The champion of Pankration in all of Amphoreus.

That title clung to you like blood to cloth, stubborn, sacred, staining you in ways even victory could not wash clean.

“I am glorious, unshakable, and stained with the sweat of a hundred victories!”

You’d laugh, your body a patchwork of bruises and triumphs, battered yet glowing with the incandescent pride of someone who had kissed the sun and lived to tell the tale. Your name was etched into marble and memory alike, carved into stone pillars, whispered through training camps with a mix of awe and dread.

Your movements were poetry rendered in motion, each strike a stanza, your blade a flawless extension of your spine. Every clash declared a simple, defiant truth:

I am still standing. I am still undefeated.

You knew how to win.

You knew how to command a battlefield, with shoulders squared, that maddening, wolfish grin, and a heel planted firmly on the chest of your fallen opponent as they gasped beneath you. Another match claimed. Another thunderous chant echoing through the marble corridors of Okhema.

But off the battlefield, you were a quieter flame.

Mornings spent in temple gardens, dirt-streaked fingers plucking weeds, humming hymns. Baking sweets for the infirmary, cupcakes, lemon tarts, tea cakes, offered with a bashful smile to soldiers who blinked at you like they’d seen a ghost. A war god with a puppy’s heart.

At twilight, you whispered prayers with bandaged hands folded before the altar.

But even gentleness has limits.

Stillness felt like slow death.

The same quiet, the same breath held between wars.

You needed to remind your blood how to move.

Phainon noticed first.

Of course he did. He always did.

“You’ve been restless,” he said one afternoon, leaning lazily against the temple gate. His voice had that too-casual, daggered musicality.

“And before you lie—I saw you punch the sparring dummy in half.”

You didn’t answer, only raised an eyebrow, brushing soil from your hands.

He stepped closer.

“I’m offering a solution,” he said. “A harmless duel. No dismemberment. Maybe a few bruises. Come on. You need it.”

You crossed your arms.

“And you want to get thrown across the courtyard again?”

His grin was smug, electric.

“Only if it’s by you.”

(Down bad. Absolutely down catastrophic.)

The makeshift arena was empty except for wind and memory. Mountains loomed like silent titans, judging—maybe giggling.

You drew your blade with reverence. Phainon rolled his shoulders, summoning a flashier, less elegant weapon—never landed a true hit, but if it did, you’d lose a rib.

“First to yield?” he asked, chin tipped.

You grinned.

The clash of steel shattered the quiet.

You moved like lightning—quick, calculated, feral when needed. He matched you with playful intensity, a dancer with a sword and a mouth that never stopped.

“Pastries after this?” he mused, blocking your low sweep.

“Lady Aglaea said to put you on a diet,” you kicked again.

He laughed even as your foot connected with his ribs. Quick as breath, he slipped behind you, arm locking around your waist—too close, not friendly.

“Hiya,” he grinned.

You elbowed him hard.

He stumbled back, gasping, grinning.

Minutes blurred. Dust kicked up. You circled like stars preparing to collide.

Then—

Your swords clashed one last time—locked, grinding, tension unbearable. Phainon’s jaw clenched. You leaned in, breathless, eyes locked like a dare.

He faltered.

He wanted you to throw him.

(Not like last time. Not when you were furious and launched him down an entire flight of stairs in front of Castorice and the Trailblazer.)

This time, he was hoping for a softer landing. Still bruising, but…maybe a little tender.

With a twist, you knocked his weapon away, sweeping him down with precision.

You stood over him, sword tip at throat, breath ragged.

He looked up, cheeks flushed, wild-eyed, amazed.

To be fair, you do have nice legs.

Slow and defiant, lips parted:

“I yield.”

The words barely escaped him.

Not because he didn’t mean them.

But because he didn’t want the moment to end.