Ali looked down at the spear still lodged deep in his right lung, the silver of its blade soaked in his own thick, dark blood. With an indifferent stare, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around the handle.
SCHLK.
He pulled.
Blood sprayed across the rubble in an arc of crimson mist. The spear came free with a sickening squelch, but Ali's expression didn't flinch—not even a twitch of pain across his face.
He stared at the weapon, eyes narrowing at the sharp edge that had resisted the heat of his lightsaber, a feat nearly impossible.
'Has to be magic…' he thought silently, tilting the weapon slightly as the light shimmered along its edge. Even my Force Sense doesn't detect anything from it. That shouldn't be possible.
STEP. STEP. STEP.
His ears twitched.
Footsteps echoed from deep within the ruined entrance of the temple. They were heavy… deliberate.
Ali turned slowly, his eyes locking onto a large, tattooed man stepping into the fractured light.
He was massive—ripped with thick cords of muscle, his skin dark and glistening with sweat and blood. Tattooed serpents—vipers—coiled along his arms, and on his chest, the face of a roaring lion. Each inked creature pulsed faintly with supernatural energy.
'It's the guy from the Death Guild…' Ali recalled immediately. He didn't forget faces.
DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.
Ali's eyes drifted downward to the source of the wet sound… and there it was:
Austin's head.
Held by the hair, dangling lifelessly in the stranger's massive hand.
"What? You know him?" the man asked with a twisted grin, holding the decapitated head beside his own like a trophy.
Ali stared, expressionless.
"No. Are you here for the bounty?" he asked, calm and cold as ever, stepping down slowly from the mountain of rubble. His hand casually pressed over the wound in his lung, fresh blood dribbling between his fingers. He coughed once—and spat dark red blood onto the floor without missing a beat.
The black man tossed Austin's head at the base of the rubble pile, grinning wider as the tattoos across his body began to shimmer—purple light blooming from the twin vipers, crawling across his thick arms like venomous lightning.
"The bastard had a good shot," he said with a chuckle, cracking his knuckles, "but that wasn't enough to save him from me. I'm gonna do the same to you. Especially with all that blood—"
He gestured at Ali's injuries mockingly.
"—you might as well get on your knees and beg."
His biceps bulged as the purple glow intensified, his bloodlust rising.
"Maybe I'll show you mercy."
Ali didn't respond. No emotion passed through his gaze.
He simply flipped the spear in his hand, letting the weight settle into his grip. His lightsaber was nowhere to be seen.
Slowly, Ali raised his left arm, angling it as if lining up a dart for a lazy throw. The tattooed man tilted his head with a mixture of amusement and confusion.
"You gone fucking crazy?" he laughed, watching Ali's painfully obvious move.
Then—
Ali threw.
Not with power. Not with intent to hit. Just a gentle toss.
The spear spun lazily through the air, flipping over and over like a baton.
Both men watched.
The tattooed warrior sneered. The spear arced high—just above his head.
SLASH.
A searing line of red appeared down the centre of his body—from groin to skull, cutting him in two like paper under a razor.
He didn't even have time to scream.
His body split apart a second later, each half sliding wetly to the sides. The exposed muscle and bone sizzled, burning from the inside out, sliced clean through by the invisible blade.
Ali's lightsaber hummed back into his hand, its blade flaring with crimson heat.
'All muscle, no brains. You were the perfect example.'
He turned back toward the body, the smell of charred flesh thick in the air, and walked to where the spear had impaled the concrete floor.
[You killed a player: 30 Paradise Coins]
'30 for him?' Ali thought, glancing once more at the bisected corpse. 'Him?'
He shook his head and exhaled. Then, lifting his hand from his chest, he saw the wound completely healed.
Ali changed out of his ruined gear, replacing it with the grey shirt and pants standard to Paradise. He rolled his shoulders, exhaled slowly, and turned in the direction where Geto had taken Amanai.
Then he vanished.
Outside the temple, beneath a hidden, vine-covered entrance carved into the hillside, a group of powerful individuals stood in silence.
At the centre was Suguru Geto, breathing heavily, his body tense as he shielded Amanai, who cowered behind him.
Before them, across a line of fresh corpses, stood a lone warrior—immovable and armoured in bronze. He was short, maybe five foot seven, but the aura around him was enormous.
He wore a full set of archaic bronze armour—a shining breastplate, bracers, greaves, and a helmet with a tall red plume, reminiscent of an ancient warrior class long forgotten.
He carried a bronze shield and spear, both of which were stained with blood.
But it wasn't just his gear.
It was how he stood—disciplined, immovable, like a man carved out of war itself.
The sight of him, and the carnage behind him, triggered whispers even among the elite players nearby.
The look, the stance, the presence…
He was unmistakable.
A Spartan.
He turned around slowly.
The heavy bronze helmet shifted with him, and his deep brown eyes finally landed on the pair—Geto and Amanai—standing near the tree line, wary and tense.
Atreus exhaled, a quiet sigh behind his helmet, and walked calmly toward a massive tree trunk that had been knocked over in the chaos. Around the scattered group of players, the forest was in ruins—the aftermath of an all-out battle. The bodies of both sorcerers and players were strewn across the broken terrain, crushed, torn, burned… silent.
Blood had watered the roots.
Geto's heartbeat thudded in his ears. 'What should I do?' he thought, his body slightly angled to shield Amanai. 'They haven't attacked yet. Maybe… maybe they're not hostile.'
But the danger was undeniable.
Each of the strangers before him radiated power beyond reason, monsters wearing the shape of men. And although none had raised a hand toward him yet, Geto could sense they all belonged to the same faction—one built not on unity, but domination.
He clenched his fists, and cursed energy silently surged into his hand, ready to summon his strongest curses in a last-ditch defence.
But—
"You try anything and you die, sorcerer."
The voice came from his left.
Geto's eyes darted wide with shock.
A slender figure stood beneath a half-shattered pine, around six foot two, garbed in flowing green robes. His hair was black, falling in neat waves, and his emerald eyes were radiant—glowing faintly in the low light. Hovering above his outstretched hand was a green grimoire, a book aglow with floating script and shifting sigils.
The very air around him bent slightly to his will.
Geto swallowed the breath in his throat and exhaled slowly. He stopped the cursed energy flow, easing his palm open to avoid provoking the mage.
STEP. STEP. STEP. STEP.
Every player standing near Geto suddenly snapped to attention. Their heads turned in unison. Bodies tensed. Weapons rose.
He was coming. Wether it was Toji or not they were careful…
From the cracked temple entrance, shadow pooled along the steps. A heavy presence walked with slow, purposeful strides, and each one sent a thrill of anticipation through the group.
"I'll take care of him," said the Spartan at the front, his voice calm but ironclad.
The others parted before him like waves before a prow. No one argued. No one stepped forward to assist.
They knew who he was.
The man who now strode toward the centre, lifting his bronze spear and shield, was no mere cosplayer obsessed with ancient warriors. He was a titan among players.
The second-ranked player.
The King of Sparta.
Atreus.
The bronze of his armour shone faintly beneath the sun, and the high red plume atop his helmet danced as he moved. He planted himself squarely in front of the incoming figure—standing not just with confidence, but with the unshakable certainty of a man born for war.
Then, at last, the figure emerged fully from the ruins of the temple.
A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette, coated in dust and ash, his dark hair soaked in blood. His black eyes gleamed from beneath the dirt on his face. His muscles were exposed through his tattered shirt, and his entire body radiated something primal.
The group of players stared, unmoving.
It wasn't Toji.
It was him.
The one they'd watched fight in the arena. The one who wielded the Force. Ali.
Atreus immediately lowered his spear—but didn't move aside. His instincts flared like torches. 'It's him. Did he… did he kill the sorcerer killer? Alone?'
No one said it aloud.
But the silence was confirmation enough.
'So it was him…' thought a slender man at the edge of the clearing, wearing a cloak of moss and bark. He closed the floating tome in his hands as he narrowed his gaze at Ali. Behind him, the branches of a broken oak tree twisted and bent toward him, not from command, but from affection.
He was no mage. He was an Apostle of the Nature Guild, and the forest loved him as one of its own.
"Your telling me he killed Toji?" someone whispered from the rear of the group, awe laced with fear.
"The mission isn't available anymore for me… He must have," another voice answered.
Ali walked forward without hesitation, the tattered remnants of his shirt fluttering behind him like a war banner. His steps were slow, but unstoppable. Every eye in the clearing followed his movements.
And then—he stopped.
Only one meter separated him and Atreus now.
They stood face to face—bronze against black, tradition against raw power.
Ali glanced down at the shorter man before him, unimpressed. 'Is he a big fan of Sparta or something?'
"Move, kid," Ali said flatly, his voice cold and utterly unbothered.
The words echoed across the silent forest.
For a brief second… silence.
Then—
A vein bulged across Atreus's forehead, his jaw tightening beneath the helmet. Behind him, a player coughed—and laughed, a stifled chuckle that broke the tension like a dagger.
HA. COUGH. HAHA. OOPS.
The laughter was quickly silenced.
But the damage was done.
Atreus's rage flared.
He raised his spear, and with a thunderous motion, slammed its butt into the shattered forest floor.
KKKKKKKKKKKKKK.
A sharp, resounding crack echoed out—and two bronze lights materialized beside him. They shimmered and twisted in the air like molten metal, then solidified into two massive Spartan warriors, each ten feet tall.
Their gleaming armor glowed faintly, spears raised, shields locked to their chests.
The bronze phantoms stood shoulder to shoulder before Ali, looming over him like sentinels from myth.
Atreus didn't move.
"Say that again…" he said, his voice simmering with fury as a bolt of bronze lightning flickered from beneath his helmet—straight from his eyes.
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