The first duel of the fourth round had been nothing short of breathtaking — a clash so fierce, so magnificent, that even the most skeptical spectators found themselves standing in awe. The arena trembled beneath the weight of every blow, the air crackling with energy as two prodigies confronted one another.

The contenders were none other than Benjamin and Septimius — the latter being the name the people now roared with fervent admiration, unaware of the deeper truth behind it. What began as a one sided beating from Benjamin, soon turned into a display of absolute dominance. In the end, Septimius won.

Septimius had shown no hesitation. His strikes were merciless, precise, and guided by something greater than vengeance. When it was done, there remained no trace of the corruption that had plagued Benjamin's soul. Nathan had erased every vestige of Iblis's foul influence from within him, leaving behind only silence and ash.

And then the silence shattered.

A deafening roar erupted from the crowd, echoing across the coliseum like thunder. The audience rose to their feet, their cheers unrestrained, voices uniting into a single chant that shook the heavens:

"SEPTIMIUS! SEPTIMIUS! SEPTIMIUS!"

The people were enraptured, exalting him as a hero, a savior.

Though not all shared in their joy.

In the upper stands, Caesar's face twisted with a venomous scowl. He had seen enough — far more than he could bear. The sight of Nathan standing triumphant, adored by thousands, gnawed at him like a poison. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel, his cape billowing behind him as he stormed out of the coliseum even though the Round had just started. Octavius followed with a stern silence.

Only Julia lingered for a moment, her heart heavy with conflict. Her eyes lingered on Nathan's distant figure — standing alone beneath the sunlight, surrounded by thunderous praise. She wanted to approach him, to offer a few honest words of congratulations, but her father's retreating figure left her no choice. Though she chose to stay longer just alone a bit depressed.

Above the mortal realm, the Gods themselves had watched the duel unfold. Seated upon their celestial thrones, they peered down at the arena below — each one a silent observer, yet none untouched by what they had witnessed.

The first to break the silence was Ishtar, her eyes gleaming like twin stars as she leaned forward with a radiant grin.

"He's marvelous," she declared, her voice brimming with delight. "So powerful, so beautiful — and such grace! Just look at him! A perfect warrior!"

Several of the gods groaned in unison, already accustomed to her exuberant outbursts.

"Ishtar," sighed Sif, setting aside the silver comb she had been using to brush her long golden hair. "How many times are you going to say that?"

Ishtar clasped her hands together dreamily, ignoring the irritation in Sif's tone. "I want him so much! That strength, that poise! A man like that should not be chained to that dull Athena. He deserves someone far more exciting — someone like me!" She giggled, her cheeks flushed as she imagined it. "He would shine in Babylonia!"

Sif arched a brow, unimpressed. "He is interesting, I'll grant you that. There's something in him that reminds me of Siegfried — that same fire. He might even prove useful in our struggle against those arrogant angels… ."

"Useful?" Ishtar's laughter rang like a silver bell. "Oh, Sif, you and your endless wars. Do you really think he'd care for your petty squabbles?"

Sif's smile faltered. Her eyes narrowed, and the faint shimmer of lightning sparked around her. "Petty?" she repeated coldly.

Realizing her mistake, Ishtar waved her hand in dismissal, forcing a laugh. "No, no — that's not what I meant! I only meant that those angels are insufferable. A little beating would do them some good."

Sif sighed again, returning to her comb, though her gaze softened with reluctant amusement.

Among them, Isis remained uncharacteristically quiet. Her expression was thoughtful, her silver eyes distant as though tracing invisible patterns in the air.

"What troubles you, Isis?" asked Amaterasu, seated gracefully beside her. The sun goddess tilted her head, her sun gaze curious. "Surely you're pleased. The corruption of Iblis has been purged. That alone should bring you joy."

"I am pleased," Isis murmured. "But… something about the duel felt strange to me. Didn't you notice? He barely fought back at all until Athena appeared. Only then did he unleash his full might. Why?"

Amaterasu hesitated. She had noticed the same thing.

Before Athena's arrival, Nathan had endured Benjamin's attacks almost passively, his eyes distant, his movements restrained. But the moment she appeared — as if her presence had awakened something buried within him — the tide shifted in an instant. He fought then not as a contestant, but as a storm unleashed.

"Perhaps…" Amaterasu began softly, "…he was waiting for her?"

Her voice trailed off. The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. A faint warmth flickered in her chest — one she quickly dismissed, though not before it tightened her breath.

Why had he waited for Athena? Why did her presence matter so much to him?

Amaterasu's radiant composure wavered, her gaze lowering toward the mortal below. She did not understand it, yet she felt a strange pang in her heart — a subtle ache that she did not recognize.

For the first time in ages, the Sun Goddess felt something entirely human: a faint, unspoken jealousy.

Athena's gaze lingered on Nathan as his figure receded into the shadowed corridors beyond the arena. He walked with quiet composure, the din of the cheering crowd fading behind him, as though their praise no longer concerned him. There was something serene — yet unsettling — about that calmness.

Her hand drifted to her chest, fingers brushing against the golden fabric that veiled her heart. Beneath her touch, it pulsed rapidly, strong and rhythmic.

It was beating again.

That same strange flutter — the one she had thought long buried — had returned.

Why?

Was it because she had witnessed his battle? Because of the way he stood, unyielding and resolute, facing down corruption itself? No… that could not be it. She had seen strength countless times before. As a goddess, she had known heroes, warriors, and divine champions beyond number — men and women whose power could split mountains or command storms. None had ever stirred her heart like this.

So why now? Why him?

Her thoughts tangled, refusing to yield an answer.

"Hmm," came a familiar voice beside her, shattering her introspection. "It seems your choice has finally been justified."

Athena turned, meeting the playful smirk of Dionysus, who leaned lazily against his chair. His wine-red eyes glimmered with amusement.

"At least now," he added with a chuckle, "no one can oppose your decision to make him Pandora's partner. The crowd adores him, the gods are intrigued… It's a fine match, don't you think?"

"Indeed," Hermes chimed in, laughter dancing on his lips. "Even I must admit, the mortal's performance was… impressive."

Around them, the gods murmured in agreement. The air of Olympus seemed lighter, rippling with quiet admiration.

And then — a soft sigh escaped beneath a silver veil.

"He's perfect~," whispered Pandora, her voice trembling with excitement. Her cheeks glowed pink as her hidden gaze followed Nathan's every step, brimming with adoration that bordered on obsession. Even through the thin veil, the intensity of her stare could be felt.

Hermes noticed it. His smile faltered ever so slightly.

That look…

A pang of unease flickered within him. He had seen eyes like that before — eyes that desired too deeply, too completely. He knew how quickly devotion could become madness, how affection could twist into possession.

For a fleeting moment, Hermes pitied Nathan. Yet, another part of him wondered if the man truly needed pity. Knowing the way Septimius — or rather Samael — carried himself, perhaps he would surprise them all again. Perhaps even the obsessions of gods would not sway his course.

He only hoped that would be true.

°°°°°°°°

Down below, the thunderous echoes of applause had long since faded. In the dimly lit corridors of the colosseum, the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence — Caesar's. His pace was furious, his robes flaring with each stride. Octavius followed close behind, face stern and silent, while Johanna struggled to keep up, her expression tense.

But suddenly, Caesar halted.

The air grew heavy.

Standing at the far end of the corridor, illuminated by a shaft of golden light filtering through the arches, was Nathan. His arms were crossed, his posture relaxed — but his gaze was sharp, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Caesar's teeth ground together. His fists clenched until the knuckles whitened.

"You…" he hissed, his voice low and trembling with fury.

At once, the guards surrounding him — elite knights, loyal to Caesar — raised their weapons. Swords glinted in the half-light, their tips trained upon Nathan.

Yet Nathan did not move. He merely regarded them with cold indifference, his eyes half-lidded, his presence alone suffocating.

Behind Caesar, Johanna gasped softly and instinctively stepped behind Caesar, clutching his cloak in fright.

Thankfully Julia didn't seem with them, maybe she stayed back a little.

Nathan's voice broke the silence — calm, but laced with venom.

"You took your time, Caesar. I thought you would have recognized me sooner."

That tone — it was not the respectful, measured voice of Septimius, the supposed loyal subject. It carried no pretense, no softness. This was Nathan's true voice — the voice of a being who bowed to no one.

For the first time, Caesar realized the magnitude of the man before him. He had never been someone working for anyone.

"Septimius…" Caesar spat the name like poison, his glare searing enough to melt iron.

Nathan's eyes narrowed. "Killing you would take less than two seconds," he said quietly. The words hung in the air, soft yet colder than steel.

"Then what are you waiting for?" Octavius snapped, his hand on his blade.

Nathan's gaze flicked toward him — a single glance, and the younger man froze mid-step. For an instant, Octavius felt a crushing pressure upon his chest, as though the very air had turned against him.

Of course, Nathan did not strike. He could not. Not here — not now. Caesar, despite his arrogance, was adored by his people. To slay him outright would spark chaos. The masses would brand Nathan a traitor before he could speak. And with his identity as Samael, Lord Commander of Tenebria, already a matter of dangerous whispers, any rash act would unravel everything he had built.

A war between Tenebria and the Roman Empire was the last thing he needed.

Caesar knew this thanks to Johanna. That was why he stood so boldly before him — because he expected restraint. He hoped Nathan's pride would drive him into a reckless act.

But Nathan was not so easily provoked.

He chuckled — a low, chilling sound. "I'll give you one warning, Caesar." His crimson eyes flashed with dangerous light. "I tried to bring you down peacefully, but that woman — your precious sextoy — forced my hand. So now, I will use violence if I must."

"Violence?" Caesar sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Try it, you traitor."

Nathan's smile vanished. He stepped forward, and the very air trembled. "I have been merciful with you," he said, each word precise, deliberate. "But I am done playing nice. Abandon your title. Cast aside your throne, your pride, and flee this empire. Take your lapdog Octavius with you. Take every worm that kneels before you. Leave — while you still can."

His eyes gleamed — molten gold laced with demonic fire. For a moment, they seemed to pierce through Caesar's soul.

Johanna let out a terrified yelp, clutching Caesar's sleeve. Even Caesar and Octavius, proud as they were, instinctively stepped back under that gaze.

Nathan's expression turned cold, almost pitying. "Defy me," he said softly, "and you'll regret ever crossing my path."

And with that, he disappeared through the darkness.

Caesar stood frozen, trembling with fury. His face flushed crimson, veins bulging in his temples.

Humiliated once again.

Without another word, he spun around, his cloak snapping through the air, and stormed away — rage burning in every stride.

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