Rebirth System: Blood and Ash

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, filled with a mixture of pain and anger.

The ground beneath Alan's feet trembled as massive pillars of earth erupted from the arena floor, shooting toward him like the claws of a great beast. Each pillar was imbued with Zarot's ki, making them shriek with an eerie, destructive energy.

The crowd gasped, recoiling as they felt the intense power radiating from Zarot's attack. Even the hardened warriors in the stands shifted uneasily, recognizing the sheer force behind the move.

But Alan didn't flinch.

He stood still, watching the pillars rush toward him with the same deadpan, unamused expression he'd worn since the beginning of the battle. To the audience, it seemed like madness. Zarot's technique was enough to crush bones, to bury a man alive beneath the weight of the earth itself. And yet, Alan didn't even raise a hand in defense.

The pillars collided, the force of the impact sending a deafening crack through the colosseum. Dust exploded into the air, and for a moment, all that was visible was a towering wall of earth, as though the arena itself had swallowed Alan whole.

Zarot, panting, stood with his chest heaving, his sword still embedded in the ground. His face twisted into a smile, blood staining his teeth. He had done it. He had crushed that arrogant whelp.

The crowd murmured in shock, some even rising from their seats to get a better view, their faces a mixture of disbelief and awe.

But then, the dust began to settle.

There, standing in the very center of the wreckage, was Alan, unharmed—a sword materialized in his grip somehow, only for it to be swiftly seethed behind him. His armor gleamed, untouched by the dirt and rubble that had surrounded him. The pillars that should have crushed him were now nothing more than shattered debris scattered at his feet—cut through thoroughly.

Zarot's smile faded, replaced by an expression of horror.

"Impossible…"

Alan's gaze remained steady, unblinking, as he looked at Zarot with the same calm, unbothered eyes.

"That's it?" Alan's voice was cold, almost bored.

"That's the 'Wrath of the Colossus?' you screamed out so loudly I was expecting something… more."

Zarot let out a strangled growl, gripping his sword tighter, though his hands were trembling now. He couldn't understand it. How? How was this man standing? He had poured every ounce of his ki into that technique, yet Alan looked as though he hadn't even broken a sweat.

Alan took a step forward, slow and menacing. Zarot flinched.

"I'd allow you a chance to yield," Alan said, his tone dry. "But something tells me you're too proud for that."

Zarot snarled, swinging his sword wildly, desperation overtaking his senses. But his movements were sluggish now, his ki waning as exhaustion set in. Each swing was slower than the last, and Alan dodged them effortlessly, as though he were merely dancing around a clumsy child.

Zarot roared again, swinging his sword with everything he had left. The blade cleaved through the air, but Alan wasn't there. He appeared behind Zarot in a flash, his speed almost too fast to comprehend.

"And now you're too tired to even think straight," Alan muttered.

Zarot, battered and beaten, could barely stand, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His previously proud stance, the boastful confidence he wore like armor, had crumbled beneath the weight of his defeat.

Alan closed little distance between them, eyes cold, calculating. There was no mercy in them—only the promise of what came next. He reached Zarot, who raised his sword in a feeble attempt to defend himself, but it was too slow, too weak.

Alan didn't even glance at it. He clenched his fist and drove it into Zarot's torso with devastating force.

The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the arena. A low, guttural sound escaped Zarot's throat as the air was violently expelled from his lungs. His massive form was sent flying, a blur of motion as his body hurtled toward the colosseum wall.

When he hit, the stone shattered beneath him, splintering into jagged fragments. Spiderweb cracks raced across the surface, as though the entire structure might collapse from the sheer force of his landing.

Zarot slumped against the broken wall, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His body was twisted, bones shattered, barely recognizable as the towering warrior who had entered the arena.

He tried to push himself up, his arms trembling, but his strength failed him. The crowd held its breath, the silence in the colosseum oppressive, waiting for what came next.

Alan's shadow loomed over Zarot, his figure an unrelenting thing as he approached. He bent down, his fingers curling around Zarot's throat, lifting him with ease as though he weighed nothing at all. Zarot's bloodshot eyes blinked in pain, his lips quivering as he whispered, barely audible over the sound of his own labored breathing.

"I… yield..." he muttered, the words gurgling through the blood in his throat.

Alan's grip tightened slightly, and he leaned in closer.

"I did say I would allow you to yield," he said, his voice a low murmur, almost gentle. He glanced upward to the imperial box, locking eyes with Aric, the one he served. Aric gave a slight nod, the signal as subtle as it was unmistakable.

Alan's expression didn't change as he turned back to Zarot.

"I lied."

With a sudden, brutal motion, Alan's hand shot forward, his fingers plunging into Zarot's throat. The sickening squelch of flesh tearing filled the air as Alan's hand burrowed deeper, his fingers wrapping around the base of Zarot's spine. For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze.

Then, with a single, merciless pull, Alan ripped Zarot's spine clean from his body, the sickening sound of bones snapping and flesh tearing echoing across the colosseum. Blood sprayed, a crimson arc painting the stone behind them as Zarot's body went limp, his eyes still wide with shock and horror.

Alan let the bloodied mass of bones dangle for a moment, his face expressionless as he looked at what was left of Zarot. Then, without a word, he let the spine fall to the ground with a heavy thud, followed by Zarot's lifeless corpse crumpling into the dirt.

For a moment, there was only silence.

The crowd—nobles, peasants, senators—everyone sat in stunned disbelief, as though they couldn't quite comprehend what they had just witnessed. Alan stood still, the blood of his opponent splattered across his armor, unmoving, uncaring.

Then, like a dam breaking, the crowd erupted.

Their bloodlust finally sated, they roared with violent, primal cheers, their voices rising to the heavens in a mix of savage approval. They screamed Alan's name, praising the brutality, the sheer spectacle of the execution they had witnessed.

But Alan? He stood in the middle of it all, his expression unchanged, as though he hadn't just torn a man's life from him in the most savage way possible. His eyes flickered back to Aric once more, a silent acknowledgment of the task fulfilled.

And then, as the cheers thundered on, he turned and walked away, leaving the corpse of Zarot to bleed into the earth.

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