[17th June]
The stadium was no longer just loud.
It was alive.
Waves of voices crashed against stone as the stands overflowed with spectators, their anticipation thick enough to feel in the air. Nobles filled the elevated galleries, their gazes sharp, calculating… waiting.
Below—
Two hundred contestants stood gathered at the center.
The final selection.
The ones who had survived everything so far.
Bruised.
Hardened.
Refined.
And now… only their ranking matches remained.
Rey stood among them, still and quiet.
But his awareness wasn't.
Inside his mind—
A dome expanded.
His Sonar pulsed outward, mapping everything around him with eerie clarity.
Bodies.
Positions.
Movement.
And more importantly—
Strength.
His focus shifted.
Locked onto one figure.
The host.
That single word from earlier still lingered in everyone's body.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
But something close.
A memory of pressure.
The host stood tall, his posture straight, shoulders relaxed.
His expression remained cold… almost detached.
Yet his eyes—
Sharp.
Alive.
Watching everything.
"Hmmm…"
His voice carried effortlessly across the entire stadium.
No strain.
No force.
Yet no one dared interrupt.
"Not as a host… but as a martial artist…"
A faint pause.
His gaze swept slowly across the contestants.
"…what stands before me is not disappointing."
A subtle shift in his tone.
Not warmth.
But something close to approval.
"You've all fought your way here."
"Bones broken."
"Blood spilled."
"Pride crushed… and rebuilt."
Several contestants stiffened slightly.
Some clenched their fists.
Others lowered their gaze.
"You stand above the average."
"Above the weak."
"Above those who hesitated."
The air tightened.
"And today…"
A faint pause.
"…you will prove why."
Rey watched him carefully.
There was something strange.
The man's face remained cold.
Unmoving.
Yet his words—
Carried weight.
Not empty praise.
But acknowledgment.
"And now…"
The host's tone shifted instantly.
Cold again.
Sharp.
"We begin."
No buildup.
No drama.
Just a command.
"The final ranking battles will proceed through elimination."
"Lose once… and you fall into the lower bracket."
"Win… and climb."
A slight pause.
"No killing."
"No hidden weapons."
"Three minutes."
His gaze hardened.
"And no excuses."
A faint ripple passed through the contestants.
Not fear.
Focus.
"Two rounds today."
"From two hundred… to fifty."
That sentence alone tightened the air.
"Prepare yourselves."
For a brief second—
Silence.
Then—
BOOM!
Skyshots exploded above the stadium.
Sharp.
Violent.
Final.
"The battles begin."
The crowd erupted instantly.
Contestants began moving, dispersing from the center like a breaking formation.
Some rushed.
Some walked calmly.
Some remained silent… conserving energy.
Rey didn't move immediately.
He stayed still for a moment.
Letting the noise settle in his mind.
Then he turned.
And walked.
His device buzzed lightly.
A notification.
Match data.
He opened it while walking toward the stands.
Random pairing.
Single elimination.
One hundred matches in the first round.
Each… only three minutes.
Rey's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Three minutes…"
That wasn't much.
Not at this level.
"This isn't about endurance anymore…"
"It's about efficiency."
He continued reading.
No killing.
No external tools.
Victory determined by defeat… or condition.
Fair.
Simple.
But brutal.
By the time he reached the stands, the noise had already shifted.
More focused.
More intense.
A large screen displayed the active match.
Names.
IDs.
Countdown.
Rey scanned briefly.
Didn't see his name.
"Not yet…"
He leaned slightly against the railing.
Waiting.
Watching.
Beside him stood another contestant.
Calm.
Too calm.
"You're not in the early matches either?"
The man spoke casually.
Rey glanced at him briefly.
"…Seems so. But how do you know."
"Haven't you checked the second draft?"
Rey's brows shifted slightly.
Second?
He pulled his device again.
And there it was.
New notification.
Opening it, his gaze moved quickly—
Scanning.
Scrolling—
Then—
He found it.
"32…"
His match.
Roughly an hour.
Maybe a little more.
Enough time.
He exhaled slowly.
His shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
His opponent—
Unknown.
Rey didn't care much.
There were only a few names that mattered.
Raviel Ashcroft.
Gravion.
And a handful of others…
Whose presence he had already felt.
"Winning easily…"
A faint thought passed through his mind.
"…not happening."
He turned and found a quieter section of the stands.
Less crowded.
Clear view.
Sitting down, he leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees.
Eyes locked on the arena.
The clock struck.
9:00 AM
The first match began.
Two contestants stepped forward.
Weapons drawn.
One—
A heavy broadsword, resting across his shoulder.
His stance wide.
Grounded.
Built for power.
The other—
A long spear, curved tip gleaming under the light.
Light on his feet.
Balanced.
Controlled.
The referee raised his hand.
"Begin."
They moved instantly.
No hesitation.
No testing.
Both surged forward.
The ground cracked slightly under the swordsman's first step—
Heavy.
Explosive.
But midway—
He stopped.
Forced halt.
Muscles tightening.
Then—
He twisted.
His entire body rotated, dragging the massive blade with him—
Momentum building—
Air splitting—
"Boulder Crash!"
The sword came down.
Violent.
Unforgiving.
The ground—
Shattered.
Stone burst apart as the impact landed with crushing force.
Fragments scattered.
Dust exploded upward.
But—
No blood.
The spear user had already reacted.
At the last moment—
He stopped his forward charge.
His foot slid back.
Body leaning away—
Just outside the impact zone.
The shockwave brushed past him.
Close.
Too close.
His eyes sharpened instantly.
"…Predictable."
He moved.
One step.
Then another.
His spear shot forward—
Fast.
Precise.
A straight thrust aimed at the swordsman's exposed side.
Swordsman dodged it like he had aniticipated it before.
But Spearman didn't wait as he moved forward.
Shattered stone burst outward from the impact.
Fragments spun through the air, scraping across the arena as dust rose in a thick cloud.
But the fight didn't pause.
It couldn't.
The spearman had already moved.
Light on his feet, body cutting through the debris without hesitation, he slipped past the destruction zone and circled behind his opponent.
His breathing was sharp.
Controlled.
Ignoring the cuts that had opened across his arms and side.
He stepped in.
No wasted motion.
His spear drove forward—
A straight thrust aimed to end it.
But the swordsman wasn't finished.
With a sharp pull, he wrenched his blade free from the cracked ground and forced his body into a forward jump.
Heavy.
Slower than before.
But just enough.
The spear still caught him.
A clean slice tore across his side.
Not deep—
But enough.
Blood surfaced instantly, staining his clothes as he landed roughly, boots grinding against broken stone.
Both men reset.
Breathing heavier now.
Shoulders rising.
Falling.
And then—
They smiled.
Not mockery.
Not arrogance.
Enjoyment.
There was still time.
Enough to decide everything.
Without a word—
They moved again.
Steel met steel.
The broadsword crashed down in wide arcs, each swing carrying raw, crushing force.
The spear answered with speed—deflecting, redirecting, slipping through openings like a needle.
Every clash sent vibrations up their arms.
Every step ground deeper into the broken arena.
Above—
The nobles watched.
"Hm… Boulder Thrashing Sword Technique. Mastery upto the Advanced level."
One man spoke calmly, fingers tapping against the armrest.
"Not bad."
Another leaned forward slightly.
"The spearman isn't weak either. Ripple Spear… intermediate mastery, but close to reaching the next level."
His eyes narrowed.
"If he breaks through mid-fight… this could turn."
A third gave a faint nod.
"Technique gap decides it."
His gaze sharpened.
"But it's about to end."
Below—
The clash slowed.
Both fighters stepped back.
Distance.
Breathing hard.
Bodies tense.
Wounds had begun to accumulate.
Small cuts.
Bruises.
Strain in their arms.
They stared at each other.
No movement.
Just silence between them.
Then—
The swordsman moved first.
He surged forward, dragging his blade across the ground.
Sparks burst behind him.
Speed rising.
Momentum building.
The spearman didn't retreat.
He stood still.
His grip tightened.
Then loosened.
His breathing slowed—
Once.
Twice.
And then—
Calm.
A strange stillness settled over him.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Only certainty.
The swordsman closed the distance.
His blade rising—
Power gathering for the final strike.
But—
The spear moved first.
A sharp thrust.
Direct.
Unwavering.
Not fast enough to be unseen.
Not strong enough to overwhelm.
But placed—
Perfectly.
The swordsman didn't dodge.
He couldn't.
His blade came down—
But something felt wrong.
A sharp crack echoed.
His eyes widened.
The broadsword—
Shattered.
The impact point collapsed, the metal splitting under pressure as the spear drove through its weakened center.
And in the same motion—
The spear pierced forward.
Straight into his side.
The world stilled.
The tip dug in.
Not clean.
Not deep enough to kill.
But enough to stop him.
Momentum carried both of them forward.
The spearman pushed.
Driving him back.
Step—
After step—
The swordsman's boots dug into the ground.
Trying to stop it.
Muscles straining.
Hands grabbing the shaft.
"Do you think… I'll fall for this?!"
He roared, gripping the spear with both hands, trying to snap it apart.
The weapon bent.
Wood creaked under pressure.
For a moment—
It looked like it might break.
The spearman's arms trembled.
His strength was fading.
But then—
He shifted.
Just slightly.
He loosened his push for a fraction of a second—
And then—
Drove forward again.
The sudden change broke the resistance.
The swordsman lost his footing.
Just for an instant.
But that was enough.
The spearman surged.
Everything he had left poured into that final push.
The swordsman's body lifted—
Barely.
Just a few centimeters.
But it was enough.
His footing was gone.
He was driven back—
Out of the arena boundary.
And then—
Both of them collapsed.
The spear slipped free.
Blood followed.
Silence held for a heartbeat.
Then—
"Match over!"
The referee's voice cut through sharply.
"Victory… Contestant 1484!"
The crowd exploded.
Rey's gaze flicked to the timer.
00:06
Six seconds.
That was all that remained.
If it had gone longer—
The result might have reversed.
The spearman lay on the ground, chest heaving, body covered in cuts.
His condition was worse.
Much worse.
But he had won.
Not by strength.
But by timing.
By control.
By a single moment.
The arena staff rushed in immediately.
Both fighters were carried away.
Medics followed.
Workers stepped in behind them, already repairing the shattered ground with practiced speed.
The crowd hadn't calmed.
If anything—
It grew louder.
"That was just the first match…"
Rey leaned forward slightly, eyes still fixed on the arena.
His fingers tapped once against his arm.
"Three minutes…"
His gaze sharpened.
"More than enough to end everything."
Above—
The sun stood high.
The day had just begun.
And no one—
Knew how it would end.