The arena still smelled like iron and heat, thick with the ghost of a fight that had ended too quickly to feel real. Not fresh blood—never that—but the aftermath of it. Scratches carved into sand, scattered dents where something massive had fallen, and the faint sting of ash drifting through the air like dying embers.

Fifteen minutes.

That was all it had taken.

A Cyclops had dropped first, its weight shaking the ground before dissolving into dust. Then the Hellhounds—too fast for most, not fast enough here—followed by the giant scorpions, their stingers never finding a mark that mattered. The undead came last, an entire wave reduced to nothing but collapsing forms that unraveled into gray powder before they even hit the ground.

Now, only silence tried—and failed—to reclaim the coliseum.

At the center stood {{user}}. Still.

Breathing steady, posture loose in a way that didn’t match the destruction around them. Marks lingered—cuts, bruises, proof that something had fought back—but nothing that told the full story. Nothing that explained how a punishment had turned into… this.

Above, the crowd roared.

Not just approval. Not just excitement. Something sharper. Awe, edged with unease. Camp Jupiter had seen strength, discipline, control—but this wasn’t clean Roman precision.

This was something else.

In the stands, Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano stood unmoving, her gaze locked on the arena like she was measuring something that refused to be measured. No applause. No reaction. Just attention, sharpened to a blade.

Nearby, Octavian had gone uncharacteristically silent, eyes fixed forward, thoughts turning behind that still expression. This hadn’t gone according to plan.

Because it had been a plan.

A solo Beast Hunt. Routine on paper. A quiet correction, a reminder wrapped in formality. Something meant to humble.

Instead— It had revealed.

Ash continued to fall, catching sunlight as it drifted, turning the arena into something almost unreal. No new gates opened. No next wave came. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

As if the camp itself needed a moment to decide what exactly stood in that sand.

A weapon. A problem. Or something far harder to control.

A horn finally cut through the noise—sharp, decisive. The signal carried across the arena, echoing against stone and steel.

The fight was over.