The atmosphere in the arena had shifted. The rowdy cheers and drunken shouts of the previous rounds were replaced by an eerie, expectant hush. The "Low-Pit" felt colder, the shadows in the corners stretching like grasping fingers.
"Quarter-finals!" the announcer's voice cracked with uncharacteristic nervousness. "In the blue corner... the silent executioner... The Hollow Knight!"
From the opposite tunnel, a figure emerged that made the air itself seem to thin. He wore armor of dull, lightless grey, and his face was hidden behind a visor with no eye-slits. He carried no shield, only a long, thin rapier that hummed with a sound like a distant hive of bees.
Alaric stepped into the ring, his tattered cloak fluttering. He could feel it immediately—The Hollow Knight wasn't breathing. There was no heartbeat, no scent of sweat or fear. To Alaric's dragon-senses, the man was a void.
"He's a puppet," Evelyn's warning from earlier echoed in his mind. "A soul-bound construct. Someone is controlling him from the stands."
The bell rang, but there was no rush. The Hollow Knight moved with a liquid, terrifying smoothness. He lunged, his rapier moving faster than a human eye could track. Alaric barely pivoted in time, the blade whistling past his hood and cutting a single strand of his hair.
Alaric countered with a heavy swing of his iron slab, now coated in Varkas's silver liquid. The Hollow Knight didn't parry; he simply bent his body at an impossible angle, letting the heavy blade pass over him before striking Alaric's ribs with a lightning-fast palm thrust.
THOOM.
Alaric was sent skidding across the dirt, his boots digging deep furrows. The blow hadn't just been physical; it felt like the Knight had tried to reach inside his chest and pull out his very life force. The dragon-core roared in protest, sending a surge of heat that made the cold-iron limiter on his arm glow a dangerous violet.
"Not yet," Alaric hissed, forcing the power back down.
He stood up, his eyes turning a predatory gold behind the shadows of his hood. If he couldn't out-speed a ghost, he would have to out-think it. He remembered Sir Gareth's lessons: Every puppet has a string, and every string has a master.
Alaric began to move in a circle, dragging his iron sword in the dirt. He wasn't just walking; he was measuring the "weight" of the air. He noticed that every time the Hollow Knight moved, a faint trail of silver mana-dust fell from his joints.
The Knight lunged again, a flurry of stabs aimed at Alaric's throat. Alaric didn't dodge this time. He took the first hit in his shoulder—letting the rapier pierce his flesh—just so he could grab the Knight's arm with his monstrous grip.
"Got you," Alaric growled.
He slammed his silver-coated blade into the center of the Knight's chest. The silver liquid reacted with the soul-bound core, causing a massive discharge of white light. The Hollow Knight let out a soundless scream as his armor began to crack and crumble.
From the high balcony of the VIP stands, a figure in a dark robe stood up abruptly, knocking over a glass of wine. Alaric looked up, his golden gaze locking onto the hidden master for a brief, lethal second.
The Hollow Knight collapsed into a pile of empty metal. Alaric stood in the center of the ring, blood dripping from his shoulder, but he didn't feel the pain. He felt the eyes of the city on him—and the eyes of a master who had just lost his favorite toy.