"We're two hours in," the commentator's voice rang out, crisp over the feed, "and the forest belongs to one man."
A sweeping drone shot cut across the battlefield: mist coiling between twisted trees, dirt churned by dozens of panicked footsteps slipping just out of view. But there, at the heart of it all, was one name—Orion Reyes—and one undeniable truth:
He was winning. Alone.
"We expected skirmishes. We expected rivalries. What we didn't expect… was Orion Reyes casually turning sixty candidates into confused, paranoid prey."
The second commentator let out a laugh—half thrill, half disbelief.
"I'm not sure you realize how difficult this is. The wrist-com map is designed as a compass to prevent candidates from ganging up on stronger opponents. But Orion not only exploited this safeguard—he lured them into complacency, broke their coordination, isolated key threats, and transformed the trial into a solo hunt."
Millions across the Confederacy were watching, eyes wide, breath held. Cafés, training halls, command centers—even a few royal lounges in Dominion territory. All tuned in, and every time a drone camera glimpsed Orion crouching in the fog, sliding under low branches, or moving like a phantom, the audience watched breath caught in their throats.
Somewhere deep in the forest, hidden behind a thick oak, Orion crouched low. His knees ached, and his forearms were streaked with dirt and sweat. The sword—a standard gladius, chipped and bloodied—rested lightly against his thigh. He hadn't dropped it once in two hours. It felt like a part of him now.
A long wooden spear leaned against the tree beside him.
He tilted his head.
Three candidates moved through the undergrowth to his left. Too focused on staying quiet to notice they were already walking into a trap.
They passed a moss-covered log and entered a clearing flanked by thorny brush.
Orion rose silently, stepping onto the log like a cat. His feet barely made a sound. In one fluid motion, he sprinted across the length of it and dropped down behind them.
The middle candidate glanced back too late. The spear pierced clean through his side, and Orion yanked it out without stopping.
The second spun, startled—but Orion had already closed the distance. He slammed his shoulder into the man's gut, lifting and flipping him onto his back. His head cracked against a rock. Unconscious.
The third bolted.
Orion didn't hesitate. He turned, stepped forward, and launched the spear with a powerful, flat throw. It struck the fleeing candidate square in the back, toppling him.
Thirteen left.
He exhaled, dragging the spear back by its shaft and twirling it into his off-hand.
"I think Varun's not gonna be happy about me using a spear," Orion muttered under his breath, a wry smile tugging at the edge of his lips.
Then, silence again.
"Reyes just dropped three more. That's forty-seven confirmed eliminations. He's not even wounded."
The screen cut to a split-second replay: Orion ducking beneath a branch, leaping over a root, spear thrust already halfway to impact before the target even noticed him.
Crowds watching erupted in cheers. Even those who had bet against him now leaned forward, spellbound.
In the forest, Orion stayed low.
Two hours in, his hands were blistered, and his legs screamed with every movement. But his mind was sharp.
He found the next group resting, four of them packed tight into a hollow beneath an uprooted tree, blades drawn and eyes darting.
Orion was already sprinting.
The first was down before he could shout. The second managed to parry—but Orion ducked low and slashed his leg. The third tried to retreat but tripped over her teammate.
He didn't give them a second chance.
Eleven left.
And none of them knew which way he was coming from.
He studied them for a moment longer, eyes narrowing. The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. The team advanced carefully, scanning their surroundings, oblivious to the danger overhead.
Orion shifted silently on his branch, drawing a shortbow from his back. It was a simple weapon—nothing compared to his sword or the spear he'd picked up earlier—but it was perfect for this moment. He nocked an arrow, took a breath, and aimed not at the team, but at a nearby tree trunk.
Thunk. The arrow embedded itself deep in the bark. The crack of the impact echoed through the forest, like a ripple in the stillness.
The team froze.
Orion's fingers twitched, and in an instant, all five turned their attention to the noise—eyes darting toward the far side of the clearing, away from his perch. They hadn't anticipated him to be above them. It was a mistake they'd regret.
Without a sound, Orion dropped from the tree, moving like a shadow. He landed behind the last man in line, his feet barely brushing the ground before he swung his sword in a brutal arc, the flat of the blade catching the attacker's ribs in a side-slice that sent him sprawling.
The second didn't have time to react. Orion pivoted on his heel, flicking his wrist in a sharp movement. The sword was gone from his hand as he disarmed the man, sending his weapon spinning out of reach.
The remaining three didn't stand a chance.
Orion was fluid. Every movement a perfect extension of the last, an instinctive, lethal rhythm honed by years of training. He barely needed to think. The first assailant reached for his dagger, but Orion ducked under the swing and thrust his sword forward—another clean strike to the chest. He fell, unable to even make a sound.
The next man lunged with a desperate overhead slash, but Orion stepped to the side, cutting low at the man's side. A quick roll to avoid a counterstrike, and he came up behind him—elbow to the back, another strike to the neck.
The last man hesitated, eyes wide with fear. He turned and bolted. But Orion didn't give chase.
The game had already shifted.
Orion watched him retreat, but he had no interest in hunting down a coward who had no intention of fighting. He could hear the man's footsteps fading in the distance, but it was of no consequence. The others had already fallen, and the end was in sight.
He turned his attention back to the ground.
The forest was eerily still.
He dropped to one knee and picked up a long spear, its wood worn smooth from use, but it felt solid in his hand. He turned it over, testing the weight and balance.
His mind was already calculating his next move. The fortress was still to the east. The final stretch. The place where everything would come to a head. It was a stronghold, but it wasn't invulnerable. No fortress was. Not against someone like him.
Seven left.
His pulse quickened slightly, but only enough to sharpen his focus. Seven. And he knew who the last one was.
Ares.
Orion let out a breath and stood. His hand rested on the spear's shaft as he turned toward the east, scanning the horizon through the trees.
This was it.
The commentators had stopped speaking for a moment, captivated by the feed.
"Did you see that?" the first commentator finally spoke, voice hoarse with awe. "He seemed better with spears than he is with a sword. Turns out, he was handicapped all along."
"He's a one-man army." the second agreed. "This is insane. Who's left, though? There's still Ares. We're about to see the final confrontation. No one expected it to end this way."