A Touch of Time, a World of Pain

The Colosseum pulsed with a chaotic energy. Alexandra, controlled by the writhing Shadowscale, fought with a jerky, unnatural desperation. Her face contorted in pain, each movement a testament to the struggle within. The crowd, initially enthralled by the gladiatorial spectacle, now watched with a mix of unease and pity.

Amidst the frenzy, Jikirukuto stood apart, his eyes scanning Alexandra's form. He saw not just the violence, but the underlying strain – tense muscles, stressed joints, nerves screaming in protest. His past as a healer surfaced, his calm contrasting with the surrounding maelstrom.

He moved towards Alexandra, a beacon of quiet determination in the storm. With gentle hands, he began to manipulate her limbs, not with brute force, but with a subtle understanding of the body's mechanics. He wasn't just moving muscles, he was manipulating time itself, rewinding the strain, easing the pain.

His fingers danced across pressure points, sending soothing waves of energy through her nervous system. The Shadowscale's erratic control crackled and wavered, its hold momentarily weakened. Alexandra gasped, a flicker of recognition crossing her pained features.

The crowd, captivated by this unexpected turn, fell silent. The clang of swords, the roar of the bloodthirsty mob – all faded into the background as eyes fixed on the unfolding scene. This wasn't the brutal clash they expected, but a silent ballet of healing, a display of power unlike any they had witnessed.

Slowly, as if emerging from a nightmare, Alexandra's breathing calmed, her posture relaxed. The pain receded, replaced by a weary gratitude that shone in her eyes. Yet, the relief was momentary. The battle raged on, the source of the darkness, Darktraitor, a silent observer in the shadows.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken questions. What did this unexpected act mean? Had Jikirukuto turned traitor? Or was this a calculated move, a gambit in a larger game?

The answer remained unspoken, hidden behind the stoic mask of the Rust Warrior. He had merely played a small act in a far grander play, a play where pawns moved on a chessboard woven from time itself.

His true goal wasn't just to alleviate Alexandra's suffering, but to sow the seeds of doubt, to crack the facade of Darktraitor's power. He had shown the crowd, and perhaps even Darktraitor himself, that their perceived reality was malleable, subject to the whispers of time.

But this was just the opening move. The real battle, the battle for their freedom, their very existence, would play out not on the bloodstained sands of the arena, but in the intricate labyrinths of time, a battle where every tick of the clock held the weight of lives and a world teetering on the brink.