An electric energy filled the air, buzzing with the promise of violence. The packed stone seats vibrated with excitement, each spectator alive with eager anticipation. Cheers and shouts rose and fell, creating a thunderous sound that echoed throughout the arena.
Leon limped onto the sand, each step igniting fire in his wounded leg. His ribs throbbed beneath torn bandages, and the cut on his jaw had reopened during the semifinal, blood crusting along his collar. He looked as if he had been dragged behind a horse for miles.
But he was here. Still standing. Still fighting.
The grand prize sat on display beside the tournament master's platform: a crystal vial filled with golden liquid that seemed to glow with an inner light. The Sanctuary Guild healing elixir. Military grade. It is worth more than most people earned in a lifetime. Worth his mother's life.
Leon's opponent entered from the opposite gate. Tall and athletic, he wore a plain steel mask that covered his features. The crowd erupted as he stepped onto the sand, this fighter having torn through every previous opponent with clinical precision.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The tournament master's voice boomed across the arena. "Our final match! Leon Graves, the F-Rank survivor who has defied every expectation!"
Scattered cheers mingled with nervous laughter. Leon had become a folk hero among the desperate gamblers who had bet on impossible odds.
"His opponent needs no introduction! The mysterious warrior known only as Varick Steele!"
The masked fighter raised one hand to acknowledge the crowd's roar. His movements were fluid and controlled—professional.
Leon studied his opponent's stance, sending something familiar in his posture: the slight forward lean and balanced weight distribution, like a memory hovering just out of reach.
The tournament master called for silence. "Fighters, to your positions!"
Leon walked to the center of the pit, and his opponent mirrored him, stopping ten paces away—close enough to see the green eyes behind the mask.
Leon's blood turned to ice.
Those eyes. He knew those eyes.
"Damian?" Leon's voice was barely a whisper.
The masked fighter's shoulders tensed. For a moment, neither moved. The crowd's noise faded to background static.
Slowly, Damian reached up and pulled away his mask. Familiar features emerged: the strong jaw, the aristocratic nose, and the carefully maintained appearance of someone born to privilege.
"Hello, Leon."
The arena fell silent. Even the most bloodthirsty spectators sensed that his confrontation was different.
"What are you doing here?" Leon asked quietly.
Damian's expression was unreadable. "Hunter Association business. That elixir was stolen from a military convoy three months ago. I'm here to retrieve it."
"By fighting in an illegal tournament?"
"Sometimes official channels aren't an option. The Association can't be linked to this place. Too many important people are in the crowd tonight." Damian gestured toward the VIP section, where well-dressed figures observed from behind silk curtains.
Leon nodded slowly. It made sense. The underground tournament attracted wealthy clientele who preferred bloody entertainment and unrecorded activities.
"And you?" Damian asked. "What brings the F-Rank necromancer to the Shadow Quarter's finest bloodsport?"
Leon's jaw tightened. "My mother is dying. That elixir is her only hope."
Something flickered in Damian's eyes—regret, perhaps, or sympathy quickly suppressed.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Are you?"
"You know I am."
They faced each other across ten feet of bloodstained sand, childhood friends separated by class, rank, and choices that could not be undone.
The tournament master stepped between them. "Fighters ready? This is it—winner takes all!"
Leon flexed his fingers around his backup weapon. He had lost his mana gun in the previous fight, leaving him with only a simple crossbow and whatever undead he could summon.
Damian drew his sword. The blade caught the torchlight like a captured flame—a Warblade's weapon, perfectly balanced and enchanted for durability and sharpness. It was worth more than Leon's entire neighborhood.
"May the best man win," Damian said.
Leon remained silent. Words would not change what was about to happen.
The bell clanged.
Leon immediately raised both hands. "Arouse!"
Blue light swirled around him. His Elite Grave Mage materialized first—spectral bones wrapped in dark energy, blue fire blazing in empty sockets. Then came his reconstructed assassin, reformed after the previous battle's destruction. Twin knives gleamed in her lifeless hands.
The crowd roared in approval. Two undead against one elite hunter. The odds seemed almost fair.
Damian shifted into a combat stance, his sword moving precisely to warm up his muscles and reflexes. There was no wasted motion—only pure efficiency.
The assassin struck first, flowing across the sand like a liquid shadow, her knives seeking the gaps in Damian's defense. Her first thrust aimed at his kidney.
Damian's sword swept up in a perfect arc. Steel met steel with a shower of sparks as the assassin's knife shattered against his enchanted blade.
She spun away, her second knife flashing toward his throat. Damian ducked, seized her wrist, and drove the pommel of his sword into her temple. Bone cracked, and she staggered backward.
The Mage Zombie attacked while Damian was engaged. Spectral bolts hammered into his back, each impact lighting up protective enchantments woven into his armor.
Damian spun, his sword cleaving through the air. The blade passed through spectral ribs, shattering bone into glowing fragments. The zombie's left arm fell away completely.
But the undead felt no pain. The Mage Zombie pressed forward, firing point-blank into Damian's chest. The bolt struck his breastplate and dispersed into harmless light.
Military-grade protection. Nothing Leon's undead could produce would penetrate those defenses.
The assassin rallied, attacking with her remaining knife. She was faster now, desperation pushing her beyond normal limits. Her blade found the gap between Damian's armguards, drawing a thin line of blood.
Damian's response was immediate and brutal. His sword swept low, severing the assassin's legs at the knees. She collapsed, dark ichor pooling beneath her. A second strike separated her head from her shoulders.
Now, the Mage Zombie was alone. It fought valiantly, trading spectral bolts for sword strikes, but Damian's reach and skill proved overwhelming.
He pressed forward systematically: block, strike, advance. Block, strike, advance. Each attack weakened the zombie's cohesion further.
The final blow came as a diagonal cut that split the zombie's skull in half. Blue fire guttered out as blown candles and spectral bones collapsed into powder, dissolving into nothingness.
Leon stood alone in the center of the pit. Both his undead were gone, his mana was nearly exhausted, and his crossbow held only six bolts.
Damian walked toward him with measured steps—no hurry, no wasted energy. The crowd sensed the fight's climax approaching.
Leon raised his crossbow and fired. The bolt flew true, aimed at Damian's heart. Steel rang as Damian deflected the projectile into the arena wall.
Leon fired again and again, each shot deflected with casual precision. Damian closed the distance steadily.
At five paces, Leon dropped the crossbow and drew his combat knife. The blade felt inadequate compared to Damian's enchanted weapon.
They circled each other slowly. Leon's wounds throbbed with each heartbeat, and blood loss made his vision blur at the edges.
Damian launched a simple overhead strike. Leon twisted aside, the blade missing his shoulder by mere inches. He stabbed upward with his knife, aiming for the gap beneath Damian's arm.
Damian caught his wrist, twisted it, and sent the knife spinning away. Leon felt his shoulder pop as the joint strained beyond its limits.
A boot swept Leon's legs out from under him, and he crashed to the sand, his shoulder screaming in pain. Damian's sword point rested against his throat.
"Yield," Damian said quietly.
Leon tried to rise, but his body betrayed him, muscles refusing to obey. Exhaustion and blood loss had finally caught up with him.
But he wouldn't surrender—not with his mother dying in a hospital bed three districts away.
Leon grabbed Damian's ankle and pulled. The Warblade stumbled, his sword wavering. Leon rolled away, trying to regain his feet.
Damian recovered faster. His pommel struck Leon's temple precisely, and stars exploded behind his eyes. The arena tilted sideways.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, lifting him upright only to slam him back down. Leon's vision grayed at the edges.
"Stay down," Damian whispered. "Please."
Leon struggled to rise again, his arms shaking with the effort. The crowd's roar sounded like distant thunder.
Damian's expression was heavy with regret as he raised his sword for the finishing blow—not to kill, but to end the fight with theatrical flair for the audience.
The pommel struck Leon's solar plexus, and air exploded from his lungs. Consciousness fled like smoke in wind.
Leon collapsed face-first onto bloodstained sand, his body finally surrendering to injuries that should have fallen him long ago.
The tournament master's whistle cut through the arena's roar. "Winner and champion—Varick Steele!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. Coins flew through the air as spectators climbed over each other for better views of the fallen F-Rank who had somehow made it to the finals.
Damian knelt beside Leon's motionless form. This appeared to be the traditional finishing gesture to the crowd—a final insult to the defeated.
Yet, amidst the arena's chaos, Damian's hands moved swiftly. He slipped a crystal vial from his belt pouch into the pocket of Leon's torn jacket. The healing elixir nestled against Leon's ribs, concealed from view.
"For your mother," Damian whispered, his lips barely moving. "And for what we once were."
He rose and raised his sword, acknowledging the crowd's cheers. The tournament master presented him with the winner's purse—a chest overflowing with silver coins.
But the actual prize was already gone, hidden in the pocket of an unconscious F-Rank necromancer who had fought beyond his limits for love.
As the celebration continued around them, Hunter Association agents began to filter through the crowd. Their presence was subtle yet unmistakable to those who knew what to look for.
Leon lay still on the sand, unaware that his desperate gamble had succeeded in ways he could never have imagined. The elixir pressed against his broken ribs like a promise of hope.
The city's net was closing in. But for now, in the shadow of victory and defeat, two childhood friends had found a moment of redemption in the blood-soaked arena where dreams came to die.