The fighting pit reeked of old blood and torch smoke. Stone steps rose from the sand like seats of an ancient amphitheater seats. Gamblers filled every level, waving silver coins and shouting odds.
Leon stepped through the gate, his heart pounding. Across the sand stood his opponent—seven feet of muscle adorned with glowing tattoos. Enhancement magic pulsed red and orange beneath his scarred skin.
"On the left, F-Rank Necromancer!" The announcer's voice boomed off stone walls. "On the right, Boldo the Butcher—unbeaten in three matches!"
Laughter erupted from the crowd. Jeers followed.
"Look at those bones!"
"Hey, Necro! Did your mummy pack you lunch?"
"He'll last thirty seconds!"
Leon ignored them, though his bandaged ribs ached beneath his shirt. The specialized mana gun felt reassuringly solid in his grip.
The referee stepped between them. "No outside magic. There is no direct summoning inside the pit. All equipment is subject to inspection."
Leon's zombie retreated to the shadows beyond the fighting area, still connected through their mental link but unable to manifest here. Hark's voice echoed in his memory: "Don't fight the flesh. Fight the engine."
Boldo cracked his knuckles, revealing three missing teeth in his grin. "Nothing personal, necro. But I need that prize."
The bell clanged.
Boldo charged like a boulder rolling downhill, his massive fists swung like sledgehammers. Leon sidestepped, maintaining his distance, and fired once.
The mana round struck Boldo's shoulder but did nothing. The enhancement tattoos flared brighter, healing the small wound instantly.
The crowd roared. Boldo laughed, swinging again.
Leon circled, observing not just the muscles but the movement. Boldo favored his left leg slightly, and his right elbow took longer to recover after extended swings. Enhancement magic could heal flesh but couldn't fix structural damage quickly enough.
Leon fired again, this time aiming for Boldo's left knee. The ligament snapped. Boldo stumbled, his tattoos flashing, as they tried to repair the damage, but healing took time.
"Stand still and fight!" Boldo roared.
Leon's second shot caught the big man's right elbow, rupturing the tendon. Boldo's arm sagged, and his next punch swung wide, missing its target.
The crowd's jeers turned uncertain; this wasn't going as expected.
With a fierce grip, Boldo siezed Leon with his good arm and slammed him against the pit wall. The rough stone scraped Leon's back, eliciting howls of approval from the crowd.
In a swift motion, Leon jammed his mana gun under Boldo's armpit and fired at point-blank range. The shoulder joint popped, and Boldo's regeneration faltered, overwhelmed by compounded trauma.
Leon dropped and rolled away, grabbing a handful of sand and throwing it into Boldo's eyes. As the giant staggered and blinded, Leon methodically targeted his legs, firing two quick shots at his ankle and calf. Boldo's support crumpled beneath him.
The big man swung wildly, barely able to stand. Leon circled behind and emptied his last round into the back of Boldo's knee.
Boldo crashed face-first into the sand.
He tried to crawl, but his body wouldn't obey. His joints were ruined, muscles twitching as his regeneration flickered and he finally died.
Silence enveloped the pit.
The matchmaster raised his hand. "Winner—the necromancer! Advancing to round two!"
Scattered applause mingled with confused murmurs. The betting boards flickered, adjusting the odds slightly, but most spectators still looked skeptical.
Leon limped toward the holding area, his gun in need of reloading and his ribs throbbing where Boldo had grabbed him.
Hark caught his eye from the crowd, nodding faintly, impressed.
"That was surgical," someone said from behind him.
He turned to see a woman with intricate facial scars studying him with professional interest. "Name's Vera. C-Rank before I fell on hard times." She gestured toward the betting boards. "They still don't believe you can win."
"Good. Lower expectations mean better odds."
Vera laughed. "Smart. Most fighters here depend on brute force. You think like a hunter."
Leon dropped and rolled away, grabbing a handful of sand and throwing it into Boldo's eyes. As the giant staggered and blinded, Leon methodically targeted his legs, firing two quick shots at his ankle and calf. Boldo's support crumbled beneath him.
The big man swung wildly, barely able to stand. Leon circled behind and emptied his last round into the back of Boldo's knee.
Boldo crashed face-first into the sand.
He tried to crawl, but his body wouldn't obey. His joints were ruined, muscles twitching as his regeneration flickered, and he finally died.
Silence enveloped the pit.
The matchmaster raised his hand. "Winner—the necromancer! Advancing to round two!"
Scattered applause mingled with confused murmurs. The betting boards flickered, adjusting the odds slightly, but most spectators still looked skeptical.
Leon limped toward the holding area, his gun in need of reloading and his ribs throbbing where Boldo had gripped him.
Hark caught his eye from the crowd, nodding faintly, impressed.
"That was surgical," someone said from behind him.
He turned to see a woman with intricate facial scars studying him with professional interest. "Name's Vera. C-Rank before I fell on hard times." She gestured toward the betting boards. "They still don't believe you can win."
"Good. Lower expectations mean better odds," Leon replied.
Vera laughed, a sound rich with understanding. "Smart. Most fighters here rely on brute force. You think like a hunter."
---
Leon reloaded his weapon with Hark's specialized rounds, prioritizing penetration over raw damage and precision over power.
"How many matches?" he asked.
"Seven in total. It's single elimination. Winners face increasingly desperate opponents." Vera's scars twisted into a smile that was both unsettling and alluring. "The final prize is worth dying for: a Sanctuary Guild healing elixir. Military grade."
"Military grade" meant it could cure ailments beyond the reach of conventional medicine, including his mother's wasting disease.
"Next match in ten minutes," the announcer called. "Graves versus Karsten Rell!"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd—recognition and excitement mingled in the air.
Vera's expression darkened. "Rell used to be C-Rank. He lost his license after killing three hunters in a contract dispute and has been living underground ever since."
Leon checked his interface. His mana had recovered, and his zombie was ready in the shadows.
"Any advice?" he asked.
"He's fast, loves knives, and holds grudges against anyone who still has their license."
The holding area gate swung open, and Leon stepped back into the pit's bloody sand.
In the center, his opponent awaited. Karsten Rell looked lean and dangerous, multiple blade sheaths crisscrossing his chest. His eyes held the cold focus of a man who had killed for money.
"Another F-Rank?" Rel sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "They're scraping the bottom now."
The crowd buzzed with anticipation. This fight would be different—faster, deadlier.
Leon positioned himself carefully. Rell's stance suggested speed over power; those knives could sever arteries before enhancement magic could heal.
The referee stepped back. "Fighters ready?"
Rell drew two blades simultaneously. Leon raised his mana gun.
The bell rang.
"Next up: Leon Graves versus Karsten Rell, former C-Rank hunter!" The crowd's energy crackled with electricity. Leon faced his opponent—a hard-faced, scarred man whose notorious reputation for killing loomed over the pit like a dark cloud.