Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 76: The end.

Chapter 76: The end.

Amari exhaled, his breath steady despite the adrenaline still pulsing through his veins. The chains resting on his shoulders felt heavier now, his muscles taut from the fight, every movement carrying the weight of exhaustion—but he was still standing.

Still here.

Apollo, gripping Amari’s chain tightly after being pulled back from the edge, let out a breathless chuckle, a mix of disbelief and relief flashing across his face.

"That was... close," he admitted.

Amari smirked, rolling his shoulders, shaking off the tension. "You’re welcome."

Apollo shook his head, still processing it. "I wasn’t expecting to get saved."

But Amari wasn’t listening anymore.

His gaze had shifted.

Scanning the battlefield, taking in the carnage—fighters dropping, bodies stumbling toward elimination—but then—

He saw Maverick.

And his stomach sank.

Maverick was out.

Standing just outside the battlefield, fists clenched, his expression unreadable—but no amount of willpower could change the fact that he had been eliminated.

For a split second, Amari felt it.

The weight of loss.

But there was no time to dwell.

The fight was still going.

And it was only getting worse.

The chaos had slowed—not because anyone was growing weaker, but because now?

Now, they were waiting.

The strongest fighters hadn’t unleashed their uncos yet, their mana reserves untouched, held back for the final stretch.

Tension thickened, caution settling into every movement.

Then—

It happened.

One by one, fighters started releasing their uncos.

The battlefield transformed.

Raw combat gave way to pure devastation.

Abilities cracked through the arena—lightning, fire, kinetic energy, mana-infused strikes—all of it colliding in waves of destruction.

The ground trembled, blood slicked across broken stone, bodies sent flying as warriors were eliminated before they could even react to the sheer force unfolding.

Minutes blurred into an hour.

Fighters vanished.

The numbers kept dwindling.

Until—

There were sixteen left.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the stadium, excitement thrumming through every syllable.

"WE HAVE OUR FINAL SIXTEEN COMPETITORS!"

The crowd erupted, their cheers rolling in waves as the names were announced.

Shylo. Amari. Apollo. Milo. Kenneth. Johnny.

And ten others—fighters who had survived the storm, their bodies marked with exhaustion and battle scars.

The announcer listed them off:

Elias Vex – Cold. Strategic. Known for his brutal efficiency.

Dante Roan – A powerhouse, relentless in every strike. Feared for his sheer force.

Riven Kael – A swordsman with near-perfect precision.

Lucian Thorne – Deceptive. Fast. Calculating.

Harlow Vance – Quiet but deadly. Unpredictable in combat.

Selene Ashford – A master of mana manipulation. Ruthless.

Nyx Veradine – Tactical, reserved, yet brilliant in execution.

Astrid Vale – A brawler with an unbreakable will. Famous for endurance.

Freya Calloway – Wields fire like destruction itself. Leaves devastation in her wake.

Ivy Marcellus – Lightning-fast. Lethal in eliminations.

The stadium roared in admiration for every name.

Except four.

Shylo. Amari. Milo. Kenneth.

When their names were announced, silence.

No applause.

No cheers.

Just quiet acknowledgment.

Amari didn’t react.

He was used to it.

But deep down?

He felt nothing but satisfaction.

Let them doubt him.

Let them underestimate him.

It would only make their loss taste worse when the tournament was over.

The fighters were sent back to their waiting rooms, bodies aching, exhaustion creeping in, minds still wired from the battle.

But as Amari walked, the energy of the battlefield still lingering in his movements, he was stopped.

A figure stepped in front of him—arrogant. Composed. Untouchable.

Amari recognizes him from earlier when he knocked him out, but he carries on walking.

The kid straightened, posture sharp, voice lined with authority.

"I am Lord Blake Orion Louw II—son of Viscount Blake Orion Louw."

Around them, fighters bowed respect ingrained in their movements, submission forced upon them.

Amari kept walking. He didn’t bow or acknowledge him beyond a glance.

Orion’s lips twitched, amusement barely concealed. "Interesting."

A sharp voice snapped through the waiting room.

"Bow. Now."

One of the tournament organizers glared at him, their expression firm, unwavering. "Refuse, and you will be punished."

The energy in the room shifted.

Fighters tensed. Some lowered their gazes instinctively, others stiffened at the sheer presence of nobility.

Amari exhaled slowly, jaw tight—but he bowed.

Just enough.

A sharp, controlled apology.

"I apologize."

Orion Louw—standing with the effortless grace of someone who had never once been questioned—watched him with amusement.

"That’s not enough," Orion said casually. "He should be punished for his disrespect."

Amari’s tone remained even. "I apologize again."

Orion smiled faintly. Nothing friendly about it. "Interesting," he murmured. "You know, I was knocked out of the competition because of you."

His voice sharpened, cutting through the silence. "I think that means I should take your spot."

A murmur spread.

Some glanced toward the officials. Others kept their heads lowered, cautious.

Orion held power.

Even the organizers hesitated.

Then—

They nodded.

"That is fair," one of them said. "As punishment for your disrespect, Orion Louw will replace you as one of the final sixteen."

Amari barely reacted.

But inside?

Something burned.

The announcement was seconds from being made when—

Another voice cut in.

"That won’t be necessary."

The room froze.

A different noble stepped forward—calm. Collected. Carrying a presence impossible to ignore.

Orion’s gaze flicked toward him, annoyed. "And why not?"

The noble didn’t flinch. "Because that’s not how competition works. You lost. You don’t get a second chance just because you’re dissatisfied."

Silence.

Then—

Orion laughed. No humor in it. "You think you can tell me what I can and can’t do?"

"I just did," the noble replied.

The tension thickened.

Then—a voice entered the fray.

"Enough."

Amari stilled.

Because he knew that voice.

Shylo barely gave Amari a chance to react—smacking the back of his head before he could lift it.

"Don’t look," Shylo muttered. "Not now."

But Amari had already felt it.

Already recognized him.

Conrad stepped forward—not even sparing Amari a glance—as he addressed both of his cousins.

"I would rather see the people who won fight in the battle."

Orion narrowed his eyes. "This isn’t your decision."

Conrad’s presence shifted—his mana thickened.

Pressure rolled through the space.

Amari felt it instantly.

It wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The Conrad he remembered? He was different now.

Stronger.

Maybe even better than Apollo and Amari combined.

Orion hesitated. His other cousin mirrored it.

Then—with no other choice—they backed down.

"Fine," Orion muttered.

The two nobles turned, walking away.

Leaving the room without another word.

And finally—finally—Amari lifted his head.

And saw him.

Conrad Louw.

Standing at the center of the room.

Unreadable.

Composed.

Nothing like the person Amari had known before.

Amari exhaled slowly, eyes sharpening.