PREVIOUSLY-
Leon closed the book, his eyes meeting Threxil's.
"Don't think of it,"
Threxil muttered.
Leon, already on his way, whispered to air.
"Let's try this."
----x----
Leon's steps slowed, then ceased altogether.
Before him loomed a structure—ancient, vast, and quietly menacing. It rose from the earth like the ribcage of some long-dead beast, curved in great arcs of pale, weathered marble. Vines crawled across its flanks, creeping tendrils clinging to the stone like desperate fingers. They had slithered their way through every crack and seam, wrapping columns, curling around broken statues, draping like wilted banners from the archways above.
The colosseum did not roar. It brooded.
Its silence wasn't the silence of abandonment—it was the silence of memory, of blood-soaked sands and names shouted into the heavens only to be forgotten moments later. The kind of silence that thickens the air, makes the lungs labour, makes the ground feel hollow beneath your feet.
At the front stood a gate of solid steel, its bars thick, blackened with rust. No decoration, no emblems—only the cold, brutal geometry of iron made to keep things in. It didn't creak. It didn't groan. It simply was, immovable and watching.
Leon tilted his head. A faint breeze stirred his hair, carried the scent of moss, dried blood, and old stone.
He could see through the gate—just barely.
Beyond it lay shadow-drenched corridors and sunlit tiers, concentric rows of broken benches rising like the teeth of a gaping mouth. Wind moved in strange spirals through the bones of the place, whispering something just out of reach.
He stepped closer. The vines shifted slightly, as if disturbed by his presence, or perhaps welcoming it.
He touched the steel. It was cool, not cold—like the skin of a corpse.
His fingers curled around the bars. His knuckles whitened.
DING!
{Gladiator's Labyrinth}
[DIFFICULTY: HARD]
The corners of Leon's lips tugged into a grin—slow, wolfish.
"Finally," he exhaled, voice low, near reverent.
"Something good."
The gate groaned as it rose, chains clinking behind the walls, the sound deep and grating like the throat-clearing of some ancient giant. Dust trickled down from overhead as the metal ascended, dislodging years of silence and webs from the stonework above.
Leon didn't wait for it to fully lift.
He ducked under the halfway-raised gate, one hand brushing against the steel bar as he passed, and stepped into the corridor beyond.
The world changed.
The light outside—pale and natural—was devoured the moment he entered. The corridor swallowed it, offering only a faint glow from wall sconces that hadn't been lit in years but still held the memory of flame. Shadows clung to the walls like wet ink, wavering faintly with each step he took.
The floor beneath his boots was uneven, worn from countless footfalls, grooved with time and the weight of ritual violence. The stone smelled of sweat and iron, of old torches and dried blood long scrubbed but never truly erased.
His breath echoed softly. Each step was swallowed by the hush of stone and emptiness. Ahead, the corridor stretched into a quiet bend, curving deeper into the belly of the colosseum like a throat guiding him to something waiting—something alive.
Leon didn't hesitate.
His grin remained. If anything, it widened.
As he reached the end of the corridor, a blade of sunlight cut through the shadows and struck his face. It was sudden—sharp enough to make him squint, forcing his pupils to contract.
The air changed too. Cooler inside the tunnel, now dry and warm, touched by wind and dust.
Leon stepped out from the mouth of the corridor and into open light.
The arena unfolded before him—broad, circular, and bruised with time. Tiered stone seats rose around him in massive rings, stacked high like the walls of a sunken amphitheatre. Some rows stood strong, proud in their old bones.
Others sagged or crumbled, their edges cracked and gnawed by age, with vines spilling between the joints like veins across a scarred body.
The centre of the arena was bare—no markings, no sand, only pale, hard earth. Stains lingered there, like memories baked into the floor. Faint, rust-colored smears that no wind or rain had dared to wash away.
Above, clouds drifted lazily across a blue sky, casting brief shadows that swept across the seating like ghosts returning to their graves.
Leon's boots crunched on gravel as he stepped further in. The sound echoed—not loud, but right. It belonged here. So did he.
DING!
The system window flickered into view with a sterile glow.
[STARTING STAGE (1/5)]
A mechanical chime followed, sharp and clinical, before vanishing into silence. Then came the sound—low, guttural, like a landslide of breath snarling through a tunnel.
From the other end of the arena, the gate shuddered.
A heavy metallic groan echoed through the chamber as the steel doors peeled open at a glacial pace, scraping against stone with the screech of age and rust. Darkness festered beyond the gate, thick as oil. Then movement stirred within it—a silhouette, hulking and slow.
The orc stepped into the light.
Towering at over seven feet, it was a slab of living muscle. Veins coiled beneath green skin like braided rope. Its bare torso glistened faintly with sweat or perhaps something older, dried and crusted. The only garment it wore was a crude strip of animal hide slung around its waist, frayed and stained with old blood.
Its jaw jutted forward with an underbite sharpened by two pale tusks. Eyes small and yellow, set deep beneath a heavy brow ridge, scanned the arena with predatory calm.
In its massive hand, it dragged a wooden club—less a weapon and more a chunk of tree carved into brutal simplicity. Splinters still bristled from the grain. The club was dark with moisture, as though it had been soaked in something more sinister than water.
The arena fell still.
Dust hung in the air like ash, and the scent of metal and sweat clung to the back of the throat. The orc paused just past the threshold of the gate, chest rising in a slow, deep rhythm. Then it raised its head and exhaled—a low, animalistic snort that steamed faintly in the cold, recycled air.
And then, without ceremony, it advanced.
"Hello!"
Leon raised a hand, his grin crooked with casual bravado. But before he could finish the wave—
WHAM.
The club crashed into his face like a battering ram, and the world tilted.
Leon flew backward, limbs flailing, before slamming into the stone arena wall with a bone-rattling crack. Dust rained from the ceiling. A deep thud echoed as his body crumpled to the ground in a heap.
"Urgh… cough…"
He winced, slowly pulling his hand away from his face. His palm was swollen, bruised purple where he'd managed—barely—to shield himself from the full force of the blow.
"You orcs… are really rude,"
He muttered, voice scratchy but defiant.
Across the arena, the orc stood frozen mid-step, club resting against one shoulder. It blinked once. Then again. Slowly, it scratched the side of its bald green scalp, thick fingers dragging through a scar that split one eyebrow.
It looked almost puzzled.
"How dare you attack someone during a greeting?"
Leon barked, half-rising, brushing grit off his coat with exaggerated offense.
The orc's yellow eyes lit with recognition. Something clicked.
"Chik,"
It grunted—an orcish syllable that may have meant oops.
It knelt, spine creaking, head lowered as if in solemn apology… then rose again, this time with a slow roll of its shoulders.
Leon sighed. "Finally."
His hand reached for the chipped hilt strapped to his back. Fingers wrapped around it with practiced ease. In one smooth motion, he drew the claymore free—steel scraping against the worn leather scabbard.
The blade was battered, nicked along the edge, but it still carried weight. Still had purpose.
He swung it once—a clean, vertical arc through the air that kicked up dust at his feet. His stance dropped into something tighter now, more coiled. His heels dug into the arena floor.
The orc snarled, nostrils flaring.
WHAM.
They charged.
The orc moved first, a lunging boulder of muscle and momentum, club arcing down like a falling star.
Leon met it with a shout—his claymore sweeping upward in a brutal intercept.
CLANG!
Steel met wood. The force of the clash sent a shockwave through his shoulders. His blade bit deep into the grain of the orc's club, splintering a jagged gash near the haft. The club juddered in the orc's grip, cracked but still intact.
Leon's boots slid back half a step, skidding against the stone. He gritted his teeth.
Not bad for the first swing.
"Chik!"
The orc shrieked—a piercing, primal sound that rattled through the ribcage like war drums cracked open.
It twisted, movement wild but honed from instinct. The club, battered yet still deadly, whipped around with terrifying speed—an arc of splintered wood aimed straight for Leon's skull.
"Not again!"
Leon barely had time to raise his blade. He angled the flat of the claymore up like a shield.
CRACK.
The impact hit like a battering ram. His arms numbed instantly, shoulders flaring with pain. He slid backward, boots carving two trenches into the gravel, only stopping when his heel struck a jagged piece of arena stone.
A fresh fracture split along the length of his sword where the club had struck. A spiderweb crack—hairline, but dangerous.
The orc didn't pause. Neither did Leon.
He thrust the claymore forward in a straight line, the tip a blur as it lunged toward the orc's exposed side—right where the liver would be. A clean kill if it landed.
But the orc was faster than it looked.
THWACK.
The club swung down, intercepting the blade just in time. The wood splintered further, but it held.
"Predictable!"
Leon barked, grinning through gritted teeth.
And that's when the real strike came.
The tip of the claymore slammed into the gravel, anchoring him. Using the momentum, Leon pushed down hard and kicked upward—his entire body rising in a coiled spring of motion.
His right foot blurred through the air.
THUD.
The heel of his boot crashed into the orc's temple with the weight of a blacksmith's hammer. The orc's head snapped sideways, spit flying from its mouth. For a heartbeat, its legs stuttered. The monster stumbled, balance faltering as its club wavered in its grip.
Leon flipped off the pivot point midair, twisting with a grunt before landing hard on both feet.
He didn't stop to admire the hit. His eyes locked onto the orc, watching to see if it would recover—or fall.
The crack on his blade glinted under the light. The orc blinked furiously, dazed but still upright.
"Stubborn bastard,"
Leon muttered, spitting dust from his mouth.
The claymore shot forward again, this time with blood behind the intent. Leon's muscles screamed as he drove the blade in a direct line for the orc's exposed throat.
SHLK!
Steel met flesh—but not where he aimed.
The orc twisted at the last second, and the blade sank deep into its left forearm instead. Blood sprayed—dark, thick, almost tar-like. The smell was iron and rot and something fouler, like meat that had soured in the sun.
"CHHIIIK!" the orc howled, voice shredding the air like torn cloth.
Its foot lashed out in retaliation, faster than its size should allow.
THUD.
Leon caught the full brunt of the kick in the torso. Air fled his lungs in a sharp grunt as his body was flung backward like a broken doll. He crashed into the arena wall for the second time, stone splintering behind his spine. Dust exploded outward from the impact.
His vision swam.
The world tilted, doubled, then snapped back into one smeared image of pain. He slumped to one knee, gasping, hand pressed to his ribs—something felt wrong under there. Bone or breath. Maybe both.
Across the arena, the orc snarled and wrenched its arm to the side.
The claymore, still lodged in its flesh, refused to come free. Blood streamed down its forearm, soaking into the fur-wrapped grip of the club.
Leon pushed himself up with a wheeze. His side throbbed. His vision blurred. But the orc was vulnerable now—bleeding, weapon heavy, and balance faltering.
He sprinted.
No sword. Just fists and grit.
The orc turned too late. Leon closed the distance in three pounding strides and drove his shoulder into the creature's wounded side.
It roared in pain and staggered.
Then he twisted behind it, eyes fixed on the embedded claymore.
His hand grabbed the hilt.
"Mine."
With a raw shout, he yanked it free—blood sprayed across his face, warm and thick. The orc howled, spinning wildly with its club, but Leon was already in motion again.
He ducked the wild swing and slashed.
CLANG!
The blade bit into the orc's thigh. Another wound. Another roar.
But this time, the orc didn't falter.
Its body tensed. Something in its blood boiled. Its muscles bulged with sudden, unnatural growth. The veins along its neck pulsed with a dark hue—inky black under green skin.
Leon stepped back, chest heaving.
The orc's eyes glowed with a sudden, eerie luminescence. Not just anger now—rage, primal and drugged with instinct.
Its voice dropped to a growl, guttural and ancient.
"Gror'makh…"
Leon didn't know what it meant—but it didn't sound good.
Then the orc slammed its bleeding fist against its own chest.
The earth rumbled beneath Leon's boots.
The orc raised its clawed hand, casting a monstrous shadow over Leon's crumpled form. Its breath steamed through bared tusks, eyes wild with bloodlust, lost to everything but the kill.
Leon's fingers twitched.
The orc slammed its bleeding fist against its chest again—once, twice—each strike louder than the last, like a war drum pounding from within.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Something changed.
Its breath grew louder, almost animalistic, rasping in and out through flared nostrils. The veins bulging along its neck and arms began to throb unnaturally, as if trying to burst free. Skin flushed a deeper, sickly green, mottled with black lines spidering beneath the surface.
Its spine arched back—and it roared.
Not a battle cry.
A transformation.
The sound shattered through the arena, guttural and raw, so loud that dust rained from the arches high above. Blood frothed at its lips. The club clattered to the floor—abandoned—as its fingers curled into claws.
Muscles tore at their own limits, swelling grotesquely. Its shoulders bulged, jaw widening with a sickening crack as tusks lengthened, now too large for its own mouth.
Its wounds? Still bleeding—but the pain no longer registered in its eyes.
Only the hunt did.
Leon staggered back, claymore raised instinctively, his boots skidding over stone.
"Shit," he breathed, the word barely audible. "You've gotta be kidding…"
The orc—no, the beast now—dropped to all fours for a breathless second.
Then it charged.
Not like before. Not lumbering. This time it came like a landslide—raw speed, rawer rage. Each footfall cracked stone beneath it, sending gravel in all directions.
Leon ducked the first swipe, but the wind of it nearly lifted him off his feet. He rolled to the side, narrowly dodging a wild strike that caved in part of the arena wall where his skull had been a heartbeat ago.
He slashed mid-roll—blade arcing low toward the beast's side.
SCHK.
The claymore bit flesh, but it didn't stop the momentum. The orc spun, blood trailing like a whip, and backhanded him with the force of a falling boulder.
WHAM.
Leon flew again, this time skipping across the ground like a stone on water before skidding to a brutal stop. His claymore clanged against the floor several paces away.
His arms wouldn't move.
Ribs—definitely broken now. At least two. Maybe three.
He coughed. Blood.
Still alive.
The berserk orc loomed above him, heaving with each breath, drool and blood stringing from its jaws. It raised a clawed hand, the nails curved like sickles, ready to end it.
Leon looked up at the beast.
His lips peeled back in a grin, bloody and defiant.
"Still ugly… even with the upgrade."
And then he moved.
The orc raised its clawed hand, casting a monstrous shadow over Leon's crumpled form. Its breath steamed through bared tusks, eyes wild with bloodlust, lost to everything but the kill.
Leon's fingers twitched.
His right foot slid against the floor, barely anchoring.
His hand curled, slow and trembling, around the hilt of his claymore—now streaked red, cracked, and humming faintly with aura residue.
"Time to test it…" he whispered through blood and broken teeth.
"Hope you like pork."
The orc's arm descended.
Leon moved.
In an instant, he exploded upward—no stance, no setup, just pure raw motion—his aura igniting around him in jagged streaks of crimson. The ground shattered beneath him as he launched forward like a harpoon shot from a rusted cannon.
The blade whipped behind him like a butcher's cleaver.
His voice tore from his throat in a savage battle cry:
"PIG SLAUGHTER!"
The orc's eyes widened.
Too late.
SCHK!
The claymore pierced through the back of the orc's skull—angled just beneath the cranium, punching through thick bone and into brainstem. Blood erupted from the monster's eyes and mouth like a broken dam.
It froze.
Twitched once.
Then collapsed forward like a dropped mountain, all noise cut mid-roar.
Dead.
But Leon wasn't done moving.
He couldn't stop.
The reckless, unfinished technique hadn't accounted for recovery or recoil. He had launched himself like a battering ram with no brakes. His body whipped forward, still caught in the momentum.
CRASH!
He slammed shoulder-first into the arena wall with enough force to leave a crater. His back arched on impact, air and blood flying from his mouth.
He collapsed in a heap, groaning, limbs twitching as the echo of impact rang through the arena.
Silence followed.
Dust settled.
The orc lay dead. Jaw slack, tongue lolled. A twitch in one leg, then stillness.
Leon, barely conscious, blinked up at the ceiling.
"…Okay, enough kissing the walls."
He croaked, voice hoarse.
"Needs… tweaking…"
He laughed once—then winced and coughed blood.
"Pig Slaughter… more like Self-Slaughter."
DING!
The familiar chime rang out, high and cruel.
A new window shimmered into view above Leon's battered body, its purple light flickering like a taunt.
[SKILL TREE UNLOCKED!]
[SKILL TREE: REDFANG BUTCHERY UNLOCKED!]
[SKILL: PIG SLAUGHTER UNLOCKED!]
[PIG SLAUGHTER: 10% Mastery]
Leon stared at the glowing text through half-lidded eyes.
"Ten percent?" he rasped.
"The system's too stingy... I nearly broke my spine…"
He let his head fall back to the stone floor, exhaling raggedly. Blood pooled under his shoulder. His vision blurred.
But fate wasn't finished.
DING.
[STARTING STAGE (2/5)]
"No, no, no—wait—!"
Leon's hand flailed upward, as if trying to swat the window away.
"Let me rest, you freak!"
But the arena was already groaning again. The steel gate dragged open with another grinding screech, part smoke, part shadow.
A figure stepped through.
Another orc—but not bare and feral like the first.
This one wore scrapped leather armour, mismatched and held together by frayed cords and patches of metal. A rusty sword hung from one hand, jagged and too long, the edge corroded but still sharp enough to gut.
It paused at the threshold, yellow eyes narrowing beneath its brow.
Leon didn't move.
He just stared.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
The gate slammed shut behind the newcomer.