knew the scent of his victory.
And it was lightning.
A sudden swell of sound burst from above—cheers and gasps, followed by the deep, resonant voice of the announcer, whose words rang through the stone bones of the colosseum like a bell tolled at dawn.
"And the victor, advancing to the final round... The Gentleman Hexer!"
A hush followed, sharp and heavy, before the crowd exploded into reverent thunder. Yet beneath the roar came a phrase, half-spoken and sly, as though the wind itself carried a rumor.
"And it would seem... the Hexer has yet to reveal all his cards."
Down in the depths, Thorne froze. His eyes glinted like lightning caught in obsidian.
"Oh-ho," he murmured, a grin slow-curling across his face, as if the storm within him had stirred from slumber. "So that's how it is."
He took a step forward, then another, cracking his knuckles as his divine spear hummed with restless glee. The thrill surged through his veins—thick, sweet, and electric.
"A trickster mage playing coy, huh? Saving the good stuff for me?"
He laughed. Loud, boisterous, uncaring who heard. The echoes sang with him.
"I knew it! Finally, someone worth the finale! Gentleman Hexer, you polished little enigma... don't you dare hold back when I'm out there."
He grabbed his spear and swung it once, the air itself crackling in delight.
"Because I won't."
From the arena above, the banners rustled. From the stands, voices chanted the name of the Hexer—but below, a storm had already begun to build.
And its name was Thorne.
The air hung thick with anticipation. Dust swirled like ghosts across the colosseum floor. The crowd waited—leaning forward in their seats, breaths caught, hearts racing. And then—
BOOM.
A bolt of lightning cracked the sky. Not from the heavens above, but from the tunnel below.
Stone shattered as the gate to the arena didn't open—it was blown off its hinges.
A swirling gust of wind and static rushed outward, sending a few unfortunate banners flying straight into the air like surrendering doves.
And from the smoke…
He strode forth.
Thorne.
Dirt crunched beneath his heavy steps. His armor sparkled with arcs of chained lightning, flashing with each confident stride like applause from the gods. His cape fluttered behind him—torn, scorched, heroic.
In his right hand holding the divine lance, dragging a streak of searing blue light across the floor. In his left? A giant turkey leg he'd picked up from a concession stand on the way in.
The crowd paused.
Then someone whispered, "Oh no. He's doing a bit."
Thorne took a massive bite from the turkey leg, tossed the bone over his shoulder like an ancient king flinging away a challenger's skull, and raised his weapon high into the air.
"Slamtown!" he roared. "Your soon-to-be champion has arrived! Hide your curses, hide your monocles—'cause Thorne's here to crack skulls and steal hearts, and I'm all outta skulls!"
The ground shook.
Lightning from his spear forked out in every direction—not aimed to harm, but to hype. Sparks danced across the arena floor, zigzagging between confused pigeons and terrified stagehands.
The audience erupted.
"THORNE! THORNE! THORNE!"
Meanwhile, Gentleman Hexer, waiting calmly on his side of the arena, dabbed a cloth across his monocle, sighed deeply, and muttered:
"And here I thought I was the dramatic one."
As the dust cleared, the two stood facing each other.
Order and chaos.
Cane and spear.
Silk and thunder.
And above them, the announcer's voice rang loud and true. "Final Round—BEGIN!"
Thorne didn't wait for strategy.
He never waited.
No respectful bows. No tactical pacing. No cautious circling like two dancers preparing to duel.
He charged.
Lightning roared from his heels as the ground cracked under the pressure of his acceleration. His spear pulsed like a storm contained—buzzing with the raw voltage of intent. Across the arena, the Gentleman Hexer raised a gloved hand, eyes narrowing behind his monocle, already flipping a card between two fingers.
But Thorne didn't see it as arrogance. He saw it as clarity.
Because Thorne wasn't just charging at his opponent—he was charging at the very idea of hesitation.
"They say to wait. To learn. To plan. They want you to follow rules made by cowards who never fought a battle or lived a dream."
His thoughts weren't loud. They didn't need to be. They thrummed under his skin like drumbeats in his chest, buried in the rhythm of war.
"But life? Life doesn't wait. Life comes at you fast. And if you don't come at it faster—if you don't crack it open with everything you've got—then you're already dead and just too polite to lie down."
Gentleman Hexer whispered a spell under his breath. The card glowed violet, and he flung it with surgical grace. It snapped into the air and exploded into a spiderweb of cursed sigils mid-flight.
But Thorne plunged through it, his entire body wrapped in lightning.
The sigils clawed at his armor, trying to twist his direction, slow him down, reverse his momentum. They sparked and fizzled, embedding into his pauldrons, tugging at the laws of motion—but Thorne didn't obey laws. He obeyed instinct.
He spun mid-sprint, spear arcing with a wide sweep that cut through the magic like a blade through smoke. A pulse of raw force followed—BOOM—as his attack landed just shy of the Gentleman Hexer, who blinked back with a practiced dodge, coat fluttering behind him.
"You're not even thinking," the Hexer muttered, cards dancing in his palm like vipers. "You're just... reacting."
Thorne grinned.
"Exactly."
"Thinking's great. Planning's nice. But sometimes, you gotta leap before you know where the ground is. You gotta punch the puzzle before you solve it. Because that's when you're really alive."
Thorne kept moving. Always forward.
Another card flashed in the Hexer's hand—this one a jagged red rune. He pressed it to the cane, and the ground around Thorne turned to sludge for a brief second, trying to trap his momentum.
But Thorne planted one foot, twisted, and launched himself upward.
A streak of lightning shot from the ground to the sky—he didn't stop, he adapted. Mid-air, he hurled his spear like a bolt of divine wrath.
The Gentleman Hexer vanished in a flicker of shadow just before it landed, reappearing a few meters to the left, cane held defensively across his chest.
"You're all impulse," he said. "No elegance. No restraint."
Thorne landed in a skid, kicking up dust, lightning curling around him like living snakes.
"I'm not here to be elegant," he said, electricity crackling off his teeth when he smiled.
"I'm here to break everything that tells me I can't."
The colosseum shook from the impact of Thorne's strike. Lightning coiled off his body as he dashed forward again, spear in hand, relentless and wild. Across from him, the Gentleman Hexer remained composed, flicking a hex card into the air with a soft, practiced motion. The card exploded into shimmering sigils that hovered, waiting.
"Rules, my boy," the Gentleman said, sidestepping Thorne's lightning-laced spear, "are not chains. They're threads. Threads that weave power, order—purpose."
Thorne snorted as he skidded to a stop. Sparks danced off his boots.
"Threads turn into nets," he said. "They hold people down. I know. I've been tangled in them all my life."
The Gentleman's cane slammed into the ground, triggering a delayed hex beneath Thorne's feet. A column of purple flame erupted, but Thorne shot upward, flipping midair, crackling with electricity.
"My parents gave me rules," Thorne growled as he landed. "Sit straight. Be quiet. Don't draw attention. Be 'normal.' Don't make noise. Don't ask questions."
He darted forward, faster than before—faster than sight. His spear shot toward the Gentleman's chest.
"They weren't rules. They were shackles."
The Gentleman deflected the blow at the last second with a shimmering card shield, his expression still unreadable.
"There is strength in boundaries," he replied. "Not all rules are prisons. Some protect. Some shape us."
Thorne's eyes sparked with defiance.
"Not me. They tried to shape me into something I'm not. So I broke them. Every damn one."
They clashed again. Cane met spear. Magic met lightning. The sheer pressure cracked the arena floor, kicking up stone and dust.
The Gentleman exhaled slowly. He flicked a card, which split into three, each hovering around him like silent sentinels.
"What are you without rules, then?" he asked. "A storm with no direction?"
"I'm free," Thorne said.
Another burst of speed. Another exchange. The crowd could barely keep up—only flashes of movement and shockwaves gave them hints of the battle's ferocity.
The Gentleman's cards mirrored Thorne's last attack, mimicking the angle and energy of the spear strike—but Thorne twisted at the last moment, disrupting the prediction.
"I don't follow rules," Thorne said. "I rewrite them."
The two stood apart again, breathing hard now. The arena crackled with residual energy, broken hexes and singed stone scattered around them.
"I've seen many rebels," the Gentleman said. "But few with your fire. Let's see if it burns bright enough to overcome fate."
Thorne grinned.
"I already did. The moment I stopped listening."
And with that, they launched forward again—colliding in a storm of light and magic, the battle reaching a speed so intense, even the shadows couldn't keep up.
The world had become still, save for them.
One—a comet of rage and freedom,
the other—a clockwork maze of intention and foresight.
Thorne surged again.
No thought. No hesitation. Only motion.
His spear was no longer a weapon. It was the language of defiance,
scribbled in lightning across the arena floor.
The Gentleman Hexer drifted backward—his cane tapping with measured grace,
his hex cards like constellations spinning around him.
He did not block Thorne.
He redirected.
He nudged the chaos with fingers light as dusk,
like a violinist turning a scream into song.
"You fight like the world owes you something," the Gentleman murmured.
"No," Thorne snapped, his voice thunder cracking through the static.
"I fight because it tried to cage me.
And I don't care what it owes—I'm breaking it anyway."
He spun, crackling bolts kissing the stone,
his spear tearing through another of the Gentleman's illusions.
For a moment, the arena looked like a shattered observatory—
stars of hex and spell bursting, collapsing, reforming.
The Gentleman's gaze flicked to the side.
A trap card triggered.
The ground turned to glue beneath Thorne's feet—
but the storm did not slow.
Thorne laughed.
"Nice trick."
He lifted off the ground entirely,
propelled by lightning coiling around his calves,
a storm without anchor.
"You're predictable," the Gentleman whispered.
"And yet...
beautifully so."
"Predictable?" Thorne scoffed, hurling the spear like a bolt from Olympus.
"Then catch this."
The Gentleman spun.
A wall of cards—shimmering with glyphs older than memory—rose.
The spear shattered it like glass under thunder.
He bent back just in time.
"You dance like a madman," the Gentleman said,
"and yet you never miss a step."
Thorne touched down, breathless but grinning.
"You ever hear a storm ask for permission to dance?"
"No," the Gentleman replied, lifting his cane,
"but I've seen one learn discipline and become what is beyond itself."
The clash came again—
not a fight, but a collision of philosophies.
The Gentleman, elegant as a planet in orbit,
guided by laws, by gravity, by purpose.
Thorne, feral as a star that chose to collapse,
not from burden—but from the sheer audacity of existing on its own terms.
To the common eye, it was chaos.
But to those who listened—
truly listened—
it was symphony.
Thunder did not speak the language of laws.
It spoke in pulses. In breaths. In ruptures.
And Thorne was its voice.