Karsten Rell moved like smoke, two blades spinning in his hands as he circled the pit's edge. Leon tracked his movements, his mana gun steady.
The crowd knew this fighter. Whispers carried his dark reputation—three hunters dead over a contract dispute, his license revoked, and now living underground ever since.
"Another F-Rank pretender." Rell's voice cut through the noise. "You won't last thirty seconds."
Leon remained silent, conversing his breath.
The bell rang.
Rell closed the distance in an instanst. Leon fired once—missed. The ex-hunter weaved between shots as if he could read Leon's intentions.
A knife flickered toward Leon's throat. He jerked back, the blade grazing his collar instead of finding its mark.
Rell's second knife came low, aimed at Leon's ribs. Leon twisted, feeling the steel part of his fabric. Warm blood trickled down his side.
The crowd roared in approval. Real blood. Real danger.
Leon backpedaled and fired again. Rell batted the mana shot aside with his blade, deflecting it as if it were a physical object. The round ricocheted off the stone.
"Stand still," Rell taunted.
Leon's next shot caught only empty air. Rell had already moved, circling left with predatory patience, reading Leon's rhythm and timing.
A weighted club appeared in Rell's off-hand. He whipped it across Leon's temple before he could react.
Stars exploded behind Leon's eyes. Blood blurred his vision, and the pit tilted sideways.
Rell pressed his advantage. The club struck Leon's shoulder, spinning him around. Another blow cracked against his ribs—the same ones Elise had healed.
Leon stumbled, his vision fading. The taste of salt and copper filled his mouth.
Rell swept Leon's legs out from under him. He crashed hard, his shoulder popping from its socket on impact. Fire shot down his arm.
The ex-hunter pinned him with a knee to the chest, steel pressing against Leon's throat.
"Surrender," Rell said. "I'll make it quick."
Leon stared up through blood and sweat, the crowd chanting for the kill as betting boards flashed updated odds.
"No."
Leon scooped up sand his good hand and flung it into Rell's eyes.
Rell cursed and jerked back, his expression twisted in rage. Leon wrenched himself sideways, his shoulder screaming in protest as his dislocated arm hung uselessly at his side.
They both struggled to their feet. Rell wiped sand from his face, fury etched across his features.
Leon fired with one hand, the shot striking Rell's thigh. The ex-hunter stumbled but managed to stay on his feet.
"Lucky shot." Rell spat.
With a roar, Rell charged again. Leon couldn't dodge—he was too slow and too injured. Instead, he braced himself for the impact.
Rell's knife scraped against Leon's ribs just as Leon's skull colluded with Rell's nose.
Bone crunched, and blood sprayed. Rell staggered backward, momentarily dazed.
Seizing the opportunity, Leon pressed his mana gun against Rell's chest and fired at point-blank range.
The shot cracked ribs, and Rell folded around the impact, gasping for breath.
With a surge of adrenaline, Leon grabbed Rell's shirt with his good hand and slammed the ex-hunter against the pit wall, pressing the gun barrel into his stomach.
"Yield." Leon demanded.
Rell spat blood defiantly. "Go to hell."
Without hesitation, Leon pulled the trigger.
The matchmaster's whistle cut through the crowd's roar. "Winner by survival—Graves!"
Leon collapsed against the wall, his vision swimming. Each heartbeat sent a throb of pain through his dislocated shoulder.
Medics dragged Rell away, still breathing—barely.
Leon slumped in the sand, tasting iron in his mouth. Two matches down, five to go.
The crowd's energy shifted; the jokes about the skinny necromancer faded. Betting odds flickered as gamblers reassessed the situation.
Hark appeared at the edge of the pit. "Medical?"
Leon shook his head. "Can't afford it."
"Smart. Save your silver for when you really need it."
Leon crawled toward the gate, his zombie materializing in the tunnel beyond, offering silent support. After the fight, their connection felt stronger—loyalty forged through shared struggle.
"Next match in twenty minutes," the announcer called. "Graves versus the Crimson Triplets!"
Twins. Leon had heard whispers about them—two fighters who moved as if they shared one mind. They had never lost when paired together.
Reached the holding area, Leon collapsed on a wooden bench. Blood dripped from his split brow onto the dirt floor.
Vera approached, holding out a water skin. "Drink."
Leon accepted it gratefully. The liquid tasted like rust but washed away the metallic tang in his mouth.
"The triplets fight as one unit," Vera explained. "Mirror movements shared tactics. They've killed seven opponents between them."
Leon tested his injured shoulder; it was still useless. Fighting one-handed against three seemed impossible.
"Any weaknesses?" he asked.
"They depend on each other completely. Separate them, and they panic."
Leon nodded, feeling his zombie pulse with understanding through their link. It had been watching and learning.
The gate opened again. It was time to face the triplets.
Leon stood unsteadily. His vision had cleared, but his body felt like shattered glass.
Two identical fighters awaited him in the pit—red hair, matching scars, moving in perfect synchronization, breathing in unison.
The crowd surged forward, eager for the spectacle—either a brutal execution or an impossible comeback.
Leon stepped onto the sand, blood still dripping from his wounds.
The triplets smiled identical, cold smiles.
"Look, brother," one said. "A walking corpse."
"Already half-dead," the other replied. "We'll finish the job."
The matchmaster raised his hand. "Final match of the evening—Graves versus the Crimson Triplets!"
The bell rang, and two out of the triplets attacked simultaneously, perfectly coordinated death closing in from two directions.