The arena stank of blood and heat. But this time, they didn't throw me in.
They summoned me.
Two guards flanked me as I limped through a tunnel I'd never seen before. Polished black stone. Dim blue lights. Cleaner. Colder.
I was led into a circular room. At the center sat a man in a sleek coat, legs crossed, sipping something that definitely wasn't water. His smile was the first thing I hated.
"Ezra," he said smoothly, "The ghost of the pit. Sit."
I didn't move.
He chuckled. "Very well. Stand, then. It won't matter in a few minutes."
He set the cup down and leaned forward.
"You've got everyone talking, you know. One fight, one death, and a reputation? Impressive." He tilted his head. "But tricks don't last. People are starting to bet real money. And they're betting on your death."
I said nothing. My fingers twitched at my side.
"So," he continued, "Let's raise the stakes. No more desperate fighters or street scum. Your next opponent is... refined. Clean. Efficient. They don't play. They kill."
He stood.
"Survive, and we'll talk. Die... and at least you'll go out on a higher payout."
The door behind me opened.
---
The crowd was louder than before. They wanted blood. Mine.
My opponent stepped into the sand without a word.
No armor. Just a fitted tunic and a curved blade. No threats. No theatrics.
He didn't even look at me.
Good.
I drew the dagger they'd given me. My grip still sucked, but my desperation didn't.
The horn blew.
He moved first—fast.
Steel flashed. Pain bloomed in my side before I could blink. A precise, shallow cut. Testing.
Another cut followed. Then a third.
Too fast. Too clean.
No wasted motion. No rage to build off. Mutual Destruction couldn't latch onto this kind of opponent. He was surgical.
I needed to adapt. Fast.
So I gave him what he wanted.
Pain.
I threw myself into his next slash, letting it bite deep across my shoulder. At the same time, I lunged and slammed the dagger into his ribs.
He hissed. Stepped back. Blood dripping.
Yes.
I grinned through the sting. This was it. Trade pain for openings. Give him wounds. Earn mine.
The System chimed:
> You have dealt damage under extreme pain.
Calculating…
You have acquired a new Skill: [Jester's Wraith]
Pain is a blade. Suffering is fuel. Convert your injuries into explosive power.
Warning: Sanity degradation begins upon activation.
My body burned. My head spun.
But I felt alive.
He rushed in again, blade raised. I didn't flinch. I let his strike come down—took the hit to my arm—and drove my dagger into his throat.
The crowd screamed.
Blood sprayed.
He fell.
And I stood there, swaying, bleeding, smiling like a lunatic.
> Victory Achieved.
+120 EXP
+2 Attribute Points
HP: 11/100
Sanity: 85%
Skill Gained: [Jester's Wraith] (Lv. 1)
Skill: [Mutual Destruction] (Lv. 1)
Available Points: 2
---
Back in my cell, I stared at the flickering stat window.
I could feel it—something changing inside me. Twisting.
But I didn't care.
Let them send killers. Let them send gods.
I'd trade a thousand wounds for a single kill.
And I'd laugh doing it.
---
Above the arena, the Overseer watched silently. A man in noble robes beside him sipped wine and smirked.
> "That boy… he'll be fun to break."
The Overseer just smiled.
> "Oh no. We won't break him. We'll feed him until he bursts."