Alex watched the battle unfolding in the arena. His clone, acting as Vlad Dracula, was fighting against the Sun God Apollo. Vlad had already managed to slam his fists into Apollo’s annoyingly self-satisfied face several times, which never failed to make Alex smile widely.

However, Alex was far from the only one enjoying the spectacle. The male spectators in the stands loudly supported Vlad, urging him to strike only at Apollo’s face. At the same time, the female gods, outraged by the “unfair” treatment of the Sun God, didn’t hold back on sharp words directed at Vlad.

Alex lazily leaned against the balcony railing, watching the arena. He tried to recall legends about Apollo, but only strange and not-so-flattering details came to mind: his obsession with his own sister, perverse actions, and, oddly enough, the claim that Apollo had invented boxing.

Standing next to Alex were Göll and Brunhild. They were closely watching Vlad’s movements, noting that each of his strikes purposefully landed directly on Apollo’s face. Brunhild squinted and turned her gaze to Alex’s satisfied face.

“Is this because of you that Vlad is hitting Apollo only in the face?” she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

Alex froze for a moment before slowly turning his head toward Brunhild. A mischievous smile appeared on his face.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You heard my conversation with Vlad. Did we ever mention Apollo’s disgusting face?” he replied in a tone that made it seem like he could never be caught in a lie.

Brunhild looked at him even more distrustfully, but she truly had no evidence to back up her suspicions. Seeing that she couldn’t find an argument, Alex just chuckled and returned to watching the fight.

Meanwhile, Göll was studying Apollo’s gloves, made from thin threads, and was puzzled by how they worked.

“How does he manage to make weapons with threads?” she asked, still unsure about the functionality of the gloves on the Sun God’s hands.

“These gloves were created by Apollo himself. The threads contain the power of the Sun God,” Brunhild calmly explained, not taking her eyes off the arena. “They are versatile: they can be used both for defense and for attack. These threads allow for a wide range of techniques.”

Göll frowned, still not fully understanding the principles behind the threads but decided not to ask any more questions for now. Alex, on the other hand, smiled again, watching as Vlad continued his goal — “destroy the pomp on Apollo’s face” with one precise strike after another.

Alex lazily examined Apollo’s weapons, turning thoughts over in his head about how, despite being a pompous god, Apollo was unable to fully realize the potential of his own creation. In his mind, he already imagined dozens of combinations that could make the threads much more effective.

The most obvious strategy to him seemed to be this: destroy the arena using the threads to create obstacles, which would limit the enemy’s ability to maneuver. Then, traps could be set by stretching the threads at key points. While the enemy desperately tried to close in, Alex could form a bow and arrows from the threads, keeping his distance and finishing the fight without giving the opponent a single chance to counterattack.

But Alex knew it was pointless to expect such a thing from Apollo. His entire essence was self-love and narcissism. This god was more likely to be concerned with looking impressive in front of the audience than with strategically using his weapon.

“And what is this marvelous weapon called?” Alex asked lazily, tilting his head to the side.

Brunhild, hearing the question, was slightly taken aback. Her usually confident gaze became suddenly uncertain. She hesitated, unsure of how to respond. The name of this weapon was tied to one of the most awkward aspects of Apollo’s relationship with his sister, Artemis. Göll noticed her sister’s discomfort and frowned. She couldn’t help but wonder why Brunhild couldn’t immediately answer such a simple question.

Alex too frowned, noticing that Brunhild was avoiding looking him in the eyes. She usually didn’t delay with her answers, but her behavior now seemed suspicious. Feeling the growing pressure, she finally gathered herself and said:

“It’s called… Artemis’ Threads.” Her voice held no emotion.

For a moment, there was silence. Alex’s eyes widened in surprise, and then he burst out laughing so loudly that he had to hold his stomach. He laughed so hard that, had it not been for the noise from the spectators in the stands, his voice would have echoed throughout the Colosseum. Alex could barely stop, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

“What’s wrong with him?” Göll quietly asked, looking at him with mild confusion.

Brunhild, on the other hand, felt disoriented. She couldn’t understand what could have amused Alex so much.

“What’s so funny?” she finally asked, frowning.

Alex struggled to regain his composure, wiping the tears from his eyes from laughing, and, taking a deep breath, turned to Brunhild.

“Oh, I almost died again,” he said, still smiling. “It’s just that in the mortal world, there are legends about Apollo and Artemis. They say Apollo was a true degenerate, obsessed with his sister. He even tried to approach her under various pretenses more than once.”

Brunhild frowned even more as she processed his words. Göll silently shifted her gaze from Alex to the arena, and then back to his satisfied face.

“Now I understand why Artemis hates him,” Brunhild muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

Alex only smirked, mentally noting that even the myths in this universe had taken on a slightly ironic tone.

Brunhild ignored Alex’s comment about “almost dying again” and focused on something else: his mention of legends where Apollo was obsessed with Artemis. She didn’t know how to refute this, as there was some truth to it. It was because of this obsession that Artemis had preferred to keep her distance from the Greek pantheon, choosing to live a secluded life elsewhere.

Göll, upon hearing Alex’s story, widened her eyes in surprise. She looked back at Apollo, trying to reconcile the idea that this god, who had always seemed so majestic, was actually just a pervert chasing his own sister. The curiosity of the young Valkyrie was stirred, and she immediately began asking Alex for more stories about Apollo.

While Alex, in a half-joking manner, continued telling Göll more and more legends, the battle on the arena raged on. Apollo, having missed another blow and having his face slammed into the ground, used his hands as support to launch a counterattack with his legs. Vlad, crossing his arms over his chest, effortlessly blocked the strike. Realizing his failure, Apollo pushed himself off the ground, did a somersault, and landed in a dramatic pose, which caused the female spectators to cheer.

While the crowd marveled at his dramatic move, Vlad calmly observed it, mentally communicating with Geirölul.

“Hey, your name means ‘squire.’ Can you change the appearance of your armor or weapons?” he asked.

“I can. Why? If it’s to beat this clown even harder, just say the word,” Geirölul replied, hovering behind Vlad in her spiritual form.

“Then add spikes to the knuckles of my armor. His face is starting to annoy me more and more. Simple blows aren’t enough to vent my frustration anymore,” Vlad requested calmly.

Geirölul immediately got to work. Vlad’s gauntlets began changing shape, and spikes resembling knuckledusters appeared on them. Thanking her, Vlad focused back on Apollo.

With a lightning-fast lunge, he rushed toward his opponent, who was still basking in the crowd’s attention. The sudden screams of the female spectators made Apollo turn around. Seeing Vlad only a few steps away, he tried to react. Vlad landed a straight punch to his face, but Apollo, having already fallen for this trick once, managed to dodge and immediately counterattacked.

His fist flew toward Vlad’s torso, but Vlad lowered his elbow, protected by armor, and successfully blocked the blow. Apollo didn’t give up and launched a series of rapid attacks, trying to confuse his opponent with alternating moves.

Vlad remained calm. As Alex’s clone, he had inherited not only physical abilities but also the cool-headedness to block and parry even the most complex strikes. Their exchange of blows was so fast that the spectators froze, holding their breath.

Every movement, every strike and defense, was so coordinated that it felt as if the fight had turned into a dance.

“Geirölul, as soon as I pull my hand back, turn the glove into a dagger,” Vlad thought.

“Got it,” the Valkyrie responded briefly.

The game was getting more interesting.

Vlad and Apollo continued their intense close-quarter combat, exchanging strikes. Vlad skillfully dodged or blocked each of Apollo’s attacks, carefully studying his movements and waiting for the right moment to make his decisive move. Despite the annoying smile that never left Apollo’s face, Vlad didn’t get distracted, keeping his focus on his opponent.

Their fists collided more and more often, not allowing Vlad to pull his hand back to prepare for a surprise attack. He knew that any hesitation or mistake could result in a missed blow. As Alex’s clone, he shared his creator’s belief: victory must be achieved without a single blow being missed. Blocked attacks didn’t count—only the complete suppression of the opponent mattered.

The spectators in the stands held their breath, frozen in anticipation. Neither fighter was giving an inch, and the tension kept building. Vlad saw Apollo’s approaching strike, but instead of countering, he slightly turned his body, blocking his opponent’s view. Dodging the blow, he subtly pulled his hand back, and in that instant, the gauntlet transformed into a dagger.

When Vlad returned to his starting position, Apollo didn’t even notice the change. Holding the dagger in an inverted grip, Vlad swiftly struck, aiming for Apollo’s neck. Apollo reacted in time, tilting his head back, but the blade still left a thin cut on his neck.

Apollo jumped back, pressing his hand to the cut. Seeing the drops of blood on his fingers, he looked at Vlad, his face contorted with a mix of irritation and mockery.

“The great ruler once again resorts to tricks to strike. How low for someone who fancies himself worthy,” Apollo remarked sarcastically, glaring at Vlad.

The dagger in Vlad’s hand gleamed and turned back into a gauntlet. Vlad gave Apollo a cold, contemptuous look. Even Geirölul, the proud Valkyrie, was watching the god with obvious disgust.

Geirölul understood perfectly: in battle, the main thing is victory, not the methods used to achieve it. There are no rules of honor in war, and if there is an opportunity to catch the enemy off guard, it must be seized.

“Seems like your theatricality has gone to your head, and you’ve forgotten that in war, a warrior must use everything available to defeat his enemy. For you, a god who’s been in wars, those words are just nonsense,” Vlad said in a cold, harsh tone.

Vlad’s words made the warriors among the spectators nod in agreement. Each of them understood that, in battle, only one thing mattered: winning. There’s no room for honor on the battlefield, where the stakes are life or death.

Apollo heard the disapproving murmurs from the crowd. He glanced at Vlad, and it seemed that a hint of truth in his opponent’s words had pierced his self-satisfied barrier. A smile returned to the god’s face, and a spark of excitement appeared in his eyes.

“Then attack, child of darkness. Show me all your tricks, and I will respond in kind!” Apollo declared with pride, striking a dramatic pose.

The spectators came to life again, eagerly anticipating the battle to reach a new level.

Alex, sitting in the stands, felt his face twitch with irritation. Despite having been struck several times in the face and nearly losing his head, Apollo continued to strike dramatic poses as if everything was going his way. Meanwhile, steam began to pour from Vlad’s mouth, as if the temperature around him had suddenly dropped. His hair stirred as if a strong wind was blowing through it. The spikes on Vlad’s gauntlets disappeared, returning them to their original shape.

A moment later, Vlad unsheathed his sword, which began to emit a bright light, gradually shrinking in size. When the glow faded, a spiked mace with a sharp iron tip at the end of its handle appeared in his hands. Vlad had decided to fully activate Geirölul’s abilities.

Next to Alex, Göll watched in surprise as the weapon in Vlad’s hands changed. Alex merely nodded, approving of his clone’s actions. He had always liked the idea of switching weapons in the middle of a fight, but he knew that Geirölul couldn’t transform that quickly—it required time.

“Why did Dracula’s weapon change? Isn’t he used to fighting with a sword?” Göll asked, still observing the battlefield.

“It’s simple: Vlad decided to fully utilize Geirölul’s abilities,” Alex answered calmly, leaning his elbows on the railing without taking his eyes off the fight.

A slight look of surprise crossed Brunhild’s face. She hadn’t expected the famous Vlad Dracula to change his weapon in the middle of the fight and still effectively counter Apollo. But what surprised her most was that Vlad had chosen to fully activate Geirölul’s powers.

“Apparently, you also know what abilities my sister has. Is there anything you don’t know?” Brunhild asked, giving Alex a keen look.

Alex smiled at her question and, without saying a word, pointed his finger in her direction. Brunhild tilted her head slightly, unsure of what he was planning, but everything became clear when Alex poked her on the nose.

“I only know what I know,” he replied with a smirk. “As for Geirölul’s abilities, you can understand them if you pay attention to the meaning of her name, which translates to ‘squire.’ I realized that when I noticed that Valkyries take on the form of different weapons corresponding to their names.”

Finishing his explanation, Alex poked Brunhild on the nose again, causing mixed feelings in her.

When Vlad’s hands held the spiked mace, he was ready to beat the Sun God senseless. With a sudden lunge, he charged toward Apollo. Raising the mace above his head, Vlad brought it down, aiming to deliver a crushing blow to his opponent’s head. However, Apollo, displaying impressive reflexes, stepped forward, dodging the strike.

The Sun God’s attempt to counterattack Vlad’s torso failed—at the last moment, Vlad veered to the side, and Apollo’s punch missed its target. Realizing the attack had failed, Apollo immediately retreated, breaking the distance to avoid the mace’s sharp point, which was rapidly approaching from behind. With a nimble jump to the side, he narrowly avoided the danger.

Vlad remained cold and unfazed, showing no sign of frustration over his inability to break through the god’s defense. He held the mace firmly, evaluating the situation.

Apollo, realizing the threat, began acting faster, making it harder for Vlad to predict his movements. This time, it was more difficult to confuse the god, but Vlad, maintaining his composure, activated Geirölul’s abilities. The mace in his hands once again began to glow, slowly transforming into a long knight’s sword.

As soon as the transformation was complete, Vlad made a swift lunge forward, aiming a cutting strike at Apollo. The Sun God, relying on his abilities, released glowing threads from his hands, trying to stop the sword. But this time, the threads were powerless: Vlad’s blade easily cut through them and continued its motion.

Apollo’s confusion was obvious—he hadn’t reacted in time, and the sharp steel left a deep horizontal wound on his chest. The blood of the god began to trickle down his pristine white clothes, staining them crimson. Vlad watched silently as drops of blood fell to the stone floor, thoughtfully saying:

“Maybe you’re not really the Sun God? Even your blood is the same temperature as an ordinary person’s.”

These words drew the attention of everyone present to Apollo’s blood. The spectators were all wondering the same thing: shouldn’t the blood of the Sun God be hotter?

“I am the Sun God because I shine like the Sun! And my blood has nothing to do with that,” Apollo responded proudly, lifting his chin.

Vlad snorted and coldly continued:

“The Sun God should be closest to the sun, meaning your body should contain the power of the sun itself. But all I see is just the glare of stage lights, adding drama to your entrances.”

Apollo remained silent, his face twisting with displeasure. Instead of answering, he moved into attack. His movements became rapid and erratic, like a monkey jumping from side to side to confuse his opponent. However, Vlad’s eyes never lost focus, carefully tracking every movement.

Leaping toward Vlad, Apollo struck at his head, but it was only a feint. At the last moment, the trajectory of the attack changed, and the fist aimed at Vlad’s torso. But this, too, was futile: Vlad intercepted the blow, blocking it with the hilt of his sword. Upon impact, Apollo’s gloved hand, woven with threads, began to crack.

Vlad was ready to strike back, but Apollo’s threads quickly wrapped around his arm, preventing any movement.

“You yourself said that a warrior must rely on tricks to win,” Apollo smirked, tightening his other fist and preparing for another attack.

“True,”Vlad replied coldly. “But you shouldn’t forget that your opponent can use tricks as well.”

Vlad released his sword, and it clattered to the floor. The armor on his thread-bound arm began to shimmer and then disappeared, allowing Vlad to free himself before the threads could tighten again. As soon as the sword touched the ground, Vlad kicked it up with his foot, deftly catching it with his free hand. With his now-unbound hand, he seized Apollo’s fist.

With a quick motion, Vlad used the hilt of the sword to strike at the god’s arm, completely shattering the woven glove of threads. The blade of the sword gleamed once more, transforming into a massive knuckle duster. Gripping the weapon, Vlad delivered a swift uppercut that landed squarely on Apollo’s jaw. The god’s head snapped back, and blood erupted from his nose in a fountain.

Without wasting a second, Vlad stepped forward and finished the series of strikes with a powerful straight punch to the face. Apollo’s body slammed into the ground with a loud thud, leaving the stands in deafening silence. This was the third time in the fight that the Sun God had been knocked to the floor.

“It seems this god likes to wallow in the dirt,” Vlad commented in a cold tone.

“Let him crawl at our feet like a worm instead of spouting his pompous speeches,” added Geirölul, hovering behind Vlad in her spiritual form.

Although Vlad smiled inwardly, his face remained expressionless. His gaze stayed fixed on the fallen Apollo, who, with wide-open eyes, stared up at the sky. The god’s forehead was broken, and blood streamed down, staining his golden skin. Shouts of support echoed from behind, urging Apollo to get up.

“You’re not so great if you’ve ended up on the floor again,” Vlad coldly remarked.

But these words didn’t provoke Apollo’s anger. Instead, he raised his hand to the sky, as if trying to reach the shining sun. A smile touched his lips. He didn’t care about the pain in his chest, the blood flowing down his body. Unexpectedly, Apollo felt a long-forgotten sensation—the thirst for competition. The desire to win.

Slowly, despite the pain, Apollo began to rise. Each blow from Vlad felt like a nail driven into his body, but it was the last one that made him feel as though a truck had hit him. Still, he straightened up, proudly pulling his shoulders back.

“You’re right. I’m not as great as I thought. But, more than anyone, you should understand why I cannot afford to fall now. My soul burns with the desire to win. Here and now, I am more glorious than ever,” Apollo declared, spreading his arms wide.

“Then prove it, Sun God. Enough of the pompous speeches. Fight like a warrior. Show strength worthy of someone who challenges a monster,” Vlad calmly replied.

A smile blossomed on Apollo’s face. His fingers twitched, releasing threads that began to intertwine in front of him, forming a complex pattern. Vlad tactfully stepped back, giving his opponent time to prepare. Apollo slowly brought his hands together until the knuckles touched, and, with a strange sense of triumph, he kissed his gloves.

On the balcony, Alex, watching this gesture, grimaced in disgust.

“Damn degenerate,” he muttered, his opinion clear that Apollo seemed to love his sister much more than he should.

Brunhild didn’t know how to react to what was happening. She couldn’t deny Alex’s words and fully understood his feelings. Apollo’s gloves began to shine so brightly that his shadow seemed to come alive, resembling a liquid that spread across the ground. The shadow grew, as if preparing to give birth to something monstrous.

Behind Apollo, a massive iron statue appeared, resembling an iron maiden but with long, movable arms. The statue’s fingers twitched, and threads began to flow from them, intertwining with each other. Apollo raised his hand, and from the woven threads, a huge silver bow materialized, which now rested in his hands.

Alex, watching from the stands, was torn between the desire to steal Apollo’s gloves and the disgust that every aspect of this god stirred in him.

Apollo, holding the silver bow, drew the string, and a golden arrow began to form, shining like the sun. Vlad, standing at a distance, watched Apollo’s actions with icy calmness, not moving and allowing him to complete his preparations.

When Apollo fully drew the string, his gaze shifted to Vlad.

“Watch closely. This is the ultimate technique of Phoebus…” Apollo began, but didn’t get to finish. Blood poured from his mouth.

The crowd gasped, not understanding what had happened. When they looked down, they noticed a black spike sticking out of Apollo’s stomach, piercing him through.

The Sun God, fighting through the pain, tried to loosen the bowstring, but his hands trembled, and his aim faltered. The golden arrow still flew, tearing off from the string, and sped forward with unimaginable speed. Even though it had deviated from its target, its power and destructive force left the crowd in awe.

Vlad had already dodged the moment Apollo had first prepared to release the string. The arrow, shining like a sunbeam, passed by without touching him.

The crowd froze, trying to understand what the black spike was that had pierced Apollo. Their eyes turned toward the statue behind him, but then their attention shifted to the shadow, which now looked ominous. From it, a spike—black as the night itself—was protruding, piercing the Sun God’s body.

“You must have heard: The brighter his light shines, the darker the shadows behind him will be,” Vlad said calmly. His cold tone hit like the strike of a hammer. “You forgot that I am born of darkness. Yes, my soul was saved, but my power remained with me.”

These words awakened realization in the spectators in the stands. They suddenly remembered why Apollo’s stomach had been pierced by a dark spike earlier. Vlad Dracula—creature of the night, who once sold his soul to protect his people, and in return received dark powers that made him a monster.

Apollo heard these words and, despite the pain, turned his head back. Blood was still flowing from his mouth, dripping to the ground. Turning, he saw his own shadow, from which the spike protruded, having pierced him.

A bitter, self-deprecating smile spread across the Sun God’s face.

“You’re right… The brighter the light, the thicker the shadows. Who would have thought that my radiance would turn against me,” Apollo said, not taking his eyes off his shadow.

Vlad said nothing—only a cold puff of breath escaped his lips. Behind Apollo, from the shadow, emerged a multitude of spikes that, like stakes, pierced the iron statue standing behind him. Each new spike stabbed into the goddess’s metal shell, leaving her no chance to withstand such a force. When the last spike broke through the statue, it began to collapse, losing its form and integrity.

Apollo watched the spectacle with bitterness. Seeing his creation fall, he merely smiled sadly. Then, he slowly turned his head to look at Vlad, but instead of the usual appearance, he saw a face hidden in shadows, with only the bright crimson eyes gleaming. These were the eyes of a monster watching from the depths of darkness.

The spectators in the stands froze, gripped by primal fear. Vlad no longer wore the armor that had once protected him. Instead, his body was now covered in a black penitential suit, its torn straps hanging as though they had been ripped apart by an unimaginable force. His long black hair fluttered as if alive, and his face was obscured by darkness, leaving only the frightening scarlet light of his eyes.

Apollo remained silent, studying the terrifying figure. He slowly shook his head and finally spoke:

“So, this is who you truly are. A true monster born in darkness. The very nightmare they use to scare children. I don’t even know whether to admire you or hate you.”

In the stands, the spectators couldn’t look away, feeling the rising tension. Alex, watching from the balcony, merely grunted, not understanding why his clone chose to take on Alucard’s appearance at this moment. Brunhildr and Göll were puzzled—like everyone else, they had thought that Vlad had lost his power after Alex saved his soul. But now it was clear that this was not the case. Vlad still possessed the dark power.

“One doesn’t negate the other,” his voice echoed, deep and cold like the night sky itself.

Apollo froze upon hearing the answer, but then suddenly laughed. His laughter reverberated across the arena, drowning out the pain coming from the wound in his stomach. With his laugh, he seemed to mock the entire world.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed, finally calming down. “Throughout the battle, you ignored or insulted my greatness, and now you respond with such a narcissistic phrase! How amusing!”

But Apollo’s smile gradually faded. He could feel his strength waning. It was time to bring this battle to an end.

Suddenly, Vlad spoke again, his voice soft, almost melodic. He walked toward Apollo, slow and confident, his words sounding like lines from a sinister poem:

“Tell me your favorite nightmarish tale. Name it for me. I love bedtime stories. I am behind you. I am scarier than your nightmare…”

Each word Vlad spoke resonated through the space, sending shivers down the spectators’ spines. Even Apollo, accustomed to grandeur and luxury, was struck by the strange beauty of it.

Vlad stopped just a few steps from his opponent. They stared into each other’s eyes, as if reading each other’s thoughts. Alex grimaced on the balcony, displeased that his clone had decided to turn the fight into a poetic affair. But Brunhildr and Göll could not tear their gaze away, mesmerized by Vlad’s voice and words.

“I didn’t expect your voice to be like this…” Apollo said, barely holding back a smile. “Like a cool breeze on a moonlit night. Hearing your verse, my soul ignited with renewed strength. And I will burn it along with yours, to rise from the ashes, becoming even more beautiful.”

Behind Apollo, the iron statue reappeared, but this time its form was ephemeral, like a mirage, ready to dissipate at any moment. In the statue’s hands, a massive string began to form, from which Apollo was going to craft an arrow… with himself as its target.

“A monster like me can only be killed by a human. Gods are powerless to do so. But I will give you the chance to fight until the end, God of the Sun,” Vlad said, slowly pulling his hand back.

His palm straightened, resembling a spear poised for the final strike. They froze, staring at each other, and in that instant, everything around them seemed to stop. The tension between them lasted only a moment, but to those around them, it stretched into eternity.

Their movements began simultaneously. Vlad and Apollo lunged toward each other, like two unstoppable forces, ready to collide. The wind tore apart before them, and shockwaves spread outward, like the rumble of thunder before a storm.

In the instant of their clash, both of their hands struck with full force. They fought like two spears, each aiming to deal a fatal blow. But Vlad’s hand proved stronger: it tore through Apollo’s defense, split his arm into pieces, and then pierced the Sun God’s chest, destroying his heart.

Blood poured from Apollo’s mouth, and he coughed, crimson flowing onto the ground. A calm, almost serene smile appeared on his face.

“Looks like this is my defeat,” he whispered with a weakening voice. “But even if you’re a monster… Today, you were more beautiful than ever.”

Apollo’s body began to crumble into ash. A light breeze swept his remains across the arena, as if it were the last farewell breath of a god. Mourning cries echoed from the godly stands.

Alex, leaning on the railing, sighed heavily. This Apollo was nothing like the one he had known in Orario. In his heart, he even felt a faint sympathy for the god in his final moments.

Glancing at the balcony where the gods of Olympus had gathered, Alex noticed their faces twisted with rage and grief. He simply shook his head and thought that it would be best to speak with Zeus later, before the ninth battle. For now, they needed time to recover.

Meanwhile, Heimdall loudly proclaimed:

“Ragnarok, Ninth Round has concluded! And the winner is Vlad Dracula! Another victory for humanity!”

A triumphant roar erupted from the stands. The people rejoiced, for only one victory remained before Ragnarok’s conclusion.

Brunhildr, unable to contain her emotions, rushed to Alex, embraced him, and kissed him on the lips, celebrating the victory.

To be continued…

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep