CHAPTER 86: NO BACKBONE

The dust swirled around him, drawn into a vortex of his ki. The very air crackled with the violent clash of energies as Zarot channeled everything he had left into one final technique.

"Wrath of the Colossus!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse—ragged with both pain and fury.

The ground beneath Alan’s feet trembled. Massive pillars of earth erupted from the arena floor, lunging toward him like the claws of a great beast. Each was imbued with Zarot’s ki, shrieking with destructive energy as they tore through the air.

The crowd gasped, recoiling as the attack’s intensity washed over them. Even hardened warriors shifted uneasily in their seats, recognizing the devastating force behind the technique.

But Alan didn’t flinch.

He stood motionless, watching the earthen pillars surge toward him with the same deadpan, unamused expression he had worn since the battle began. To the audience, his composure looked like madness.

Zarot’s technique could pulverize stone, crush bones, bury men alive beneath the weight of the earth itself—yet Alan didn’t even raise a hand in defense.

The pillars collided with deafening force. The impact cracked through the colosseum like thunder, dust exploding skyward until all that remained was a towering wall of earth.

For a heartbeat, it looked as though the arena itself had swallowed Alan whole.

Zarot stood panting, chest heaving, his sword still embedded in the ground. A smile twisted across his bloodied lips. He had done it—crushed the arrogant whelp into nothing.

The crowd murmured in disbelief, some rising to their feet, straining for a better view of the wreckage.

Then, the dust began to settle.

There—standing in the very center of the destruction—was Alan. Unharmed.

A sword shimmered into existence in his hand, only for him to sheath it as swiftly as it had appeared. His armor gleamed, untouched by dirt or rubble. The massive pillars that should have ground him into dust lay in shattered fragments at his feet—each one cut clean through.

Zarot’s smile vanished, replaced with raw horror.

"Impossible..." he whispered.

Alan’s gaze never wavered, his eyes steady and unblinking.

"That’s it?" His voice was cold, almost bored. "That was the ’Wrath of the Colossus’? You screamed so loudly I expected... more."

Zarot growled, clutching his sword with trembling hands. He couldn’t comprehend it. He had poured every drop of ki, every ounce of strength, into that technique. And still, Alan stood before him—calm, untouched, unbothered.

Alan stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Zarot flinched.

"I’d offer you the chance to yield," Alan said, his tone dry, "but something tells me you’re far too proud for that."

Snarling, Zarot lashed out, swinging his greatsword in desperation. His strikes were wild now, his once-fearsome form collapsing under exhaustion. Each swing grew weaker, slower—clumsy. Alan slipped around them effortlessly, weaving through the assaults as though dancing around a child’s tantrum.

Zarot roared again, pouring what little strength remained into one last swing. The blade screamed through the air.

But Alan wasn’t there.

In a blur, he appeared behind Zarot, his movements too fast for the eye to follow.

"And now you’re too tired to think straight," he murmured.

Zarot staggered, chest heaving, blood dripping from his mouth. His proud stance, once towering and unyielding, had crumbled into a trembling shadow. His arrogance, his confidence—it was gone, stripped away blow by blow.

Alan closed the distance with quiet menace, his cold eyes fixed on Zarot. The giant raised his sword weakly in a final attempt to defend himself, but the motion was slow, pitiful.

Alan didn’t even glance at it. He drew back his fist and drove it deep into Zarot’s torso.

The impact detonated like a cannon blast. The shockwave rippled through the arena, rattling stone. Zarot choked out a guttural sound as the air exploded from his lungs, his massive body lifted from the ground and sent hurtling across the colosseum.

He hit the wall with a thunderous crack. Stone shattered, spiderweb fractures racing across the surface as though the structure itself might collapse.

Zarot slumped against the broken wall, blood dribbling down his chin. His body, twisted and broken, barely resembled the mighty warrior who had entered the arena minutes before.

He tried to rise. His arms trembled, pushing weakly against the rubble, but strength failed him. The crowd sat silent, the colosseum heavy with suspense.

Alan’s shadow fell over him. Unstoppable. Unrelenting.

Alan bent down, fingers curling easily around Zarot’s throat, lifting him into the air as though he weighed nothing. Zarot’s bloodshot eyes flickered in pain, lips trembling as he rasped through the blood clogging his throat:

"I... yield..."

Alan’s grip tightened. He leaned close, his voice low, almost gentle.

"Well, I did say I would allow you to yield."

He glanced up to the imperial box, meeting Aric’s gaze. The fourth prince gave a single, subtle nod.

Alan’s expression never changed as he turned back to Zarot.

"I lied."

With brutal precision, his hand speared forward. Fingers punched into Zarot’s throat with a sickening squelch, tearing through flesh and muscle until they wrapped around the bone of his spine. For a frozen moment, time itself seemed to recoil.

Then Alan pulled.

Bones snapped. Flesh tore. The sound was obscene. In a single merciless motion, Alan ripped Zarot’s spine free from his body.

Blood erupted, spraying across the shattered stone. Zarot’s eyes froze wide with horror as his body went limp, lifeless before it even hit the ground.

Alan held the bloody spine aloft for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, without ceremony, he let it drop. It struck the dirt with a heavy thud, followed by Zarot’s corpse collapsing in a heap beside it.

Silence.

The nobles, peasants, and senators alike sat frozen in stunned disbelief. No one could quite comprehend what they had just seen.

Alan stood still, splattered with crimson, unmoving, uncaring.

Then, like a dam bursting, the colosseum roared.

The bloodlust of tens of thousands erupted into savage cheers. They screamed Alan’s name, praising the brutality, the sheer spectacle of the execution. Their cries rose into the heavens, an anthem of violence.

Alan did not acknowledge them. His eyes flicked once more to Aric, the silent acknowledgment of a task completed.

Then, as the crowd thundered, he turned and walked away, leaving Zarot’s ruined corpse bleeding into the earth.