The underground arena buzzed with electric tension. Leon descended the stone steps, each footfall echoing in the packed amphitheater. His ribs ached from the previous night's battles, dried blood still crusting beneath hastily applied bandages.
The crowd pressed against the stone barriers, their voices a constant hum of anticipation. Silver coins flashed between hands as betting odds shifted. The skinny F-Rank necromancer had become an unlikely favorite among desperate gamblers.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The tournament master's voice boomed across the pit. "Tonight's quarterfinal match features our surprise survivor against a legend of the underground!"
Leon stepped onto the blood-soaked sand. His mana gun felt heavy in his grip, ammunition running low after three brutal fights. His zombie waited in the shadows beyond the pit's edge, their connection pulsing with shared exhaustion.
"Introducing Merik 'Quickknife' Fenn! Forty-seven sanctioned kills across three kingdoms!"
The crowd erupted as a figure emerged from the opposite gate. Merik moved like flowing water, each step perfectly balanced. Twin knives hung from his belt, their edges gleaming with fresh oil. Geometric scars covered his forearms—tally marks of fallen opponents.
Leon had heard whispers about Quickknife, a former military assassin discharged for excessive violence. His speed bordered on the supernatural, and his precision was legendary among underground fighters.
Merik studied Leon with cold calculation. No emotion flickered in those pale eyes—just a professional assessment of a target to be eliminated.
"F-Rank," Merik said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Three men couldn't finish you. Let's see if one can."
The referee stepped between them. Both fighters moved to opposite sides of the pit. Leon's wounds throbbed beneath his shirt. His dislocated shoulder had stiffened overnight, limiting his mobility.
"Fighters ready?"
Leon raised his gun. Merik's hands drifted toward his knife hilts.
The bell clanged.
Merik vanished.
Leon spun, searching frantically. A blade whistled past his ear, carving a shallow line across his cheek. Blood trickled down his jaw.
He turned toward the sound, but Merik had already moved. Steel flashed near his ribs. Leon jerked backward, the knife's tip parting his shirt.
The crowd held its breath. This wasn't a fight; it was a predator toying with wounded prey.
Leon fired at empty air. His mana round scorched the sand where Merik had been just a heartbeat before.
The assassin reappeared behind him, his blade slicing across Leon's forearm. Warm blood soaked into his sleeve.
Merik's footwork was silent. His attacks came from impossible angles, each precise enough to wound without killing. He was prolonging the performance for the crowd's entertainment.
Another cut opened across Leon's thigh, then his opposite shoulder. Each wound was shallow but deliberate, designed to weaken rather than finish him off.
Leon's gun tracked desperately, always a step behind. Merik fought like smoke given form, never occupying the same space twice.
The assassin appeared at Leon's left flank. Steel lunged toward his ribs, aimed between the bones. Leon twisted frantically, the blade skimming his skin instead of penetrating his lung.
Blood ran freely now. Leon's shirt clung to his chest, soaked crimson. His vision blurred at the edges.
He needed a new strategy. Matching Merik's speed was impossible. Reading his patterns proved futile—the man fought without rhythm or predictable sequence.
But Leon had survived this long by thinking differently.
He stopped trying to track Merik's movements. Instead, he focused on the crowd. Their eyes followed the assassin like spectators at a tennis match, their gasps preceeding each attack by mere seconds.
Leon used their reactions as an early warning. When heads turned left, he shifted right. When the crowd drew breath, he prepared to dodge.
A blade swept toward his throat. Leon ducked, guided by a child's startled cry from the stands. Steel whispered over his head.
Merik's pale eyes flickered with the first hint of interest. His prey was adapting.
The assassin pressed harder. Attacks came faster and from more angles. Leon's improvised defense began to break down. A cut opened across his collarbone, deep enough to scrape bone. Blood poured down his chest.
Leon stumbled, his knees threatening to buckle. Exhaustion and blood loss clouded his thoughts.
Merik sensed weakness. He closed in for the killing stroke, both knives raised. The crowd roared in anticipation.
Leon waited until the last possible moment. As Merik lunged, he feigned collapse, dropping to one knee. The assassin's blades swept over his head.
Leon drove upward with his good elbow, connecting with Merik's jaw. Bone cracked. The assassin staggered backward, stunned.
Leon fired point-blank. The mana round grazed Merik's shoulder, spinning him around. First blood is drawn against the legendary killer.
Merik's expression shifted. Professional interest replaced his cold calculation. His prey had teeth.
They circled each other, both wounded. Blood flowed freely from Merik's shoulder, limiting the range of his left arm. Leon's multiple cuts had significantly weakened him.
The assassin attacked with renewed fury. Both knives moved in perfect coordination, seeking vital organs. Leon retreated, using his gun as a club when the blades came too close.
Steel scraped against his gun barrel, sending sparks flying. Merik thrust his second knife toward Leon's stomach. Leon twisted, the blade sliding along his ribs instead of penetrating.
They grappled briefly. Leon seized Merik's knife hand, preventing a stab to his kidney. Merik drove his knee into Leon's wounded thigh.
Leon bit back a scream. His leg nearly gave out, but he maintained his grip on Merik's wrist.
They separated, both breathing heavily. Sweat mixed with blood on their faces.
Merik wiped crimson from his mouth. "Not bad for dead weight."
Leon remained silent. He had one mana round left. There were no room for error.
The assassin lunged again, moving with desperate speed. His reputation was on the line. Forty-seven kills could not end with a defeat at the hands of an F-Rank nobody.
Leon sensed the crowd's reaction, shifting left to avoid a throat cut, then right to escape a stomach thrust. But his vision was fading. Blood loss made his movements sluggish.
Merik's blade found its mark. Steel pierced Leon's side, sliding between his ribs. Pain exploded through his torso.
But Leon seized the knife hand as it withdrew. His grip locked like iron despite the agony. Merik's eyes widened—he couldn't pull free.
Leon twisted Merik's wrist, applying pressure to the joint. Bones ground together, and the assassin's grip loosened.
The knife clattered to the sand.
Leon drove his knee into Merik's ribs, feeling something crack. The assassin doubled over, gasping.
Leon pressed his gun barrel against Merik's thigh and fired his final round.
The mana bolt shattered bone, tearing through muscle and sinew. Merik's leg folded at an unnatural angle, and he collapsed, screaming.
Leon stood over his fallen opponent, his vision swimming. Blood dripped steadily from his wounds onto the sand.
Merik reached for his remaining knife with a trembling hand. Leon placed his boot on the assassin's throat, applying just enough pressure to make his point clear.
"Yield."
Merik's hand went still. After a long moment, he nodded.
The matchmaster's whistle cut through the crowd's roar. "Winner by submission—Graves!"
The arena erupted. Spectators threw coins and torn clothing into the pit. Leon had done the impossible—he had defeated a legend.
Leon stumbled toward the gate, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his body. His zombie materialized beside him, offering silent support through their mental link.
Before he could reach the medical station, a well-dressed man intercepted him. The tournament organizer, despite the underground setting, was wearing expensive silk, and gold rings adorned his fingers.
"Impressive performance," the man said, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Very impressive indeed."
Leon tried to push past, but two bodyguards blocked his path.
"I have a proposition," the organizer continued. "More money than you've ever seen. Enough to cover your mother's treatment twice over."
He produced a leather pouch heavy with silver coins that clinked softly as he hefted it.
"All you have to do is walk away. Don't show up for the semifinals. It's a simple business transaction."
Leon stared at the money. It was more wealth than his family had earned in five years, and his mother's medicine bills could be paid in full.
"What's the catch?"
The organizer's smile widened. "Your next opponent has certain financial backers. Important people who have invested heavily in his success prefer guaranteed returns on their investments."
"And if I refuse?"
"Accidents happen to stubborn fighters, especially those without proper protection."
The threat hung in the air like smoke. Leon understood perfectly. He could take the money or face consequences far worse than the fighting pit.
He pushed the pouch away. "I'll take my chances."
The organizer's expression hardened. "Disappointing. I had hoped for pragmatism."
His bodyguards stepped aside, but their eyes promised future attention. Leon walked past them toward the exit.
The medical station was little more than a folding table stocked with basic supplies. Leon paid for alcohol and bandages, allowing a scarred woman to clean his worst wounds. There was no healing magic—just survival.
"You're either very brave or foolish," she remarked while stitching his side.
"Probably both," he replied.
The hospital was three districts away, located in the city's most affluent quarter. Leon climbed the marble steps with aching legs, his clothes still stained with blood and sand.
His mother's room felt darker than before. Machines hummed softly, monitoring vital signs that grew weaker each day. She lay motionless among white sheets, her breathing shallow and irregular.
A doctor intercepted him at the bedside. His expression was professionally neutral, but his words cut deep.
"Without immediate specialized treatment, she has perhaps two days left. The cost of such treatment… well, it exceeds what most families can afford."
Leon stared at his mother's pale face. All his fighting, all his pain, and he was still losing the only battle that truly mattered.
"How much?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The doctor named a sum that made Leon's chest tighten. It was more than the tournament's grand prize, more than he could earn in years of honest work.
As the midnight bells chimed across the city, Leon left the hospital. His footsteps echoed through the empty streets leading back to the Shadow Quarters.
His apartment building leaned against its neighbors like exhausted workers. Leon climbed the creaking stairs to the third floor, exhaustion weighing on every step.
He unlocked his door and stepped into the familiar darkness. The single room smelled of mildew and desperation—home.
Leon collapsed onto his narrow cot without changing out of his bloodstained clothes. His wounds throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Tomorrow brought the semifinals, and victory felt more distant than ever.
Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by dreams of his mother's face and the sound of betting crowds calling for blood.
He woke to cold steel pressing against his throat.
A figure loomed over his bed, its features hidden in shadow. The blade remained steady—professional and practiced.
"Leon Graves," a woman's voice whispered. "You should have taken the money."