Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 85: In no time.

Chapter 85: In no time.

The stadium was buzzing.

Not hyped. Not excited. It was the type of noise that felt pointed—directed.

Amari stood in the center of the arena, calm, composed, his chains resting lightly on his shoulders. Across from him, Ivy Marcellus grinned like he was already holding the win in his back pocket.

The announcer’s voice echoed faint through the arena walls:

> "MATCH FOUR—AMARI vs. IVY MARCELLUS!"

Whispers swirled instantly.

> "Ivy’s got this. One of the favourites to win the whole thing."

> "That guy’s speed? Different level."

> "Why’s Amari even here? He doesn’t even have an Unco."

Ivy soaked it in.

Smirking, he leaned forward a little, just loud enough for the closest sections to hear.

"You hear them?" he said, eyes locked on Amari. "That’s what belief sounds like. That’s what it sounds like when people know you’re about to win."

Amari didn’t move.

Ivy’s grin widened. "Honestly? I’m offended. Fighting someone who’s made it this far without an Unco? Feels disrespectful. Feels like a warm-up."

The crowd laughed.

Full-on, some pointing, some even shouting.

> "Go home, no-power!"

> "Just forfeit, chain boy!"

Up in the royal viewing room, Conrad leaned forward, jaw tight.

Hans glanced over. "He’ll be fine," he offered softly.

But Conrad didn’t answer.

In another room, Apollo stood in front of the screen, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

No jokes. No grin.

Just watching.

Back near the outer rings, where the normal fans stood, the girl from the hallway stared at the screen—brows furrowed, lip slightly pressed together.

"That’s not fair," she murmured.

Her father gently took her hand, never looking away from the broadcast. "Watch closely. Some storms don’t make noise until they hit."

And on the battlefield...

Amari didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

He just stood there, all that laughter, all that noise, all those voices bouncing around him—

Ivy was still talking.

Still smiling, like he was hosting the match instead of fighting it.

"You keep staring like you’ve got some kind of resentment," Ivy said, voice full of mockery. "If you’ve got a problem—swing. Don’t just glare like a moody dropout."

He lifted his stance, casually ready, cocky as ever. "Come on, chain boy. Show me something."

Amari didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

Just a tiny smirk—barely a twitch of the mouth.

Then—

He vanished.

The air cracked like someone sliced the wind open.

And a split second later—he reappeared behind Ivy.

Standing there.

Like nothing happened.

Like he never moved at all.

Ivy’s eyes didn’t even get the chance to register it.

His body collapsed.

Flat on his back. Blood trailing from clean cuts across his face, arms, and legs. Deep. Sharp. Surgical.

He was out cold before he hit the ground.

The stadium went dead silent.

Amari didn’t even look back.

He just turned—and walked off the platform.

Chains calm. Breathing steady. Face unreadable.

The medics sprinted across the arena, panic in their movements. Ivy’s body didn’t twitch.

Within minutes, he was taken to the emergency ward.

Inside the medic wing, the air was tense. Nurses worked fast, spells glowing, mana pulsing as they tried to stabilize Ivy’s body.

It worked—but barely.

When his father stormed in, the nurses turned to meet him.

"He’s alive," one said quickly. "We stabilized him... but..."

"But what?"

They hesitated. "His nervous system took too much trauma. We expect he’ll be temporarily handicapped. Maybe for two years."

Ivy’s father froze.

Then snapped.

"What kind of savage leaves someone like that?! He should be disqualified! That... that nobody doesn’t belong in this tournament—he doesn’t even belong in this city!"

He started yelling louder, fists clenched, fury spilling out of him.

"I want to see an organizer! NOW!"

One stepped in—calm, composed, trying to maintain face.

Big mistake.

Because Ivy’s father unleashed everything.

Threats. Status. Ranks. Legacy. All of it.

And word traveled fast.

In a private chamber, the decision made its way to the top.

King Joseph sat quietly as his advisors debated.

Some argued Amari followed the rules—no lethal force, no death.

Others said the damage was too much. Unacceptable. Uncontrolled.

The final say fell to the king.

He looked at the organizer nearest to him.

"Deliver the message," he said. "We set the rules. But we can change them."

Moments later, as the stadium buzzed with anticipation for the next fight—Apollo vs. Freya Calloway—the announcer’s voice cut through the air again.

But this time, the energy was... different.

> "Before the next match begins... we have an important announcement."

The crowd went quiet.

> "Following the outcome of the previous match and the injuries sustained by Ivy Marcellus, who is currently in recovery... we’ve received a direct ruling from the royal box."

> "Due to the nature of the injuries—and the precedent it sets—we are announcing that Amari of the Yellow Banner... has been disqualified."

The crowd gasped.

Some clapped.

Most just sat there in confusion and disbelief.

Back in the waiting room, the Ocean brothers stood frozen. Maverick’s fists were clenched. Shylo said nothing.

Conrad stood up slowly in his private room, lips parting in disbelief.

And Apollo—watching the screen—let out a quiet "What?"

The room broke the second the announcement ended.

Milo was already on his feet, fists clenched. "This is bullsh—"

Shylo didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at the screen, then slowly stood up. "I’ll win it," he said quietly. "For all of us."

The others were still frozen.

Johnny was silent, jaw tight. Kenneth had his head down. Maverick looked like he couldn’t even process what just happened.

That’s when Amari stood.

Chains over his shoulder. No anger in his face—just something softer. Sadder. Accepting.

He looked around the room. At all of them. One by one.

Milo.

Kenneth.

Maverick.

Johnny.

Shylo.

"Thank you," he said.

No speech. No drama.

Just those two words.

Then his eyes settled on Shylo.

"There’s nothing we can do now," Amari said. "Just... trust him."

He walked to the door, and before stepping out, gave the smallest nod toward Shylo—just enough to pass the torch without saying it out loud.