Arknightcraft Modpack (Steve in Terra) (Minecraft x Arknight)

"An unexpected interruption occurred?! Who is this intruder entering the knight tournament? With all twenty contestants present, how could there be another participant? Could this be… a special guest appearance?!"

After the eerie silence blanketed the arena, the commentator was the first to snap back to reality. Trying to smooth things over with a nervous chuckle, he also began pressing the organizers for an explanation.

But truthfully? Not even the organizers had any idea what was going on.

Even Zofia, still reeling from the shock of being saved at the very last moment, had no clue who this mysterious figure—who had pulled her away from a brutal fate—was.

Centaurea was no exception. She too squinted toward the stage, puzzled… until a realization hit her like lightning.

She immediately turned toward the VIP section where Steven should have been sitting.

As expected, his seat was empty. Completely untouched, as if he had never been there in the first place.

The nearby guests didn't even seem to notice the absence.

In fact, across the entire arena, only Centaurea realized he had vanished.

"He wouldn't go that far… right?" she muttered.

But as she stared at the figure in black and white, whose very presence exuded overwhelming pressure, her brow furrowed.

She didn't want to believe it. But deep down… she knew.

That guy could absolutely do something like this.

After all, he had warned her.

If anyone laid a hand on the Whislash Knight, there was no way he'd just sit back and watch.

"Whatever," she shrugged, putting on a casual expression. "It's not like I know anything. I'm just a little platinum rank assassin. And besides, a Lazurite's here—he can handle it."

She gave her head a firm shake, then did her best to imitate the other spectators, feigning curiosity as she looked at the scene unfolding below.

'If I say nothing, who can prove he's Steven? For all anyone knows, he could be someone else entirely, right?'

Meanwhile, the mysterious knight in the center of the arena—who now had every single camera drone fixated on him—coolly released Zofia and gently placed her on the ground.

Then, in one smooth motion, he flicked his armored cloak—an elegant, theatrical move straight out of a masked rider's dramatic playbook.

With one hand resting near his throat, he let out a dry cough. A crimson flash glinted across his snake-like visor.

Then came the voice. Gravelly. Seasoned. Yet smooth and magnetic.

"Fuhahaha…"

"I had expected the Kazimierz Major to be a thrilling spectacle… but this? This is disgusting."

He raised a single, taunting finger toward the nineteen knights still frozen in place.

"You call this knighthood?"

"Pathetic. Vile. Sickening. If these are the so-called knights of Kazimierz… then maybe this country deserves to be wiped out entirely."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear—amplified by the drones that hovered near him, ensuring every word echoed in the hearts of all spectators and knights alike.

And in the very next moment, the arena, which had been paralyzed by shock, exploded into chaos.

Anger, fury, disbelief—not just from the remaining knights on the field, but from the audience as well. The crowd erupted in rage, shouting over each other.

How dare he insult their sacred tournament? Their pride? Their nation?

This guy's AOE taunt really hit like a truck.

It would've been bad enough if he'd limited his insults to just the participants of the Kazimierz Major.

But no—he took it even further.

He dragged down every knight in all of Kazimierz with his words.

Which, as anyone would know, was equivalent to declaring war on the entire nation.

After all, most Kuranta in Kazimierz—regardless of rank or status—had at least some knightly lineage.

What he just said wasn't just mockery. It was a direct provocation to nearly everyone in the country.

As the crowd's fury hit a boiling point, the officials finally snapped out of their stupor.

A squad of security personnel quickly mobilized, fanning out toward Steven's position on the field.

"It seems there has been an unexpected incident. This knight has likely wandered into the arena by mistake, and his mental state appears unstable. Please do not take his words seriously. The officials will handle the situation and ensure the match continues smoothly."

So said Greatmouth Mob, the tournament's ever-reliable commentator, now desperately trying to save face.

Under direct orders from the event organizers, he quickly cut the drone feed and switched the broadcast visuals—hoping to prevent any more public damage.

Their plan was simple:

Subdue the intruder.

Spin the story with a mental health excuse.

And sweep the whole mess under the rug before it got out of control.

Who he really was didn't matter.

If they could turn the incident into a quirky talking point and squeeze some publicity out of it, all the better.

Unfortunately for them, the knight at the center of it all… wasn't done yet.

"Unstable?" the voice echoed, this time with no drone assistance—just his own strange projection, somehow resonating across the arena.

"The ones who are truly unstable are you so-called 'audience members,' who find joy in these grotesque traditions. I'm not just calling these knights idiots—you lot are the worst kind of idiots."

Even without the broadcast feed, his words pierced the entire stadium like a blade.

The insult was brutal. Raw. Personal.

It was like pouring gasoline on a bonfire.

The audience exploded.

No longer concerned with who he was or what strange power he used to project his voice, people began standing up, shouting, cursing—their anger erupting in full force.

But before it could reach a riotous crescendo—

The stadium went silent. Again.

Not because the crowd had calmed down.

Not because of some psychic pressure.

No, it was because of what they saw in the center of the field.

The armored knight—still standing proudly—began to rise into the air.

His body slowly lifted from the ground as if the laws of gravity no longer applied.

One arm reached to the sky.

In his hand, a swirling black vortex had formed—a twisting, devouring black hole that grew larger by the second, silently absorbing the light and sound around it.

It was as if someone had pressed a mute button on reality.

The silence was overwhelming.

Yet it was this very silence that drew every eye back to the figure floating midair.

He raised his free hand.

With deliberate motion, he curled his fingers into a fist—then extended a single thumb upward.

The audience blinked, confused.

Was he… giving a thumbs up?

But the moment that thought crossed their minds—

He slammed his thumb downward.

A sharp, decisive gesture.

A universal signal that needed no words.

Even if raising the middle finger was the world's go-to symbol for provocation,

A thumbs-down?

That was unmistakably a sign of contempt.

And just like that, the stadium detonated in rage.

How dare he?

How could he even do something like this?!

And yet, what that knight did next was nothing short of a direct slap to everyone's face.

With an almost casual motion, he began to press the massive black hole downward, the one that had already expanded to cover half the arena.

The security team that had tried to surround him moments earlier scattered in panic.

Even the knights—proud warriors trained to face danger head-on—instinctively backed away, unwilling to be anywhere near whatever that thing was.

Thankfully, the black hole descended slowly.

But even at that pace, anything it touched—stone, sand, steel—was instantly erased, as if it had never existed.

Even after it made contact with the ground, the devouring didn't stop.

The void kept drilling downwards, chewing through the arena floor, as if trying to reach the planet's core.

It was only after the arena had been swallowed into a massive, bottomless pit that the knight, still suspended midair, finally clenched his outstretched hand into a fist.

The black hole vanished.

"Unpleasant, isn't it? Makes you angry, doesn't it?"

"Then come to me. Show me what it means to be a true Kazimierz knight."

"Don't just stand there hurling empty insults to cover your cowardice."

More arrogant words.

And yet this time, far fewer dared to retort.

Because now, they understood something terrifying.

He had the strength to back them up.

If they were truly offended…

If they believed in the honor of their titles…

Then they could always come down and prove him wrong—

In battle.

"Come on. I'll give all of you a chance."

"Don't you all love a good fight? Then come and prove yourselves. Show me, Kazimierz—let me see the glory you so love to scream about."

As if to prepare for the incoming duel, the knight descended slowly from the sky.

Upon landing, he crouched and placed his palm on the ruined ground, at the edge of the vast crater left by the devouring void.

Then, as if reality itself had been rewritten, a new battlefield rose from the ashes.

A fresh layer of polished stone and shining metal tiled itself over the pit, reshaping the land into a pristine new arena—far more regal and threatening than the one before.

The knight stood up, shook off some imaginary dust from his hand, then turned to face the crowd once more.

"Impress me. Surprise me."

"Give me something—anything—that might make me think this wretched country isn't a total lost cause."

He raised his hand again, fingers curling in a loose, beckoning gesture toward the sky.

At that moment, the nineteen knights who had backed away to safety were suddenly pulled forward—not by force, but by something irresistible.

Their bodies moved of their own accord, compelled by some invisible thread, drawing them back into the arena.

They stood at its edges, weapons gripped tightly, eyes locked on the one who stood like a god or devil reborn in the center.

A monster.

That was the only word for him.

What kind of creature was this?

This was supposed to be just a tournament.

Why were they suddenly facing something that felt like a walking apocalypse?

<+>

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