Memo 014: (R1)Take a stand! Nateas.

The gates thundered open, and the sunlight spilled across the sand. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of voices crashing down from the tiered stone seats.

Eirikr strode out first, his heavy boots crushing the dust beneath him. Each step was measured, deliberate, as though he savored the adulation pouring over him. The sunlight caught on his armor, jagged and scarred from countless battles, and he raised his sword to the sky. The crowd erupted louder, chanting his name.

Then Nateas was shoved forward through the opposite gate. Chains rattled at his wrists and ankles as he stumbled into the arena. His head was bowed for a moment, but when he looked up, his grin was wide—wicked. The crowd’s energy shifted, curious, hungry. Some jeered at his bound state, others cheered at the audacity burning in his eyes.

Nateas began to move—not straight toward Eirikr, but weaving. He criss-crossed the sand, slow and taunting, the chains clinking in rhythm with his steps. His gaze never left his adversary. Eirikr watched him with an unblinking focus, blade resting on his shoulder. A predator measuring his

Before the gates even fully closed, the King raised his jeweled hand. The arena quieted in waves, anticipation trembling in the air. “Before we begin,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the stone, “our entertainment shall be witnessed properly.” Two guards escorted Nagisa and Yuranu up the marble steps to the royal platform. The throne gleamed in the sun, towering, gilded with excess. The King motioned casually, as though inviting pets to sit at his feet.

Yuranu dropped into her seat with a hiss, arms folded tight, her eyes slitted toward him with hatred barely contained. The King chuckled, amused at her defiance. Nagisa sat stiffly, Camera pressed to her chest. She leaned forward, clinging to the edge of her seat, her gaze fixed on the colosseum sands where Nateas was being dragged in chains. prey.

The King tilted his head toward the robed figure standing just below the platform—Veil, the court mahouist. Veil’s presence was unsettling, his form wrapped in silken black, face hidden but for the faint shimmer of glyphs etched into his skin. “Enact the barrier,” the King commanded.

Veil raised his staff, the crystal atop it swirling with violet and gold. Ancient words fell from his lips like dripping oil, seeping into the air. Across the arena, light snapped into existence, forming a dome over the colosseum. The shimmering veil rippled, a cage of light and sigils, sealing the stage from intrusion—or escape.

The King’s gaze lingered on Nagisa, sharp as the edge of a blade. Drool traced the corner of his mouth as he smirked.

“I told them beforehand,” he said to himself. “The young miss has… some peculiar power. Something that can reveal things with that little device she clutches.” The King’s smile widened. “We wouldn’t want such revelations spoiling our entertainment, would we?” The crowd roared again, unaware of the venom in his words. On the sands below, Nateas and Eirikr, the chains clinking louder as Nateas shifted his stance, ready despite his bindings.

"You’re that scared of me? Got to tie me up before the fun even starts?" His grin sharpened, fangs flashing. "Pathetic."

He threw his arms wide, the sunlight catching on his blade. “I am Eirikr!” he roared, voice booming across the colosseum. “By the King’s will, I will crush this demonill and rid Veylstra of this festering blight!” The colosseum howled in approval. The stomping of boots, the shaking of the stone seats, the unified chant of his name—all of it swelled like a tide.

 From the stands, Serenya leaned forward, golden curls bouncing with excitement. She clutched her parasol as if it were a flag. Her eyes burned with a cruel fascination as she spotted Nateas, shackled, sitting cross-legged in the dust as if in meditation. “Look at him,” she said, her lips curling into a grin. “He just sits there, like a lamb waiting for slaughter.”

Beside her, Yano stood with his arms crossed, his jaw tight. His face was carved in disdain—not for Nateas, but for the spectacle itself. His eyes narrowed at the chains gleaming around Nateas’s wrists and ankles. “This isn’t a fight,” he muttered under his breath, bitterness seeping into his tone. “This is theater.” Serénya didn’t even glance at him, her gaze locked on Nateas like a predator watching prey. “Then let the theater begin.”

Nateas bound, legs folded beneath him, chin tilted upward. His eyes burned, but his body was still, coiled, unreadable.

Nagisa shouted from the stands, her voice cutting through the rumble of the crowd. “He’ll kill him! Look at him—he can barely stand!” Her hands tightened on Cammy as though she could tear it apart. Her voice trembled, half rage, half despair. “This isn’t fair. This isn’t a fight. This should stop!”

Her words seemed to bounce uselessly off the air, swallowed by the roar of the audience. No one listened—no one but the King, whose eyes slid toward her, glimmering with dark amusement. Yuranu hissed from her place beside her, baring her teeth toward the King, but she didn’t move either. Nagisa slumped back down, shaking, her fingernails clutching onto camera. She thought to herself, I can’t do anything. I can’t change this. I can only watch.

Her gaze fell back to the arena floor, where Nateas sat cross-legged in the dust, the chains gleaming around him. Eirikr stood tall before him, basking in the thunder of the crowd.

Has it always been this way? Nagisa thought bitterly. Me watching while people are trampled? While the powerful decide who lives and who dies? She gritted her teeth and pressed Camera against her chest as though clutching her last lifeline, her knuckles white. Up on the dais, the King smirked, lifting a goblet to his lips. “Oh, young miss,” he said smoothly, “don’t trouble yourself. This is a fight. It just won’t be fair.”

Nateas lifted his head, his hair hanging wild around his chained face. For the first time since the match began, sound broke from his lips—not a groan, not a plea, but laughter. Rough, jagged, almost gleeful. “Hah… hahahaha… Go ahead then,” he rasped, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at the armored knight. This isn’t a fair fight… but me?” He leaned forward, his fangs just barely flashing in the light. “I see it more as a game.” The crowd booed and jeered at his insolence, some spitting over the rails, others howling for blood.dobby?

Eirikr’s face darkened, but his voice rose above the noise with the clarity of a man born to be heard. He swung his blade into a ready stance, his cape snapping in the wind, and shouted:

"Temp Buster

Ⓣⓔⓜⓟ Ⓑⓤⓢⓣⓔⓡ—strike with the weight of the heavens!”

The crowd roared as Eirikr surged forward, blade shining like a streak of silver lightning, his armored boots cracking the stones of the arena floor.

Eirikr’s blade flashed down, slamming across Nateas’s shoulder with a force that would have split a lesser man in two. The chained demonill didn’t flinch—he didn’t even raise a hand. The blow sent him sprawling into the dust, chains clattering like broken bells.

The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers. Eirikr gave them no pause. He hauled Nateas up by the collar and drove a mailed fist into his face. Then another. Then another. Each strike echoed across the colosseum, bones crunching beneath steel. Nateas’s head whipped back, his mouth bloodied, yet still he refused to lift a finger.

Eirikr shouted with every blow, feeding the bloodlust. “For the King!” Crack. “For Veylstra!” Smash. “For the people!” Thud. Each phrase punctuated by another merciless strike. The knight finally slammed him to the ground, boot pressing against Nateas’s throat. The demonill only coughed, blood running down his cheek, and looked up through half-lidded eyes.

Still chained, still unmoving.

The crowd wanted more. The crowd demanded it. And Eirikr, basking in their roar, raised his sword high for the killing stroke.

Blood dripped from Nateas’s lips, trailing down his chin and soaking into the dirt beneath him. Every strike rattled his body, every blow from the blunt end of Eirikr’s sword shook the chains tight around his limbs. And still—he smiled. A low, broken chuckle slipped from him between coughs of blood. Then laughter. Wild, cracked, echoing against the walls of the colosseum.

The sound cut through the roar of the crowd, twisted, defiant.

Eirikr’s eyes narrowed beneath his helm. Each laugh stung him sharper than any blade could. He struck harder. The flat of his sword crashed into Nateas’s ribs, his back, his skull. Again and again. “Laugh at this, filth!” he spat, hammering down blows in a frenzy. “Mock me now, demon scum!”

But Nateas only wheezed out another bloody grin, his fangs flashing through the crimson. His eyes—half-shut, beaten, bruised—still glimmered with cruel amusement. The crowd began to shift, their cheers faltering into murmurs. This wasn’t the clean, glorious purge they’d expected. This was something else. Something grotesque.

Up above, Nagisa clutched Cammy tighter, trembling. She couldn’t look away. She couldn’t save him. She could only watch. And the King… the King leaned forward, teeth bared in perverse delight, eyes sparkling as though the demonill’s laughter was a finer wine than any he’d ever tasted.

The King raised his goblet, his voice slicing through the arena louder than the mob itself.

“Enough!”

The word thundered like a commandment. The crowd instantly hushed, hanging on his decree. His lips curled into a sick grin. “End this farce. Let all of Veylstra see justice carried out!”

Eirikr straightened, blood dripping from the edge of his blade, his chest rising with the exhilaration of battle. He thrust the sword skyward, his voice booming for all to hear: “By the heavens above, by steel and flame, I deliver the blade of purity!” The colosseum quaked with the crowd’s chant—“Eirikr! Eirikr! Eirikr!”—as his sword ignited with blinding white light. The brilliance cascaded across the sand, dazzling the eyes of thousands.

Eirikr turned his blazing weapon downward, glaring at the broken, chained figure before him. Nateas still smiled through the blood, fangs glistening, laughter bubbling in his throat as though mocking both knight and King.

The champion let out a cry, echoing into the skies—

“Judgements Wails 

Ⓙⓤⓓⓖⓜⓔⓝⓣ ⓦⓐⓘⓛⓢ "The heavens cry but not for a worthless demon like you—Fall!”

And with that, he swung.

The blade came down in a thunderous arc, the very air splitting with the strike, a white flash engulfing the arena floor as the weapon descended toward Nateas’s neck. The crowd erupted in feverish ecstasy, a roar that shook stone and soul alike.

Nagisa’s stood helpless as she watched. “Stop… just.she whispered, STOP…” her voice cried out louder but was drowned by the frenzy of the mob.