Passion

Twilight painted Korvath’s sky purple; the shadow of the stands stretched long over the sand. The arena lay open, no ring to mark the boundaries. At its edge, ward pillars lined the tribunes; their crystals glowed faintly, like stars not yet fully awake.

For the final bout with Ragna, the organizers deliberately withheld the usual safety protocols.

If they were enforced, the fight would end far too quickly. Such was Ragna’s strength—even though she often restrained herself to make fights more exciting, there had still been the occasional tragedy: challengers dying days later from the wounds they sustained.

Yet those numbers were far fewer than the many who came back, stronger than before, to challenge Ragna again.

Now it was Ayato’s turn to feel firsthand—the thrill of a duel against none other than Ragna Valtes.

On one side, Ayato’s hand gripped his sword. On the other, Ragna lowered her hood, smile wide, eyes blazing with heat.

“Ready?” Her voice was light, yet it shook the stands.

Ayato gave no reply. He only drew breath, steadying the rhythm of his heart.

Hmm? Her eyes?

When he realized something was off about Ragna’s eyes―

Gong. DUUUM!

Ragna moved first—not running, but blasting off. Ayato barely caught the blur; the air folded between them and—

CRASH!

The world stretched thin. In that suspended instant, Ayato glimpsed a flash of dark violet in Ragna’s right eye—like a star sinking into a well. Then a strike smashed his ribs. His body shot across the sand, dragged toward the edge—

ZHAP!

The ward pillars flared in unison. A barrier sheet snapped into place, cushioning what would’ve been fatal. His breath was knocked out, along with his bones.

The crowd’s roar died all at once. Ragna stood still in the center, staring at her right hand; her fingers trembled faintly, her face gone pale. That wasn’t the Ragna they knew. That was the face of someone afraid of herself.

“I…” Her lips barely moved.

Ayato heard a hum. Was it a projector? No. Something older, quieter. Meanwhile, his consciousness slowly clawed upward.

No follow-up strike came. Ragna froze. The audience, gamblers, even bread vendors in the stands—silent. They were used to seeing Ragna hold back; no one expected to see her nearly destroy her opponent with a single strike.

Ayato forced air into his lungs—painful—and then, like an old film reel, memories flickered alive in his head. Something is―resonating with his mind.

…He was running.

Through his yard. Across the school field. Along wet sidewalks. Up train station stairs. He ran, ran, ran—not chased, not commanded. Simply because his chest brimmed with something every time his heels struck the ground. He tried to name the feeling… failed. Frames kept spinning without answer.

Then the frames merged with this city—Korvath.

Streets still burning with cheers. Stone benches never truly silent. Fighters enjoying their brawls: lips split but smiling, torsos wrapped in bandages but standing tall, hands trembling but eyes shining.

Spectators who laughed, cursed, cheered again—proud, never pitiful. Even when stretchers returned empty of cheers, the faces around them showed no pretense of sorrow—they gave respect.

As though everyone here knew: this was a city where passion had a stage.

The frames slowed. In the gaps, one face burned sharpest—Ragna. Not Ragna grinning or waving. Ragna pale, startled at her own fist. That single glimpse was enough for something inside Ayato to click.

So this is it…

The reason I run isn’t to escape.

I run because I want to—because it’s how I chase what burns. Just like Ragna fights because she wants to.

This stage doesn’t deserve to see Ragna wearing fear.

Not in front of me.

That decision snapped the film reel shut—crk. The world regained focus. From deep inside, magic crept upward: heat and cold stitching beneath his skin.

Stand.

Stand up!

Ragna still stared at her trembling hand. That wasn’t the Ragna who inspired rivals; it was someone frightened of her own strength—and Ayato refused to let that stand.

“—ugh.” He pushed himself upright, metallic taste on his tongue; knees screamed, but he forced them straight. The air around him grew warm, while a thin layer of frost sealed over. Ayato stood—wobbled—then steadied.

That familiar sensation coursed his body—the one that always came when death brushed close.

“Why…” His voice cracked, but didn’t break, “…do you wear that face?!” He raised his sword. “Our fight… isn’t over yet!”

WOOOOO!

The crowd erupted, feral this time. Ragna froze—then the pallor drained, replaced with a shine more familiar: excitement.

This feeling… heh, not bad at all. Warmth—cold—everything mixing into harmony within me!

Bwoosh! Strange flames burst from Ayato’s palm, racing up his arm, dancing through the air. Between the tongues of fire, strands of ice laced patterns over his skin. One step—TAP!—he vanished, reappearing before Ragna in an instant.

“Bring it on!” Ragna grinned.

BLAAZE! A fiery blast from Ayato’s hand exploded into her chest. Ragna staggered back—WHUD!—sand spraying. She only dusted off her chest, muttered, “Not bad.”

Ayato pressed the assault. BOOM! BOOM! Bursts of flame, showers of cinders, and—KRAK!—a spear of ice cut clean through the air.

Ragna lowered her stance. BAM! One punch shattered the ice spear into glitter. Her eyes gleamed—not dark violet, not pale. Pure passion.

“Good,” she murmured, laughter bubbling up. “MORE!”

Ayato’s chest felt light. Yes. This was it. He set the rhythm: fire to press, ice to trap. Strike—slice—strike—half-step back—rise again.

Ragna could’ve dodged, but chose not to. Every blow—even the heavy ones—she took straight on her chest, shoulders, arms. Not cheap tricks. She was tasting them. Like a sommelier sampling wine, she sampled every strike Ayato offered.

BOOM! A ring of fire swept low. Ragna leapt—just enough to land at the edge. SLASH! A blade of wind carved after her; she let it graze, her smile only wider.

The stands roared anew. Chants of “Vin!” and “Ragna!” volleyed back and forth, rattling stone walls.

The round stretched on. Ayato kept the fight alive, never letting Ragna trap the tempo. Not out of fear—but because that was their game: keep the fire burning.

At last, Ragna dipped her chin. “One more,” she said—maybe to him, maybe to herself.

Ayato answered without words. Palms together—wumm—he forged a core between heat and frost. Thin vapor rose; snowflakes shimmered like stardust.

“Good,” whispered Ragna.

DOOOOM! A short, dense blast burst from his hands. Heat swelled inward, cold locked outward; both met square in front of Ragna, compressing instead of detonating.

She stepped back once, twice—then dropped to one knee, head bowed.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then Ragna raised her face—smiling full. “Ha.”

She lifted her right hand high, then lowered it slow, palm out toward Ayato—the Korvath gesture of surrender.

“Vin, gladiator champion.” Her voice rang clear, slicing into the roar that surged up. “A good fight.”

WOOOOOO!

The stands exploded. Flags, banners, bread mugs—everything waved. Officials clapped, organizers nodded, some spectators even climbed their seats screaming.

Ayato froze a moment. Then—something rare—he tilted back and shouted with all his lungs.

“WOOOOOAH—!”

The cry broke into coughs. Pain returned late, flooding in as adrenaline ebbed. His legs buckled, vision frayed black.

Ragna strode forward, catching him before he hit the ground. “Hey,” she said, laughter trembling in her chest. “Easy. Our stage isn’t over yet.”

Ayato tried to nod, but only his eyelids obeyed.

She raised two fingers—a quick signal. An attendant rushed a recovery stone into her palm.

“Here.” Crack. She broke it, pressed it to Ayato’s lips, supporting his neck. Warmth spread from throat to chest; his breath lengthened a little.

“Well done,” she whispered, only for him. “That… face of mine earlier.” She paused, searching words. “Thanks for slapping it back into place.”

Ayato gave no reply. Eyelids dropped—rose—then dropped again. Darkness grew soft.

Both their hands were lifted together toward the stands.

WOOF! Torches lining the tribunes blazed in unison, fire racing a circle around the Colosseum. Ward pillars mirrored the glow, then dimmed again.

On the side stage, a black chest glimmered faintly—something within blinking as if in greeting.

Ragna lowered her gaze, clutching the weight in her arms. A faint smile flickered—not the fierce grin of a gladiator champion, nor the polished smile meant for the crowd, but a private one, tinged with the faintest blush. A smile reserved for the one who had just saved her from undoing everything she had fought for.

Cheers thundered on as Ayato sank into warm unconsciousness, head resting against Ragna’s arm, the Colosseum’s voice rising and falling like a distant tide.