Azeric stood in the pit once again—earlier than he had expected, earlier than his body should have allowed. The blood from the beast kill had barely dried in memory, and yet here he was, facing not one opponent, but three. That alone made the air feel different.
His eyes sweeping the upper deck, searching for the man behind this arrangement.
Kestel.
If this was another punishment, it was crafted with precision. If this was another test, it was meant to break him.
The pit roared to life with jeers, howls, and savage laughter crashing from the galleries above. The crowd wasn't cheering for victory. They wanted a death.
His.
Three figures waited on the stone floor below.
One of them wept, murmuring nonsense to something unseen as his body twitched like a broken marionette; the sedative hadn't worn off.
Another man paced in jagged lines, already bleeding from the mouth where he had bitten through his own tongue, his bare feet dragging slightly; he was a berserker, driven only by violence.
The third figure remained perfectly still.
He didn't speak or blink, but when Azeric stepped into the pit, the man slowly turned his head, mirroring the silence with a stare that was just as cold.
He knew Kestel watched from the top rail.
DING.
The sound echoed again.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Task difficulty: Elevated
Opponent count: 3 (human – high aggression markers)
Threat potential: Acceptable for progression
Azeric's jaw tensed. It was watching.
Reward issued in advance
Sync surge: +3%
Current Sync: 10%
[MUTATION TIER 1 UNLOCKED: NERVE OVERCLOCK]
Reaction speed enhanced
Pain sensitivity reduced
Subject awareness confirmed
Monitoring behavior deviation – Moderate
The texts flickered out of his view.
Then the moment the announcer finished his theatrical speech, they charged.
No warning. No signal. Just the raw, desperate will to kill.
The berserker screamed first low and guttural before breaking into a mad sprint. The weeping man followed, limbs flailing like a puppet yanked too hard, and the silent one shadowed them both like a blade waiting to drop.
They came all at once.
The berserker hurled himself forward with raw force, teeth bared and arms swinging wide like hammers. Behind him, the weeping man tripped into a lurching run, eyes vacant but body following some desperate command to kill. The silent one veered to the flank, fast—too fast—already positioning for the blind spot.
The arena erupted. A single surge of sound.
Azeric moved.
No grunt. No growl. No wasted breath.
He ducked the berserker's opening swing—just low enough to feel the wind of it cut past his ear.
The berserker reached again—but the weeping man, too slow, crashed into his side.
Azeric slipped beneath their tangle.
Then the silent one struck.
A blade, he was hiding, came fast with a diagonal slash meant to end things.
Azeric didn't parry.
He leaned into the danger, letting the blade pass within a hair's breadth of his throat before rotating outward, one foot anchoring on the blood-slick stone.
The crowd howled. Some stood. Others shouted. They couldn't believe he was still upright.
Three men had attacked. One man stood untouched.
And in his eyes, there was no fear. No triumph.
Only the system running cold beneath his skin.
He stepped back just as the berserker shoved the sobbing one aside, using the man's stumbling body as both a distraction and a shield.
The crowd roared, baying for blood.
From the gallery above, it must've looked impossible—a blur of limbs, rage, and chaos.
But to Azeric, it all slowed.
He dipped under the falling weight.
The shoved body came tumbling toward him, arms wide. Behind it, a fist carved through the air meant to crush his skull.
He dipped under the falling weight.
The berserker's punch didn't stop. It collided clean with the weeping man's jaw, shattering it in one brutal crack. The man dropped like a sack of bone and blood.
Azeric exhaled through his nose as he chuckled.
He turned around sharply and drove an uppercut into the berserker's ribs—angled just beneath the sternum, where the cartilage met soft nerve. The man's feet left the ground, his mouth agape in silent agony as he crashed backward in a heap of spasming limbs.
But not all of them had fallen.
The silent one hadn't flinched when the others dropped. Hadn't blinked when Azeric countered faster than thought.
He had been waiting.
Now, he moved, walking slowly towards him. Eyes locked to Azeric's every breath, every angle of weight distribution.
He drew another blade.
Now there were two—twin edges catching the pit's dim torchlight, one in each hand.
The berserker then rolled onto one side, spitting blood and growling through broken teeth.
The weeping one gasped wetly, one eye swollen shut, jaw slack from the earlier blow. Yet even he clawed at the ground, dragging himself upright with a cracked sob.
Now, as the other two dragged themselves upright, their eyes no longer burned with mindless rage. They watched him—hesitant, breathing uneven. The berserker circled wider this time. The weeping one gripped his blade tighter, arms trembling.
Cause now… they weren't sure who was being hunted.
He didn't breathe deeper. He didn't focus harder.
His body just knew.
Faster. Sharper. Ready.