The arena was a maelstrom. Dust, smoke, and scorched earth swirled around, carrying the scent of ozone, blood, and burned stone. The stands were cracked, shattered in places, but still, the few conscious spectators watched in tense silence. Every second stretched, each heartbeat a drum of impending doom.
Zerathorn's aura blazed like a storm, dark fire crackling across the arena floor, tearing apart the sand, stone, and any obstacle in its path. He lashed out with waves of destructive magic—columns of black flame, blasts of shadowy lightning, and torrents of infernal wind—but each attack met the unknown warrior's blade.
The man moved like liquid, weaving fire and light around him. His sword traced arcs that burned the air, every swing parrying and deflecting Zerathorn's magic. Sparks and searing flames danced violently across the arena as they collided.
Keira (whispering, voice trembling): "He… he's holding him… alone…"
Even the few conscious warriors, battered, coughing blood, could only stagger to their knees, awe and disbelief painted across their faces.
Zerathorn's attacks grew more frenzied. He realized this opponent was no ordinary mortal—his magic burned with an intensity that rivaled the demon himself. He unleashed a torrent of elemental destruction: walls of black fire spiraling into the sky, firestorms that twisted like serpents, and pulses of shadow so dense the air itself seemed to choke.
The unknown warrior met every strike, his sword glowing with fire and light. He blocked, parried, and redirected blasts, moving with a rhythm that seemed almost inhuman. Each deflection sent shockwaves across the ground, shattering stones, raising plumes of dust, and forcing Zerathorn to stumble back repeatedly.
The demon's frustration was visible—his face twisted with fury, his black flames crackling violently.
"Arrogant fool… you cannot contain me! You think this… this defiance will end well?"
The warrior's voice was cold, sharp, slicing through the chaos:
"You will burn, demon… but only when the rightful hand delivers it."
Every word was a challenge, a declaration that this was not an ordinary battle. Zerathorn lunged, summoning a massive orb of destructive fire and shadow, intending to obliterate both the warrior and the arena itself. The unknown warrior's blade flared with light and fire magic, intercepting the orb midair. The impact sent a shockwave that knocked several nearby spectators off their feet.
Even Selphira remained unconscious on the ground, her chest rising and falling weakly, unaware of the miracle unfolding before her.
The few warriors still conscious staggered forward, throwing themselves into attacks when possible, but each time, Zerathorn's attacks deflected them like paper dolls. Blood and sweat coated their bodies, yet they refused to retreat—they had placed their faith in the hero and this mysterious figure.
Aurelian (voice steady, sword glowing): "Almost… ready… five more minutes…"
The unknown warrior did not answer. His focus never wavered. His every swing, parry, and counterstrike radiated overwhelming power. Fire erupted with each strike, light blindingly pure cut through darkness, forming a brilliant barrier that protected Aurelian and kept the demon occupied.
Zerathorn, sensing the inevitability, tried to escalate further—flames merging with shadows, a chaotic torrent meant to crush both opponent and hero. But the unknown warrior met the fury head-on. Sparks rained across the arena, arcs of fire and light lancing into the sky, each impact sending shockwaves that cracked stone and shook the very air.
Spectators and warriors alike could hardly follow the blur of motion. One slash, one pivot, one deflection—each impossible, each seemingly defying the laws of magic and physics. The demon's pride turned to panic as his destructive spells were systematically dismantled midair.
Keira (voice shaking): "How… how is he…? He's like… a god…"
Minutes dragged, every second a battle of wills and raw power. Sweat poured, blood spattered, dust blinded. And yet the unknown warrior did not falter. Every strike kept Zerathorn focused on him, buying Aurelian the precious seconds needed for the final activation of his holy sword.
The demon's eyes flickered with both rage and disbelief. Even his second-in-command-level pride, as a noble-class demon, could not contain the fear creeping into his heart. Every attack was met, every spell countered, every movement anticipated.
At last, Aurelian's sword blazed fully, the divine aura illuminating the battlefield. The unknown warrior planted his sword firmly, fire and light swirling around him like a living shield. Zerathorn's next attack shattered the arena's ground around them, but the barrier of elemental energy held, and the demon's fury could do nothing to bypass it.
The stage was set. Every breath, every moment of struggle, had led to this instant. Aurelian's final strike was ready, the unknown warrior had held the impossible, and the demon, furious and enraged, could do nothing but face the inevitable.
The five minutes had passed. The battlefield was ready.