The battlefield was no longer just a test.It had become a war zone.
Bodies lay sprawled across the arena floor—some unconscious, others… not as lucky. The cries of pain and clashing steel drowned beneath the feverish cheering of the bandits watching above. The number of fighters had dwindled. From fifty, now only twenty-two remained. And the countdown to fifteen had begun.
Kat stood face-to-face with his opponent—a man wielding twin blades, his stance loose, but radiating confidence. His blond hair fluttered with the wind, his eyes cold and calculating.
"Name's Molly," the man said with a smirk. "Best swordsman in the land cities. And I'm not here to die."
Kat narrowed his eyes. He could feel it—the pressure, the sharpness of Molly's killing intent. It wasn't idle boasting.
It was truth.
The moment started with silence.
Then, like lightning—they clashed.
Kat charged forward, activating his technique:"Sword Dance."
His blade shimmered with shadowy light, his body moving like a whirlwind—slashes flowing in elegant, deadly rhythm.
But Molly was faster.
"Sword Barrier."
A shimmering wall of spinning blades formed around him, deflecting Kat's flurry. The sound of clashing steel echoed like thunder, sparks flying, sweat pouring.
Kat gritted his teeth, his arms growing heavy.
"Tch… this guy," he muttered. "He's not just fast—he's surgical."
But he couldn't give up. Not now. If he lost here, Aryan would be alone. If he died here… his dream would rot in the Wasteland.
Elsewhere in the arena, Aryan weaved through the crumbling debris, bruised and bloodied, his heart pounding as each second passed.
That's when he appeared—a walking furnace of death.
The man was tall, muscular, his eyes glowing orange like molten lava. His body was covered in flickering red flames, his arms wrapped in writhing fire. The air around him shimmered, distorted by the heat.
"So, you're one of the desperate ones."The flame-covered man smirked. "You can call me Blot. You'll want to remember that name—since it'll be the last one you ever hear."
Aryan stared at him, trying to analyze. His own strength lay in enhanced speed, strength, and raw force—but fire? This was different. This was magic that burned on contact.
How do you punch a man who sets the air on fire?
Aryan's fists clenched, knuckles cracking.
"Tch… Flame armor," he muttered. "Can't touch him... unless I find another way."
But he had no time.
With a shout, Blot roared forward, his flame twisting into shape—a sword made of pure fire.
"Burn with me!"
And then—he struck.
A blinding arc of fire slashed toward Aryan—
And the screen went white.