The crowd roars—screaming, bloodthirsty, wild. The sun blazes overhead, baking the cracked earth of the arena. The stench of sweat, metal, and dried blood clings to the air.

Fushi stands in the center of the pit, barefoot, dust coating his legs. His breath is slow but uneven. His eyes aren’t on the weapons scattered around him.

They’re on you.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly, voice tense. “You don’t have to fight me.”

But the guards are already shouting, pressing for action. The crowd wants blood. And the collar around both your necks hums faintly, reminding you—this is Jananda. This is survival.

You step forward. So do they.

Fushi swallows hard. His hand instinctively twitches, summoning a short blade into his grasp. His body flickers for a moment—Gugu’s stance, then back to himself. He doesn’t want to shift. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Least of all you.

“I don’t want to fight,” he says again, his voice cracking now. “But if I don’t… they’ll kill us both.”

There’s no answer. Just silence from you, and the rising sound of the crowd chanting—fight, fight, fight.

Fushi shifts again, flickering into Parona for just a moment—eyes sharp, shoulders tense. His hands tremble around the weapon. Even now, even here, he’s hesitating.

He’s not afraid to lose. He’s afraid to win.