The spiritual masters' duel

The Duel at San Siro: Stormburst & the Fall of Janus

The Stage is Set: A Broadcast to Humiliate

The sun hung low over Milan, a bleeding ember sinking behind the Duomo’s spires. The sky was clear—too clear, the kind of stillness that precedes a storm.

San Siro Stadium, empty of fans but thrumming with unseen energy, had been chosen for maximum spectacle. Vidiaset, the Pecorelli family’s media empire, had set up cameras at every angle, their lenses hungry for Vasudeva’s downfall.

Gino Pecorelli sat in the owner’s box, a cigar clamped between his teeth, his knuckles white around a glass of 1947 Sassicaia.

"Break him," he growled to Janus.

The spiritual master, clad in saffron robes embroidered with silver sigils, bowed.

"The albino will beg before the end."

Below, on the pitch, Vasudeva waited.

Dressed in simple white linen, his albino skin glowing

under the stadium lights, he looked almost ethereal.

The referee—Patriarch Alexander Ulyanov, a bear of a man with a Bratva dragon coiled around his neck—stepped forward.

"No weapons. No proxies. Just mind against mind." His voice carried the weight of a man who had seen empires rise and fall. "First to break, loses."

The cameras zoomed in.

The broadcast went live.

And then—

Janus struck.