The chamber held its breath.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Because in the center of the ruined floor—
they stood.
Draven.
And the ogre.
Face to face.
One was a mountain—
a walking catastrophe of muscle and brute force, every inch of it radiating crushing, violent intent.
The other—
small. Still.
A child in size alone.
But nothing about the silence between them felt unequal.
The air thickened.
Pressure mounting so sharply that even Lucien felt it tighten in his lungs.
Tharic's legs trembled harder, barely holding him upright. The surviving recruit had stopped pretending he could stand at all.
Above them—
the orb hovered.
Watching. Recording.
And beyond it, the arena leaned forward as one.
Then—
they moved.
At the exact same time.
No warning. No feint. No hesitation.
Just violence.
The ogre's fist came first—
a collapsing wall of flesh and bone tearing through the air with enough force to distort space itself.
Draven stepped in.
Not away.
Forward.
His own fist rose—small in comparison, but perfect in alignment, every angle clean, every motion exact.
Then—
**BOOOOOOM.**
The impact detonated the chamber.
A shockwave erupted outward, ripping chunks of stone from walls and ceiling alike. Dust exploded in every direction. The floor beneath Draven split instantly, fractures racing outward like lightning etched into stone.
Lucien threw an arm over his face, barely keeping his footing.
Tharic was forced back a step, boots scraping hard against broken rock.
Even the ogre's massive arm jerked slightly from the collision.
For half a heartbeat—
they held.
Then both arms were forced wide apart by the sheer recoil.
The ogre recovered first.
Faster than anything its size should have been capable of.
Its balance snapped back into place instantly—hips rotating, shoulders rolling, the second fist already forming its path through the air.
Draven had only just planted one foot.
The blow landed.
**THOOOOOM.**
It struck him like a siege engine.
The ground beneath Draven imploded.
Stone shattered outward in a violent crater as shockwaves ripped through the chamber again, hurling jagged fragments into the air.
Lucien's breath caught.
"…Sir—!"
The ogre snarled, already drawing its arm back for another strike.
It expected resistance. Struggle. Reaction.
Something.
But its arm didn't move.
Not even an inch.
Its grin faltered.
A pause.
Then confusion.
Because beneath its fist—
in the crater—
Draven was still there.
Half-buried in broken stone. Dust curling around him. Blood at the corner of his mouth.
And his hand—
was wrapped around one of the ogre's fingers.
Tight.
Unnaturally tight.
His grip had pierced through skin. Through muscle. Past tendon.
Down to bone.
Like iron hooks driven straight into flesh.
The ogre's eyes widened.
For the first time—
something like alarm flickered in them.
Because Draven's grip was not resisting.
It was absolute.
The chains at his wrists clicked softly.
Draven slowly lifted his head.
Crimson eyes glowing through dust and fractured air.
Cold. Bright. Unmoving.
The ogre roared.
Not yet in pain—
but in fury.
Mana erupted from its body in violent waves, thick and oppressive, rolling off it like heat from a collapsing furnace. The chamber trembled under the pressure. Stone cracked wider. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Lucien staggered, teeth clenched, skin prickling under the sheer density of it.
Tharic nearly dropped again.
"…What… is this…"
The surviving recruit was already scrambling backward on instinct alone.
But in the crater—
Draven's grip tightened.
The ogre's finger began to bend at an impossible angle.
Not from leverage.
From raw force.
Bone groaned.
A deep, splitting sound.
**CRRRAAACK.**
The ogre's roar broke—this time sharper. Closer to pain.
Its mana surged harder, more chaotic now, and it twisted its entire body, planting one leg before swinging—
a brutal kick.
Its shin slammed into Draven's side.
**BOOOOOOM.**
The impact ripped him free from the crater entirely, launching his body across the chamber like a thrown blade.
He crashed through a broken pillar, shattered it, and tore through the far wall in a burst of stone and dust.
Silence followed the impact for a fraction of a second.
The ogre stumbled half a step, breathing heavier now, chest rising and falling like a furnace pushed beyond control.
It looked down.
At its hand.
Then—
paused.
Because one finger was missing.
Gone.
Torn clean off.
Blood poured from the exposed stump, thick and dark, steaming faintly where it hit the stone.
A grotesque severed finger landed nearby with a wet impact.
The ogre stared at it.
Not comprehending.
Not accepting.
Then—
from the collapsing dust cloud—
something arced outward.
The missing finger spun through the air and landed at its feet.
**Thud.**
The chamber went still.
Then—
a figure stepped out of the dust.
Draven.
Walking.
Slowly. Calmly.
As though nothing had happened at all.
His clothes were worse now—torn, hanging in strips across his frame. Dust clung to his hair and skin. Blood streaked his chest and arms—
but even as they watched—
it was fading.
Cuts sealing.
Bruises vanishing.
Broken flesh knitting itself closed in real time.
By the time he fully emerged—
there was nothing left.
No injury.
No damage.
No trace.
Lucien stared.
"…How…"
Tharic couldn't even form words anymore.
Above them, the arena had gone eerily quiet.
Because this was no longer spectacle.
It was distortion.
The ogre's nostrils flared.
Its breathing deepened.
For the first time—
it was not looking at prey.
It was looking at something it could not interpret.
Draven stopped a few paces away.
Rolled his shoulder once.
Like loosening stiffness.
Then glanced at the bleeding hand. At the severed finger. At the creature itself.
His crimson eyes narrowed slightly.
"…That was annoying."
A pause.
The chains at his wrists clicked softly.
Then he lifted his gaze fully.
Cold. Distant. Almost bored.
"…Try that again."