When he stood, he felt that his lungs were no longer part of his body.As if every breath was flowing into a strange space…A fragile void glimmering between his ribs, echoing with a resonance he could not identify.
This was not the feeling of victory.Not even the feeling of survival.It was more like a door opening—one he had never dared to touch, and now it had opened by itself.
Something beyond…Something without a name, as if language itself failed to grasp it.
His mind resisted.It wanted to reject this inheritance, to rid itself of the black seed planted in his blood,to spit out this power that touched him with such disturbing intimacy.
But deep inside…In the region he never visited, not even on his darkest nights…There was a glimmer, a cold light, a hidden joy he would not admit, did not want to admit.
(So… I've finally become something that cannot be crushed so easily.)
And yet, he trembled.Because what cannot be crushed…May also be what cannot be saved.
He raised his hand and looked at his fingers, as if they were no longer his.The skin was the same, yet it pulsed with something else.He felt that every cell carried a new signature, a mark that could not be erased, a promise of a price not yet revealed.
The ground beneath him was solid, yet his feet did not feel steady.As if every step had become a declaration of a beginning he had not chosen, a second birth without a womb, without refuge.
Then he heard a whisper inside, not an external voice, but an echo coiling around his heart:"Now… you are no longer what you were. And turning back? Impossible."
When his chest shuddered, he realized this was not merely power.It was a question embodied in his blood:(What does it mean to become something uncrushable? And what price will it demand from you?)
Every heartbeat became a dialogue: half of it screamed in refusal, the other half savored a delight he dared not confess.It was as if he stood at the edge of a cliff, seeing his fall coming—and yet marveling at the beauty of the view below.
This transformation was a mirror of himself, exposing his old fragility and placing him before a fate from which he no longer had the right to flee.With every breath, the air seemed heavier, as though the world itself had changed around him.The tips of his fingers glowed with a faint gray radiance, fading and returning, as if the breath of another creature lived beneath his skin.
The earth beneath him quivered lightly, as if it knew he was no longer the same.The shadows on the walls danced unnaturally, as if testing his new image, weighing whether he was worthy of what he had been burdened with.
And his eyes…There was a glimmer in them that had never existed before, a blend between a promise of immortality and a threat of ruin.
For the first time in a long while, he dared to admit something to himself, something close to confession:That he had longed for power.That he envied those who did not have to taste hunger in order to become stronger.
He remembered when he was a child, begging for scraps from shopkeepers.How he dug his nails into his palm so he wouldn't cry when mocked.And how he swore he would never again let anyone steal what little he had left.
But in the same moment…A silent dread struck him:(Is this what John felt too?)That feverish thrill that came with the ability to toy with the very fabric of the world.That sense of no longer being merely human…But something standing on the edge of nature itself.
Pride and shame intermingled.Awe and curiosity entwined.He even felt a vague sympathy toward John.Because for the first time, he understood—with painful clarity—why the man chose to test his body without rest.
He raised his trembling hand.Saw the particles of air dance around his fingers.A violent shiver raced down his spine into his legs.Not from the cold…But from the certainty that, if he wished, he could crush anything before him with those obedient particles.
And among all these conflicting emotions, there ran a faint thread—barely visible—of sorrow.Sorrow that he had to kill a man just to understand himself more.And sorrow that he did not feel the remorse he thought he would.
When he finally breathed, it felt as if he tasted the flavor of iron in the air.Perhaps it was John's lingering blood…Or perhaps the taste of fate now bound to his flesh.
He murmured faintly, to himself:
"…A curse or a gift?"
And he found no answer in his chest.Oru Leex stood amidst the light rubble falling across the arena, his chest heaving with heavy contractions, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
From a dark platform, Jimmy Froth advanced with calm steps. He seemed not to walk on the ground but to glide across the air with an inhuman lightness.
He stopped before Oru, studying his body stained with blood and dirt, then a tilted smile stretched across his lips—devoid of sympathy.
He spoke in a mellow tone dripping with mockery:
"Congratulations… hero. You severed your opponent's head with that desperate resolve… Perhaps you are more useful than I thought."
He raised an eyebrow slightly as he gazed into Oru's glassy eyes, as if testing whether any trace of spirit remained within him.
In that moment, their eyes met.For just one second, a cold killing glare flared in Oru's eyes, as though he saw in Jimmy not merely a tournament director but the very source of all these absurd torments, another link in the chain of oppression that had bound him since childhood.
But his body could not endure.His breaths came fast and scorching, his eyelids weighed down with every heartbeat.His head drooped slightly forward, and the corner of his mouth quivered weakly.
If he had any strength left, he would have leapt to strangle Jimmy with his bare hands.But that strength was simply… gone.
He said nothing.Not a word escaped his lips.
His consciousness suddenly retreated, like a door closing on ancient darkness.And in the instant it faded, his eyes still locked onto Jimmy with that same glare that promised him death.
Before he collapsed completely, a team of medics in gray uniforms appeared.They rushed forward, set magical braces around his chest, and began to carry him away.
Jimmy let out a short, quiet laugh, unfit for any consolation:
"Well then… sleep well. We'll need your entertainment again soon."
Then he turned his back with indifference, leaving Oru's weary body trembling in the hands of the medics who hurried him out of the arena tainted with the stench of fire and blood.Adam sat on the edge of the platform, his eyes half-closed, as if indifferent to what had just occurred.But the truth was that every detail was being recorded in his mind with unsettling precision: Oru's trembling hand as he rose, John Smith's expression as he unleashed his power, even the silence of the crowd as terror descended.
While others saw in the battle a bloody struggle for survival, Adam saw an "equation."Oru Leex… fighting with a collapsing body, striving to prove himself despite the obvious limits of his strength.John Smith… not fighting to survive, but as if conducting a cold field experiment.
(…Pathetic.)That was how Adam described the scene within himself, though the word was not aimed at Oru alone.But at both of them, and perhaps the audience as well.
He cared little for who would win.What truly concerned him was the gap.That chasm John Smith had exposed in a single step, in which he drowned Oru mercilessly.
(If this is the level of combat here… then what awaits me later?)
And despite his outward coldness, he could not stop a small prick within himself, a near-silent admission:Had he been in Oru's place… he might have ended the same way.
The silence weighed heavily, pressing upon the spectators' chests like an unforgiving boulder, until Jimmy Froth's metallic-cold voice cut through:
"The next match… Romal Anderson versus Algie Rangers."
All eyes turned to the two contenders.
Romal AndersonA young man of twenty, with short black hair falling lightly across his forehead, and deep brown eyes that reflected a calm before the storm. His build was not large, but he stood with a confidence that stirred unease, as if he had grown accustomed to facing the unknown—befriending danger until it became familiar. He stood like one who knew that battle was not about muscles, but timing, nerves, and will.
Algie RangersA man whose presence did not age. His long white hair flowed down his shoulders slowly, while his black eyes gazed with cold, merciless steadiness, like a dark reservoir without bottom. On his shoulder rested a broad sword gleaming with an uncanny sharpness beneath the light. His grip upon it was utterly natural, as if the blade were a part of his very bones. He needed no theatrics; his presence alone was enough to plant fear in the spectators.
They did not exchange a word.The silence between them was stronger than any spoken threat, a quiet conflict testing each other's resolve before the first step.Even the air seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the explosion.
A curt nod from Jimmy…And the duel began.
Romal's shoulders lowered, his eyes fixed on the motion of his opponent's hand, searching for an unseen opening.Algie, unhurried, lowered his sword from his shoulder, the sound of iron resonating as it cut the air, as though the entire arena had become a vast bell tolling danger.
The first step was not an attack.It was a test:Romal circling his foe like a wolf studying its prey, while Algie stood immovable as a mountain.Yet that stillness was no mere calm—it was a silent threat: any mistake would be cleaved in an instant.
Everyone realized this was no ordinary confrontation…This was a match that would decide who had the right to continue, and who history would cast aside as a fleeting shadow.