Memo 015: (R1)Stoked hatred.

The white flash blinded the colosseum. The roar of the crowd drowned out thought itself. Steel split the air as Eirikr’s blade screamed down toward Nateas’s throat.

And then—

Clang!

The noise rang sharper than thunder. The blinding arc of light sputtered, halting mid-descent.

Every voice in the arena died at once.

The crowd fell into a suffocating silence as their eyes adjusted—only to see the unthinkable. Nateas, still chained, still sitting in the dust, had raised one hand. Fingers curled tight around the edge of Eirikr’s radiant blade. Blood poured from his palm where steel bit flesh—yet he held it fast, unshaking.

The “holy” strike of the kingdom’s champion, frozen in place.

Nateas lifted his head slowly, blood dripping down his wrist, a grin spreading across his ruined face. His voice, hoarse but steady, carried in the sudden silence like a curse “You know…” he breathed, his crimson eyes locking onto Eirikr’s, “I remember you....Basura....from the guildhall."

Nateas’s grip tightened on the radiant sword, blood hissing against the heat of the steel. He chuckled, low at first, then louder, reverberating through the stunned silence of the arena. “Most demonlike…” he said, his voice a rasp that cut through the hush, “they draw power from their names. From the fear that name inspires.”

He tilted his head, his grin widening even as crimson trailed down his arm. His fangs gleamed in the glow of the sword he still held fast. “But me?” His eyes flashed, piercing straight into Eirikr’s helm. “I’ve always been a little different.” He yanked the blade an inch closer, forcing Eirikr to stumble forward with it. The champion’s breath caught, his footing breaking against the resistance.

Nateas leaned in, their faces only inches apart. His whisper slithered out, loud enough for every soul in the arena to feel it in their bones. "You haven’t noticed even now?" Eirikr snarled beneath his helm, straining to push the blade down again, desperate to silence that grin. Nateas’s laughter deepened, rolling through the colosseum like a plague wind. He rose slowly from the dust, the chains dragging at his limbs, blood running down his arm, and yet he stood taller than any knight. His grin was wide, his fangs dripping red, his eyes burning with a fire that mocked the heavens themselves.

He looked not at Eirikr, not at the King—but at the crowd. “You cheer for him,” Nateas spat, his voice venomous. “You think he’s your savior. So proud of your order, your faith, your pomp.” He spat blood onto the ground, then sneered wider He jerked his chin toward the higher rows. “i love it the look in all your eyes, hissing like rats in a cage. You puff your chests and call yourselves hunters. All I see are frightened animals wearing skins.” The crowd erupted in outrage, but his voice only rose, cutting over them with ease. 

Elves.

Dwarves.

Orcs.

Goblins.

Viperians.

Beastfolk.

Any and all filth who crawled here today—you cling to your little stories of heritage, of honor, of pride. But you’re all the same. Weak.” He raised his shackled wrists high, chains rattling like mocking laughter. “And I know it—because here I stand, in chains, and not one of you can touch me.” "You wanted a show, a festival.... a culling. Let me show you."

Nagisa had thought she’d understood what she bound herself to when she claimed Nateas. She thought she could control him. But seeing him there—bloodied, laughing, taunting every living race with no fear—she realized something far worse. Camera’s lens clicked in Nagisa’s hands, unbidden, capturing what her eyes alone could not. Through its glass, Nateas’s aura flared—not dim and broken as before, but surging, coiling, rising like a storm. Black and crimson currents radiated from him, alive, shifting, fueled by the venom of thousands of eyes staring down at him with loathing. “If affection is his weakness…” Her fingers tightened on the camera as realization dawned. “…then the opposite must be true.” "The being I enslaved… is more menacing than I ever thought."

 He wasn’t just mocking Eirikr. He was mocking existence itself. Up on the throne, the King leaned forward, ecstatic, drool spilling as he shook with laughter. “Oh, magnificent! Hear him! Hear his contempt! Tell me, my people—are you going to let a chained dog spit on your very names?” The arena split in two—half in outrage, screaming curses and demands for Nateas’s death, the other half paralyzed, silenced by the cold truth in his words. And Nateas only smiled wider, his fangs glinting like knives.

With a roar that ripped across the colosseum, Nateas clenched his fist and the blade snapped in two. The holy light guttered out like a dying flame, leaving only the ringing sound of steel breaking to echo in the stunned silence. Eirikr stared at the broken weapon in his hands, disbelief flooding his face. “This—this is impossible!” The edge of the holy blade of Veylstra laid in the dust of the stadium. 

Nateas stepped forward, the chains rattling like war drums with every movement, his smile wide enough to chill the blood of every spectator in the arena. The great knight, the people’s champion, staggered back in disbelief, his hands trembling as though the weapon had betrayed

Eirikr swung with what remained of his blade—an act of desperation, not skill. Nateas caught it with his bare wrist, letting the steel bite into his skin, and leaned in close, smiling through the blood. “Your crowd chants your name,” Nateas hissed, voice low and venomous. “But all they’ve ever given me is hatred. And that, knight… that’s all I need.” with one swift motion, Nateas seized the knight’s helm with both chained hands and slammed him to the ground.

The arena floor cracked beneath the impact. Gasps and screams erupted from the stands. Eirikr tried to rise, but Nateas pressed a knee to his chest, forcing the knight flat on his back in the dirt. One clawed hand gripped his helm, pinning his head down, while the other raised in mock command to the silent audience.

“Behold your champion,” Nateas jeered, laughter bubbling through the blood in his throat. “This is the strength you cheer for? The King, however, leaned forward with delirious glee, saliva dripping as his tongue ran across his lips. “Marvelous! To break, but not to kill. You understand entertainment better than I thought, demonill!” Below, Nateas pressed harder, forcing Eirikr to choke on his own breath. Yet he didn’t deliver the killing blow. He only let the knight squirm beneath him, reduced to nothing before the people who once adored him. 

The colosseum is no longer roaring — it’s shrieking, a wall of voices drenched in venom, hate, fear, and disgust. Every eye, every curse, every snarl feeds into Nateas. He stood above the fallen knight, chains clinking softly at his side, and lifted his head to the sky. The hatred, the disgust, the searing judgment of thousands washed over him like fire. Nateas lowered his gaze back to Eirikr, still crumpled at his feet, and then to the stands, his glowing eyes sweeping over the faces like a predator savoring prey. “It pierces me… it completes me. To be hated so deeply that it burns—ahh…” He sighed, shuddering as if overwhelmed by pleasure. “I don’t ever want it to end.” Mothers clutched children closer. Men gripped the railings with white knuckles. Even the king’s stern visage faltered, a bead of sweat running down his temple. The silence cracked. A voice cut across the arena:

“Enough!”

Serenya and yano went through the barrier and leapt onto the sands, her blade flashing silver as it caught the light. She stood tall, the standard of her order gleaming against her back. “You dishonor this colosseum by turning victory into mockery, demonill!” Her words carried weight. Yano, spear in hand, his presence sharp and defiant. His glare locked on Nateas. “If you feed on hatred, then choke on ours. We won’t allow you to toy with our people’s honor any longer.” The crowd stirred, life returning to their voices. They cheered—not out of confidence, but out of desperation, clinging to Serenya and Yano as shields against the unholy spectacle Nateas had become.

He spread his arms like a saint greeting his congregation, crimson gaze trembling with rapture. “Then come. Protect your knight. Protect your pride. Hate me more than you ever have before—so I can savor it all.”

The king’s jeweled hand rose, and the roar of the colosseum was swallowed into silence. His voice carried without strain, cutting across the trembling crowd:

“That will be enough.”

“Cage him,” the king decreed, “in the beneath where he belongs.”

The mahouists surrounding the sands bowed low, hands glowing as fresh barriers shimmered into place. Heavy chains thicker than a man’s wrist snaked from the ground, wrapping Nateas in layers upon layers until his body seemed almost swallowed by iron. He did not resist. He only laughed, a hollow, echoing sound that made even the barriers quiver.

His gaze drifted from the chained figure to the seats at his side, fixing firmly on Nagisa. His eyes, dark pools of power and hunger, gleamed with amusement. “Do you see it, reporter?” His lips curled into a half-smile, the steak knife in his fingers reflecting the torchlight. “The demon. Given enough time, he will consume you—your world, your soul, even your reflection. That is the nature of what he is.”

The king leaned closer, voice soft but barbed, a whisper meant only for her even as the colosseum held its breath. “And seeing how you are… new here, untouched by these games of blood and power, why not accept my offer?” Drool glistened faintly at the edge of his lips, trailing from the feast before him to the unspoken feast of her submission. “Live with me, reporter. Let go of these people and their burdens. Sit in this castle, beside me, safe from the hunger of demons and the fickleness of kings.”

Nagisa’s heart hammered. She could feel it—the forked path splitting before her. The truth was somewhere in the space between the grotesque image Camera had revealed of the king… and the monstrous ecstasy Nateas embodied in the arena. But her voice—her answer—would decide more than her own fate.