Port City of Cartag – 10:00 A.M.
Cartag Amphitheater – Royal Viewing Booth
After Sam walked off, Alex covered his face with both hands, scrambling for a strategy. The longer he let time pass, the stronger that slave's impression would linger in the minds of the crowd.
Alex: — "Tell the announcer: resume the matches immediately."
Seconds later, out on the battlefield, the announcer swung his arm down and kicked off the next round.
Young Hans Leivert faced off against a three-meter orc, a rank-B monster. His sword trembled in his hands, his breath flinched with every roar from the beast. And yet, by pouring his aura into the blade, he pulled off the impossible: he brought the giant down with a single, precise slash. The crowd erupted in cheers.
One by one, fighters stepped forward. Some managed to prevail; others were torn apart into mangled meat within seconds. Four died quicker than a held breath.
Then the announcer's voice rose with a fervor that electrified the arena:
Announcer: — "Ladies and gentlemen! Prepare yourselves to welcome the prodigy of Nordkrieger, heir of the Battler Clan, James... son of the great Simund!"
The ovation was deafening.
Announcer: — "And against him..." —he raised his voice with theatrical weight— "the alphas of the infernal hounds, the grønne flammer!"
The cages shook. Massive claws scraped the bars, and three beasts the size of horses burst onto the field. Their eyes glowed with a sickly green light, and each exhale spat out crackling embers.
James didn't take a single step back. His cold stare didn't belong to a 14-year-old boy.
Rank A… that's gonna hurt. But I can handle it.
The gate rose, and the hounds lunged like streaks of green lightning. Bites, slashes, whip-like tails. James dodged every charge with supernatural instinct, his body moving a fraction before every strike.
"Damn it… I don't want to use those moves here. I want to surprise Hockenheim in the semifinals. But these mutts are annoying."
He spun on his axis and drove a punch into one hound's ribs, sending it tumbling across the arena. But the instant his arm stretched out, another grønne pounced from behind and clamped its scorching fangs into his left arm.
The venom burned like molten fire beneath his skin. James gritted his teeth, his eyes flashing with a berserk glow.
— You damn mutts… now I'm pissed.
The crowd rose to their feet as the boy began to move with terrifying precision. Every strike grew sharper, faster. Jaws lunging for his throat met a brutal elbow. Claws reaching to tear him open were redirected with a twist of his hips.
In the front row, April gripped the edge of her seat, heart pounding.
"That's it, James… show them what you learned at the Ice Palace."
One of the grønne tried ambushing him from his blind spot. James turned just enough, and his fist came down like a hammer on the beast's skull. The blow was so brutal the stone floor cracked under his feet, while the hound went limp, its head reduced to pulp.
The audience roared.
The battle spiraled into a blood-soaked dance. James, his burned arm still smoking, unleashed his fury. Within minutes, all three grønne flammer lay shredded across the arena—killed not by sword, but by the bare fists of a child.
The Battler heir lifted his face, chest heaving, drenched in sweat and blood that wasn't his. Priests rushed in to heal him, but the image was already burned into the minds of everyone watching:
That kid wasn't a competitor. He was a monster in human flesh.
From his seat, Alex clicked his tongue.
"I wanted that brat dead, but whatever. At least I've already given the order… this should drown out the impression that damn slave left behind."
***
Beneath the Arena – Underground Prison
Deep beneath the amphitheater, under tons of black stone, the underground prison seeped with dampness. Footsteps echoed through narrow corridors, accompanied by a constant dripping sound and the muffled roars of caged beasts. The air reeked of metal—dried blood and fear.
The mithril cages shook with every impact from the monsters inside. The Jundurs—creatures with beam-thick muscles and jaws capable of ripping steel apart—kept ramming the bars with maddening hunger.
A pale-faced assistant broke the silence with a trembling voice:
— Are we seriously throwing all the Jundurs at the superhumans?
The assistant walking ahead—his hands clasped behind his back, carrying the cold posture of an executioner—didn't stop.
— We've got no choice, Tako, —he replied in a deep tone—. Galio said His Highness ordered it. The public must not have even a hint of doubt about a superhuman's strength.
Tako clicked his tongue, eyeing the beasts warily.
— What a waste, Goper. Replenishing these beasts will take years. Chairs Jungle eats men faster than they can walk.
Goper kept moving.
— I know. But if the Imperial royalty demands it, then every last Jundur dies in the arena.
— I'll prepare the mechanisms, —Tako sighed in resignation—. You'll give Lord Galio the signal to start the superhuman matches.
— I have the Crystal Sphere. Don't worry.
***
On the Surface
The following rounds were a spectacle of pure, unfiltered brutality.
The Mercenary King, Franklin Michelli, killed his Jundur with a single strike—ripping its head clean off as the crowd howled in savage delight. Rick carved his apart with his war axe in a frenzy of steel and muscle.
But the one who left everyone breathless was Captain Lucius, pride of the Empire. With nothing but a flare of his aura, he made the magical barrier protecting the spectators tremble; and when he unleashed his power through his sword, ten Jundurs were reduced to chunks of meat and bone in an instant. The ground fractured as if a god had struck it.
The superhumans had surpassed every expectation. They had proven themselves titans among men. And yet, beneath the audience's roaring cheers, the whispers refused to die.
They weren't talking about the Mercenary King.Nor Rick.Not even Lucius.
They spoke of the slave with the strange helmet.
The one who appeared with that music no one could get out of their heads.The one who looked too young.
— Where did he come from? —some asked.
— Does he belong to a hidden kingdom? —others whispered.
— What if he's also a superhuman? —many feared.
The doubts spread like slow poison.
In one of the stands, a child tugged at his father's tunic.
— Father, what are superhumans?
The man, a hardened merchant, looked down at him with seriousness.
— They're the strongest on the continent, son. The elite of all strength.
— Really?
— Yes. They say there are fifteen in total, but only nine are publicly known.
The boy's eyes gleamed with fascination.
— Where are the rest?
— Spread across the five kingdoms of the Alliance. One in Lichstein, two in Britain, three in Gregorian, two in Nordkrieger, and one in Kemet. The others… live in the shadows.
The boy nodded, satisfied, while the rest of the crowd burned with rising anticipation.
What everyone shared, deep in their hearts, wasn't admiration—but a darker craving:
To watch the Abuser fall.To see his blood spill across the arena.
And with that hunger simmering beneath the surface, the first round came to its end. Without rest, without pause, the war drums thundered to announce the immediate start of the second round.