The arena fell silent as Leon stepped onto the blood-soaked sand. His shoulder hung at an unnatural angle from the previous fight, and dried blood formed a rust-colored mask across half his face.
In the center of the pit, three identical fighters awaited him. The Crimson triplets moved like parts of a single organism—fluid, synchronized, and lethal. Their red hair caught the torchlight, and matching scars carved deliberate patterns across their arms. They also had short swords gleamed with fresh oil.
Leon had never faced three opponents at once. The math was simple: three blades meant three times the chance of dying.
The crowd pressed against the stone barriers, coins flashing as bookmakers adjusted the odds. The skeletal F-Rank had surprised them twice already. Perhaps luck was finally running out.
"Look, brothers," the center triplet said, his voice dripping with casual confidence. "Walking corpse."
"Already bleeding," the left brother added, studying Leon's wounds professionally.
"We finish this quick," the right brother chimed in. They spoke as if pieces of a conversation split between three mouths.
They arranged themselves in a perfect triangle around Leon. He turned slowly, trying to track all three positions, but his vision swam from blood loss. His good arm ached from gripping the mana gun.
The clang of the bell faded. Three bodies moved as one.
The left triplet came in low, sword angled toward Leon's ribs. The right triplet mirrored him perfectly, his blade seeking Leon's throat. Behind them, the third brother held position, sword poised to exploit any opening.
Leon twisted to the left. The blade aimed at his throat whistled past his ear, the wind from the strike brushing against him. The low blade caught his thigh instead of his ribs, steel parting cloth and skin. Blood welled immediately.
He fired at the left attacker, the mana around burning the air where the triplet had been. In the same heartbeat, all three had shifted position, rotating their triangle formation clockwise around him.
The right triplet's blade swept horizontally. Leon ducked just in time, steel carving empty space above his head. As he straightened, the third brother lunged from behind. Leon spun, bringing his gun up. The triplet's sword scraped along the barrel, sparks flying.
They reset formation instantly: one to the left, another to the right, and the third time the center, Al with perfect spacing. Leon turned in place, desperately trying to track all three. His wounded thigh throbbed with each step.
The left triplet feinted high, then cut low at Leon's knees. Leon jumped backward, but his heel caught the arena's edge, stone scraping his back.
The right triplet pressed forward, his blade slicing across Leon's forearm. Shallow but precise. Blood trickled down to his knuckles, and Leon's grip on the gun slipped.
The center triplet stepped closer, and all three closed the distance together, tightening their triangle. Leon had maybe three feet of space left.
They struck in sequence: the left blade high, the right blade at mid-level, and the center blade low.
Leon threw himself sideways. The high blade missed, but the middle blade caught his shirt, tearing fabric. The low blade bit into his calf.
He rolled across the sand and came up firing. The mana round punched into the left triplet's shoulder. He grunted but didn't fall, blood soaked his shirt.
All three adjusted their formation to accommodate their wounded brother. The left triplet moved to a support position while the other two took point.
Leon's back hit stone again, he was trapped.
The right triplet smiled. "Finished."
Both point fighters charged together, their perfect timing, and there was no gap between them.
Leon aimed at the ground between their feet and fired.
Mana exploded against the stone, sending debris erupting upward. Sharp fragments stung his exposed skin, and both attackers stumbled, their flawless synchronization shattered.
Seizing the moment, Leon lunged through the gap. His gun barrel connected with the right triplet's jaw, and he heard the bone cracked. The fighter's eyes rolled back as he collapsed.
The left triplet screamed, raw fury replacing his earlier calculated precision. He raised his sword with both hands and brought it down in a vicious overhead strike.
Leon grabbed the unconscious brother's body and dragged it between himself and the descending blade. Steel bit deep into dead flesh instead of living.
The sword became stuck, and the triplet struggled to wrench it free.
Leon pressed the muzzle of his gun against the corpse's chest, angling the shot toward the struggling fighter, and pulled the trigger.
The mana round punched through ribs and sternum, emerging from the dead body's back and continuing into the living triplet's chest cavity.
Blood erupted from the second brother's chest as he folded over the wound, his sword clattering to his sand. His legs gave out, and he collapsed beside his sibling's corpse.
The center triplet stared at his fallen brothers, blood dripping from his wounded shoulder onto the sand. His sword hand trembled.
"We don't lose," he whispered, his voice thick with anger and fear. "Never lose."
But instead of fleeing, rage consumed him. He screamed, expressing a raw, animalistic fury, as he charged at Leon with his blade raised high.
Leon sidestepped, letting the triplet's momentum carry him past. The gun barrel cracked against the back of the fighter's skull. He stumbled but managed to stayed upright.
Spinning around, the triplet slashed wildly, steel whistling through the air. Leon jerked backward, narrowingly avoiding the blade that missed his throat by mere inches.
Determined, the triplet pressed forward. Blood leaked from his wounded shoulder, but it didn't slow him down. He swung horizontally at Leon's ribs.
Leon ducked, the sword sweeping over his head. Rising quickly, he drove the stick of his gun into the triplet's stomach, forcing the air from the fighter's lungs.
Doubling over, the triplet maintained his grip on the sword and thrust upward mindlessly.
Steel grazed Leon's side; though shallow, it was painful, and blood soaked his shirt.
Leon seized the triplet's wrist and twisted hard, feeling the bones grind together. The sword clattered to the ground.
In retaliation, the triplet threw a wild punch, connecting with Leon's jaw. Stars exploded in Leon's vision.
Both fighters staggered apart, and the triplet dove for his fallen sword.
But Leon's mana rounded through the triplet's spine.
The fighter's back arched and his scream cut off mid-breath as he collapsed face-first into the bloody sand.
His fingers twitched once, then fell still.
Leon stood over three corpses, with smoke coming out of his gun barrel. The crowd erupted in frenzied cheers.
Medics stormed the pit, their rough hands dragging the lifeless bodies toward the gates. Others splashed harsh alcohol across Leon's wounds, ingniting a fire that spread through his cuts; there is no healing magic, only survival.
"Drink." A medic shoved a bottle at his lips. The liquid tasted like mud but cleared his vision.
Leon's zombie appeared at the pit's edge, their connection pulsing with exhaustion and satisfaction.
The tournament master climbed onto his platform, his voice booming across the packed seats.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight's survivor advances to tomorrow's quarterfinals!" He gestured to the remaining fighters gathered at the pit's edge. "Eight warriors remain. Three more battles stand between our finalists and glory."
Leon counted the survivors: scarred veterans, desperate hunters, men and women with nothing left to lose.
The master lifted a crystal vial filled with golden liquid, its inner light causing it to glow. "The ultimate prize: Sanctuary Guild healing elixir. Military grade, it cures any wound, any disease, any curse."
The crowd erupted in cheers. Leon gazed at the vial through a haze of blood and sweat. It was just three fights away.
"Tomorrow night, the quarterfinals begin!" the master continued. "Our F-Rank survivor faces his greatest test yet!"
A gate opened across the pit, and a figure emerged from the shadows.
Leon's blood turned to ice.
The man moved with the fluidity of mercury, six throwing knives glinting in his belt. Geometric scars adorned his arms, tally marks of fallen opponents.
"Merik Quickknife Fenn!" the master decleared. "Forty-seven sanctioned kills. His speed is unmatched across three kingdoms."
Quickknife studied Leon with a cold, mechanical stare. There was no emotion—only a chilling evaluation.
"F-Rank," Quickknife said, his voice lacking warmth. "Three men couldn't kill you. Tomorrow we'll find out if one can."
He turned and exited without any formality.
Leon slumped against the pit wall, every muscle protesting in agony. His dislocated shoulder felt like molten metal.
Three more fights. Three more chances to die.
The golden elixir awaited him beyond a gauntlet of legends.