Chapter 118: Blades and Steel
Moon pressed forward across the endless field, his presence quiet, his aura sealed beneath the Eternal Volt Sutra. The grass bent beneath his light steps, but his figure remained a shadow among shadows.
But on the far side of the planet, another story was already unfolding.
Thirteen hunters crept through the dense undergrowth of a colossal jungle, every leaf whispering with the weight of unseen predators. Their leader was Apap—one of the reptilion race.
He was tall, imposing, his frame wrapped in layers of overlapping green scales that glistened faintly beneath the artificial light. His head was unmistakably serpentine: elongated jaw, slitted golden eyes that never blinked, and a tongue that flicked the air, tasting it for lies. The rest of his body carried humanoid proportions, but his movements—fluid, coiled, deliberate—belonged to a predator. Across his back rested a long, curved blade, and in the tense silence of the jungle, his every step radiated command.
The squad he led was a patchwork of desperation and survival:
Two Felis Catus, feline warriors whose tails twitched and ears flicked at the slightest sound.
Several insectoids with chitinous armor and multifaceted eyes glimmering under the canopy.
And others—lesser species, weak in comparison to the higher races, but clinging to this fragile alliance in hopes of advancing.
Their common goal was brutally simple: survive , survive long enough . Alone, each would be crushed. Together, they might stand a chance.
But the test came sooner than they expected.
The jungle shuddered. A vibration in the earth, like gears grinding. Branches split as something heavy landed before them with metallic force.
A figure emerged from the mist—a being of steel. A mecha. Its frame was sharp-edged and angular, forged with insectoid design: segmented plating, jointed limbs that clicked when it moved, and a face devoid of warmth, only cold glowing optics. This was no natural hunter. Once an insectoid, its consciousness had been ripped from flesh and poured into a mechanical husk. A body of armor, a voice of static and steel.
"Look, look, look…" the mecha drawled, its tone jagged, distorted, almost amused. "Some lesser creatures think they can hide in a flock."
The hunters reacted instantly. Their blades hissed free, their formation snapping tight. They moved into clusters of three and four, each cell's back pressed against another, forming a layered dome of steel and claw. No blind spots. No weakness left uncovered. It was the formation of the hunted—born not of pride, but of necessity.
From the front, one of the insectoids stepped forward. His mandibles clicked nervously as his compound eyes locked on the towering machine. "You were insectoid once," he rasped. "Do not strike your kin. We share the same bloodline."
The mecha tilted its head, optics glowing brighter. Then it laughed.
The sound was wrong. A grinding metallic scrape, like swords dragged across stone.
"Bloodline? Don't be a fool." Its voice echoed across the clearing. "This isn't about blood. It isn't even about life or death. This is competition. And you—" its optics scanned the trembling insectoid, then swept across the formation "—do you truly believe that by clinging to each other like frightened hatchlings, you'll survive long enough to cross Phase Two?"
The insectoid faltered, but before he could form another word, the mecha's arm shifted. Panels slid aside. From its forearm extended a blade of pure plasma, glowing with searing heat. With a crack of air, the weapon shot forward, aimed to pierce the insectoid straight through.
But steel met steel.
Shhhhnnk!
Apap was there. His curved sword had intercepted the strike mid-air, sparks showering the ground. His golden eyes glowed with cold fury as his forked tongue flickered between his teeth.
"If you wish to spill blood," Apap hissed, his voice low, dangerous, "you will spill mine before theirs."
The mecha froze for a moment, scanning him. Then its mouthless face split into a jagged simulation of a grin.
"How… amusing. A reptilion standing as shield. I wonder how long you'll last."
Then it lunged.
The clash was deafening.
Apap's blade cut arcs of silver light through the jungle, every strike coiled and precise, each movement refined by years of reptilion discipline. His swordsmanship was serpentine—fluid, unpredictable, snapping from defense to attack in the blink of an eye.
The mecha countered with brute strength. Its plasma blade swung with the weight of machinery, its armored fists punching like falling boulders. Every strike carried the power to break bone and steel alike.
Blades rang against one another. Sparks burst like fireflies. Leaves ignited and fell smoldering to the dirt.
Around them, the thirteen hunters tightened their circle, watching in awe. They had feared Apap's cold nature, his distance, his serpentine silence. But now, respect lit their eyes. He was not hiding behind them—he was holding the storm at bay.
"You're strong," the mecha admitted, its optics narrowing as it absorbed the force of another parry. "Didn't expect this much skill from a reptilion."
Slash!
Apap's blade tore across its midsection, leaving a jagged gash in its armor. Sparks flew. The jungle lit with artificial lightning. Had it been flesh, the wound would have spilled rivers of blood. But the machine felt no pain. It adjusted, unyielding.
Still—the tide shifted.
Step by step, Apap pressed forward. His footwork coiled like a serpent winding for the strike. His blade darted faster, sharper, until the mecha staggered beneath the weight of his precision. Finally, with a ringing clash, Apap twisted his sword, ripping the mecha's plasma blade from its grasp. The weapon spun into the trees, hissing.
The machine reeled back, its optics flaring. "Impressive… swordsmanship."
But then it blurred forward, abandoning weapons altogether.
Fist.
Crack.
Apap's head snapped sideways, scales splitting at the edge of his jaw.
Second fist.
BOOM.
His ribs groaned under the blow, air ripping from his lungs.
The mecha struck like a piston, fists slamming again and again, mechanical speed overwhelming reptilion defense. Apap staggered, sword trembling in his grip. The world blurred.
The mecha's optics flared bright, its voice cutting through the chaos with metallic mockery:
"Your swordplay is strong… but what happens when you can't use your sword? What will you do then, reptilion?"
It loomed above him, leg drawing back, ready to crush him into the soil.
"Let's end this farce."
But before the kick could land—
Shhhk.
The dagger flashed.
Apap's hand darted like a viper, pulling the hidden blade from his belt. In a single heartbeat, it carved across the mecha's abdomen, then its arm, then its chest.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
The cuts came too fast to count. Metal screamed as seams split open, sparks bursting from ruptured circuits.
The mecha staggered, its systems faltering. Its optics flickered, stuttered.
Apap's voice hissed as the final strike buried the dagger into its chest plating.
"If I cannot use my sword…" His eyes burned gold. "Then I will use my dagger, bastard."
The machine shuddered. Its systems collapsed.
Then—light.
Its body dissolved into fragments, teleporting out of the battlefield. The last thing its sensors recorded was Apap's golden eyes and the gleam of the blood-slick dagger driven into its heart.
Eliminated.
Moon moved like a shadow across the vast terrain, each step unhurried, yet precise. His body did not sway, did not falter, every movement balanced by the hum of the Eternal Volt Sutra running within him. It was more than cultivation—it was discipline carved into bone and blood.
Within a hundred meters, nothing escaped him. Every fluctuation of air, every faint disturbance of frequency, every twitch of life's current vibrated through the Sutra's perception. The jungle may have looked silent, the night thick and oppressive, but to Moon it was a living map. Each rustle, each heartbeat, each insect's static flicker against the current painted itself across his awareness.
Then, the system's voice cut through his mind, crisp and devoid of emotion.
[Mecha Hop is eliminated.]
Moon's eyes narrowed, a faint gleam in the dim artificial light.
"…So, it isn't just humans here."
For most, such a discovery wouldn't even deserve to be called a revelation—only another layer of uncertainty, more unknowns, more danger. But for Moon, it was different. His lips curved faintly, a whisper of amusement threading through his tone.
"That only makes it easier."
Above, the false heavens shifted. No sun had ever hung in this sky, no stars guided its paths, yet the system had crafted its own cycle. Day dimmed into night, darkness stretching across the landscape with machine-like precision.
Shadows thickened. The air grew colder. The silence was not empty—it was heavy, pressing down like a stone lid over a tomb.
Moon tilted his head, eyes scanning the distance. Then, without hesitation, he leapt. His body soared upward, bounding from trunk to trunk until he perched atop the tallest tree in reach. The world unfolded around him, canopy stretching like a dark ocean beneath the dim glow of system-made night.
He crouched near the crown, one hand resting on his another summoned spear. His breathing was even, calm. The Eternal Volt Sutra whispered through him, spreading his senses outward like threads of lightning woven through the air.
The silence shattered again.
[Adwin is eliminated.]
[Red is eliminated.]
[Renewal is eliminated.]
[Noah is eliminated.]
Then the system's cold announcement:
Remaining players: 356.
Moon's gaze lingered on the horizon, unblinking. A hundred and fifty gone in less than a day. He let out a long breath, controlled and deliberate.
Brutal—but expected.
The first day of such trials was always a purge. Density was too high, the field too crowded. Weaklings and opportunists were inevitably crushed beneath the weight of stronger predators. Extras were consumed early, culled so the true contest could begin.
He twirled the shaft of his spear once, the motion absentminded, like a swordsman who sharpened his blade not out of need but ritual. His grip tightened faintly, knuckles whitening.
Tomorrow would not be the day of the weak.
Tomorrow, the real hunt would begin.
But tonight?
Moon leaned back against the great trunk, the jungle's air pressing cool against his skin. His senses remained sharp, threads of the Volt Sutra dancing across the ground below like invisible lightning, watching, mapping, alert to the smallest shift.
Yet his posture was relaxed. Calm. Balanced between stillness and readiness, predator at rest but never unguarded.
The jungle whispered around him. Somewhere in the distance, a beast roared, deep and resonant. The artificial night swallowed it whole.
Moon's eyes slowly shut, not in sleep, but in the meditation of a warrior who knew both rest and vigilance were weapons.
Tomorrow, blood would flow.
But tonight—
He would wait.