Phil swallowed, waved his hands high, and dropped them. "Begin!"
Atalanta moved first.
Her bow bent in a blur, string snapping as an arrow cut through the air with whistling speed. It shot straight for Sephiroth's chest—deadly, true, the kind of strike that could fell beasts twice his size.
Sephiroth didn't blink. His hand rose, fingers closing. The shaft halted an inch from his coat, caught neatly between two fingers. He twirled it once like a toy and let it clatter to the ground.
And then he kept walking.
Atalanta's face didn't change, but her arms blurred. Another arrow flew, then another, then three more, her bowstring screaming under the speed. She shot as Artemis had taught her: rapid, precise, each one aimed for a vital point. The arrows streaked through the dusk like falling stars.
Sephiroth's pace never faltered. Each arrow was plucked from the air, snapped between his fingers, or brushed aside with a flick of his wrist. A dozen shafts rained, and he moved as though idly batting dust motes away. The ground at his feet grew littered with useless arrows.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Atalanta grit her teeth and drew deeper. Her bow bent until it groaned, power thrumming through the string. She loosed, arrows flashing in a relentless storm, her form a blur as her speed doubled, then tripled. The shafts howled, striking from every angle—his heart, throat, temple, knees.
Sephiroth moved like water. His hands rose and fell in effortless rhythm, catching arrows between fingers, redirecting their flight with a twist, even letting one skim his cheek before he snapped it in half without breaking stride. His eyes never left her, silver and unblinking, cold as a predator's.
Her quiver emptied, the last shaft fired with such force the bowstring snapped against her wrist, drawing blood. The final arrow screamed for his throat—only to be caught, two fingers closing inches from impact. Sephiroth twirled it once, then dropped it beside the rest.
The Colosseum was silent.
Atalanta cast her bow aside. Her hand flew to her hip, drawing her dagger in one smooth motion. She sank low, shoulders squared, blade glinting in the firelight of sunset.
Sephiroth lowered his hand. And kept walking.
Atalanta lunged.
Her dagger flashed in arcs too fast for mortal eyes, stabbing for his ribs, slashing for his throat, sweeping for his knees. Each strike flowed into the next, relentless, a blur of deadly steel.
Sephiroth barely moved. A tilt of his head, and her thrust whispered past his cheek. A shift of his shoulder, and her slash cut only air. A step back, and her stab fell short by a hair's breadth.
Frustration tightened her face. She spun, feinted low, dagger darting high for his eye. He inclined his head an inch, the blade whistling past harmlessly. She pivoted again, stabbing for his heart with all her weight. His hand rose, fingers closing around her wrist.
Her eyes widened. She twisted, tried to wrench free, but his grip was iron. He didn't squeeze. He didn't need to. His hand simply held her, her strength meaningless against it.
Atalanta drove her knee upward in a vicious strike. Sephiroth shifted, letting it pass harmlessly. His free hand brushed her dagger, a single flick of his fingers. The blade tore from her grasp and clattered across the stone.
The Colosseum roared, half in awe, half in disbelief.
Sephiroth released her wrist. She stumbled back, chest heaving, eyes darting to her fallen weapon. But he didn't pursue. He didn't even draw the Masamune. The impossibly long sword still hung at his side, untouched.
He stepped forward once more, calm, deliberate.
Atalanta froze. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to strike, to run, but her body refused. His presence pressed down like a mountain.
Sephiroth raised his hand, slow as dusk settling. A single finger extended. He pressed it gently against the hollow of her throat.
The touch wasn't hard. It didn't even break skin. But the message was undeniable.
"Yield," he said quietly.
Atalanta's breath shook. For a moment, pride warred with reality. She had fought monsters, hunted legendary beasts, run faster than any mortal alive. But against him—against this man who had dismantled her every arrow, dodged every strike, and disarmed her without ever drawing his blade—there was nothing left.
Her dagger lay on the floor. Her bow lay behind her. And his finger rested at her throat, cold, patient.
She closed her eyes. "I yield."
The arena erupted.
Phil jumped, voice cracking as he threw up his arms. "The winner! Sephiroth!"
The Colosseum exploded into noise—cheers, curses, screams, chants. Gamblers shouted in triumph or despair, coin purses flying through the air as fortunes were won and lost. The roar was deafening, echoing off stone, shaking the air itself.
Sephiroth lowered his hand. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his long coat swaying with each step. Atalanta bent to retrieve her dagger, her face carefully blank though her hands trembled.
He passed through the archway to the waiting room, the crowd still roaring his name. Only then, unseen by the audience, did his hand rise to his lips. He coughed softly, crimson staining his palm. His expression never changed. He wiped the blood away and continued walking.
The sun dipped fully behind the horizon, the sky a canvas of violet fire. The Colosseum trembled with the echoes of the fight—not from destruction, but from the unshakable truth it revealed.
Sephiroth stood unmatched.