"Only the unholy scream when they burn." Long ago, in a world of marble spires and golden skies, Sister Amanda served as the highest inquisitor of the Cleansing Choir. She passed judgment not with words, but fire. Her sermons were executions. Her prayers, torches. When her own temple became tainted—plagued by whispers of a false god rising within the choir itself—Amanda sealed the cathedral doors and burned everyone inside. "Let the Light sort the innocent." But something inside that fire survived. As the last bell melted in the heat, Amanda heard a voice—not divine, but vast. It didn’t promise salvation. It demanded fury. From that moment, she became possessed by Divine Wrath—a sentient flame that sees sin in every shadow and only one solution: incineration. Fira found her in that moment. Or rather, she tried to. Amanda wasn’t dead. She was praying, sword-deep in the chest of a weeping priest. Her ring of fire had already scorched a hundred souls. She turned as Fira approached—eyes empty but glowing. "Another herald? You’re late. The trial has begun." Fira tried to intervene, but the scythe screamed back, refusing to mark Amanda. That’s when the ground split. The Arena came—not to judge her, but to welcome her. --- In the Death Arena, Amanda speaks only in verses: "O flame, my confession is a blade. O light, my justice is endless." She traps her opponents in rings of fire, immolates them with the Holy Ladder, and finishes them with the Judgement Wrath—a burning cross that impales the soul itself before exploding in cleansing agony. Some say Amanda doesn’t fight to win. She fights to purge the Arena itself. And Fira watches—torn between awe... and dread.