The sixth round marked a noticeable shift in the tide of battle.
Rahul, having sustained injuries in the previous fight, took a brief five-minute break. He sat in the waiting room, grimacing slightly as he pulled out the arrows embedded in his hand and chest. Blood oozed, but his face remained calm. The system's interface blinked quietly in the background—his health bar dented, but far from critical.
From here on, the numbers would only rise.
This time, six men would face him. Recognizing that the Kar98k wouldn't be optimal for crowd control, Rahul holstered the rifle and summoned his MP40 from storage.
Crouched and ready, he watched the arena gates creak open.
Without giving them a chance to fan out, Rahul squeezed the trigger.
The MP40 rattled to life, spitting flame and death across the arena. Its 9mm slugs tore through T4-grade armor and shredded wooden shields like parchment. Men dropped like flies, limbs torn apart mid-charge. It wasn't a battle—it was a massacre.
The audience gasped, some still hoping to witness at least a skirmish.
But the contestants never even made it past the entrance.
This scene repeated in Round 7.
And again in Round 8.
Each time, more warriors stepped forward—seven, then eight, then nine—but Rahul's firepower always overwhelmed them. Bullets screamed across the sand-laden battlefield. Crimson splashed the arena walls. No blade, no spear could match the rhythm of his machine gun.
By Round 9, the crowd had grown restless. Cheers had been replaced by silence and clenched fists. Their gold was vanishing in real time.
For the tenth and final round, ten warriors marched into the arena.
Heavily armed. Fully armored. T5-grade equipment gleaming under the sunlight.
They weren't just hopeful—they were coordinated.
Five spearmen formed a shield wall, holding their massive defenses close, while three archers stood behind them, notching arrows. Two swordsmen flanked the formation for close-range engagement.
Rahul grinned.
They were afraid of him—and that made them vulnerable.
The first volley of arrows rained down on him.
➖Ping➖
-10 HP-23 HP-9 HP
Tiny red numbers danced above his head, showing the accumulated damage. His system buzzed with low-level warnings. Still, he waited patiently.
He let them come closer... and closer...
And when they were finally within range, he pulled out two Stielhandgranate (M24) grenades—the "potato mashers."
The archers paused, confused by the strange cylindrical objects.
Two loud metallic clinks hit the ground.
Then—
BOOM!
A pair of thunderous explosions rocked the arena. Shrapnel tore through flesh and armor alike. Screams were silenced mid-throat. The shield wall crumbled, limbs were scattered across the sand, and thick blood pooled beneath the carnage.
What remained of the ten-man squad was unrecognizable.
Smoke rose like incense.
The crowd? Stunned.
They were furious at their losses, yes—but even more stunned at the sheer display of power. They had witnessed an execution, not a match.
The announcer, recovering from the shock, declared Rahul as the victor of all ten rounds.
Rahul, as always, wasn't done.
He used Advanced Assessment and swept the battlefield:
➤ 7x Pairs of Gold Teeth➤ 4x Gold Coins➤ 92x Silver Coins➤ 87x Copper Coins➤ 3x Gold Rings➤ 87x White-Colored Stones (Unknown Properties)
He collected them all and returned to the waiting room, letting the silence soak in. He wasn't just letting his body rest—he was building tension.
After what he had suffered in his former world, it was finally time to make them wait. Let the world fidget in his presence.
Moments later, an arena staffer arrived breathless.
"Sir! Our lord is requesting your presence in the office."
Rahul recognized him—one of the men who laughed earlier when he proposed his plan.
Now? He was groveling.
"Tell him I'm coming," Rahul said calmly.
He stepped inside the arena owner's office, greeted not with jeers, but awe.
"Please, sir—those muskets! That last explosion—was that some kind of divine spell? Are you from a warrior's lineage?"
The questions flooded the room like children desperate for approval.
Rahul shut them down with a cold stare. "I'm here for what's mine. My deposit and winnings."
Their smiles faded.
From his bets alone, he claimed 550,000 gold coins. And from the contract guaranteeing him 40% of all public losses, he gained another 400,000 gold coins.
Total: 950,000+ Gold Coins.
He had surpassed the net worth of the local zamindar.
Rahul Shikder was now the richest man in this part of the city.
As he prepared to leave, the owner—now visibly shaken—called out, "Sir! If you're not too tired, might I interest you in our Tier 2 Arena? Double the fun, double the kill. The odds? 1:50."
Rahul turned slowly.
"And if I bet my 950k and win every round again—can you afford to pay me 47.5 million gold coins?"
Silence.
The owner's mouth moved, but no sound came.
"I know how this ends," Rahul said. "You'll either refuse to pay or stall with excuses. So here's what I propose—sign a contract."
He pulled out a pre-written draft.
"It says if you can't pay me in full, you'll hand over this entire enterprise to me. I'll become the new owner."
The color drained from the old man's face.
He wasn't just being challenged.
He was being replaced.
And Rahul? He was only getting started.
---------------------------------