The stands of the coliseum were packed to the brim. The roar of the crowd blended with the metallic sound of drums, trumpets, and bells announcing the beginning of the combat. In that immense Nexo amphitheater, everything was prepared for a legendary confrontation. The light of the stars illuminated the central circle of the arena, where we stood, expectant before the spectacle that was about to begin.
The deafening cheers were abruptly snuffed out by the appearance of a massive pillar of light. It was as if someone had ripped the breath from thousands of throats at once. The silence became so deep that even the rustle of cloth and the clinking of the knights' chains echoed through the air.
Face to face, beneath that star-filled vault, stood two imposing figures.
Rachel Lionheart stood firm, her posture resolute and her gaze shining. With delicacy and pride, she unsheathed her golden sword—slightly thinner and lighter than the one wielded by the king who watched her inquisitively. It looked like an imitation, or perhaps a remodeled version, of the same mythical artifact. She gripped it with both hands, holding it upright before her opponent. Her blue eyes sparkled like the stars themselves, brimming not only with determination, but with pure admiration.
Opposite her stood Arthur Pendragon, the legendary King of Camelot. Rigid as a statue, he emanated a solemnity that commanded respect and, at the same time, inspired devotion. With movements that seemed almost robotic, he mirrored the young woman's gesture, forcefully extending his sword and pointing it toward her. His mere presence was a reminder of the ancient ballads that told of his glory—yet seeing him in person made those tales feel woefully insufficient compared to the perfection of the original.
Rachel broke the silence. Her voice, though delicate, was heavy with emotion and reverence, resonating through every corner of the arena:
—It is an honor to face you, my king. Since I was a child, I dreamed of this moment. Camelot was my beacon, and your name the inspiration that guided every one of my steps. It does not matter if I fall; to fight the great King Arthur is already the greatest victory of my life.
The crowd went wild, rallying behind the young woman. Even I, detached from whatever lay beneath this situation, couldn't help but stand and applaud such sincere words.
Arthur regarded her with a mix of pride and gratitude. He slightly bowed his head—a minimal yet powerful gesture, accepting her tribute. His voice, deep and clear, echoed across the arena:
—Your words are precious. I receive them with humility, for they honor me. But do not let admiration blind you, young lady. Today, you and I shall fight as equals.
With a firm motion, he slammed the tip of his sword into the ground, cracking it. The vibration rippled across the entire arena, making the earth tremble beneath the feet of thousands of spectators, who erupted in cheers at the king's humility.
The air itself seemed to tear apart as the sacred golden blade of the knights shone forth: Excaliburg. Bathed in gold and inlaid with diamonds, the weapon gleamed with such intensity that it looked capable of slicing through the firmament itself.
—I've seen some crazy things since arriving at the Nexo, but this… this is on another level… —I whispered, more to myself than to the others.
—Impressive, isn't it? —Bolívar commented, throwing one arm around my shoulders while keeping Manuela close with the other.
—He may be handsome and rich, but I refuse to believe that thing is actually functional —Manuela joked, leaning against the Liberator.
—Of course it is —Paul replied calmly—. The stars do not need to reflect reality. They are the living image of history itself—the myth turned into steel; a work forged by the hands of a legendary blacksmith, no doubt, one who turns stories into weapons.
Paul's words echoed in my mind. A weapon forged from stories? Perhaps that sword—now shining with gold and diamonds in this place—had once been something far simpler. An ordinary blade, maybe just iron. But the feats, the myths, the legends carved with it in the hands of its wielder had written its legacy, transforming it into what our eyes now beheld.
—And why should I care about any of that? —Sucre shouted, his face flushed with excitement—. I came here to see blood! Let them kill each other!
"Are you serious, man?"
I imagined myself there, in the middle of the arena, facing the crowd as they screamed for us to kill each other like some grotesque deep-web spectacle. Even if this could be classified as a chivalric or sporting duel where neither side would be seriously harmed, the feeling that this resembled an ancient Roman circus crossed my mind all too vividly.
At last, there was movement. Rachel raised her sword.
—It's beautiful —I muttered, admiring the delicate craftsmanship of the weapon.
—But it's still just an imitation —Gerónimo declared, arms crossed—. I hope the girl knows what she's doing. Even if the Story Forger can create replicas, it's never the same as wielding your own, right, Paul?
—That's right.
"The Story Forger"…