"First-time Gladiators must survive the arena for 24 hours.
Use of system hacks or external cheats will result in execution."
— Inscription above the Gate of New Bloods
---
The doors groaned open with the sound of ancient stone grinding against time.
Light—hot, merciless sunlight—poured into the chamber where I stood frozen. It didn't warm. It exposed.
The arena lay before me. A sunken coliseum carved from bloodstained stone, surrounded by black marble walls and towers that looked like they were meant for war—not sport. The stands overflowed with spectators, their faces obscured behind golden masks, veils of silk, or monstrous bone-helms. Some were human. Some were... not.
They didn't chant my name.
They howled for my death.
My boots scraped forward. Not by choice.
Two armored guards—silent as executioners—shoved me into the sunlit center. I stumbled into the sand, sweat already dripping from my brow though I hadn't moved more than ten steps.
My throat dried. My stomach curled.
And still, a chime rang softly in my head.
> [GLADIATOR SYSTEM ONLINE]
Status: Level 1
Class: None
Rank: F (Unranked)
HP: 100 / 100
Stamina: 50 / 50
Weapons: None
Condition: TERRIFIED
⚔ Objective: Survive the Arena – 24 Hours
⚠ Penalty for Failure: Termination
This wasn't a tutorial.
This was my execution.
Then the gate across the pit opened.
From it emerged a giant of a man—seven feet tall, gray-skinned, with tattoos carved like war maps into his chest. Chains dragged behind him as he walked. His right eye gleamed silver, the other burned red. In both hands, he held twin axes, blades chipped and dirtied with dried gore.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
"Presenting: Drogan the Cleaver!
D-rank Executioner. Twelve victories. No survivors."
And me?
Just a guy who had never even punched someone in real life.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to run.
Instead, my feet froze and the air turned electric as a new screen flickered in front of my vision:
> [COMBAT MODE: ACTIVE]
Passive Skill Detected: Gamer's Instinct
→ Perception Speed +10%
→ Tactical Awareness Unlocked
→ Opponent Analysis: Weakness – Old fracture in left ankle
Drogan grinned with broken teeth.
"BEGIN!"
He charged like a beast unchained.
I barely moved in time. Rolled left.
The axe crushed the sand where I'd been, spraying dust into my eyes. Heat and force roared past me like a truck on fire. My body screamed in panic, but something deeper—a rhythm I knew too well—started to rise.
The system didn't fight for me.
But it showed me enough.
Another prompt blinked:
> [Dodge Successful – +2 XP]
[Enemy Aggro: Increasing]
[Timer: 23:59:06]
I ran in a wide circle, heartbeat hammering, lungs dragging hot air. Drogan followed, his movements slower now but relentless.
Then I spotted it—half-buried near the corpse of a past fighter: a chipped iron blade, rusted and crooked.
I dived for it. Grabbed.
> [Weapon Acquired: Rustblade (14% Durability)]
Attack Rating: Minimal
Bonus: None
Status: Breakable
He was already on me again. His axe sliced the wind as I rolled under and slashed wildly.
Steel met thigh. A tear of blood followed.
Drogan howled.
> [Critical Hit – Weak Point Struck]
-13 HP
Bleeding Status Inflicted
[XP Gained: 14]
[Level Progress: 14%]
He swung again—this time enraged.
But I'd played this game before.
Not this world, no—but the mechanics? The patterns?
Bosses with oversized weapons always had the same flaw: the wind-up.
I slipped inside his arc, stabbed once, twice—then rolled back. My arms ached from the sword's weight. I wasn't strong enough to duel. Not yet.
But I could bleed him.
And bleed him I did.
Cut by cut. Step by step. I made him miss. Made him rage.
Until finally, breath ragged and feet slipping, Drogan collapsed forward, the axes slipping from his fingers.
I backed away, gasping, blood soaking the sand beneath me. My hands trembled. The sword was nearly broken. My knees gave way.
He didn't move.
He was dead.
I had won.
> [OPPONENT DEFEATED: +100 XP]
[First Kill Bonus: +50 XP]
[Level Up: LEVEL 2]
Stat Points Available: +5
The crowd was silent.
Then they roared.
They didn't cheer for me.
They cheered at me.
Mocking. Disbelieving.
"The New Blood survived!"
"He killed Drogan? With a broken sword?"
"What kind of freak is he?"
I barely heard them. My ears rang. My muscles screamed. My breath burned.
The system returned again, calm and cruel.
> [Allocate Stat Points]
→ Strength
→ Agility
→ Reflex Sync
→ Combat Sense
→ Perception
I chose fast:
+2 Agility – I needed to move faster.
+1 Strength – Just enough to swing a real sword.
+2 Combat Sense – Because instinct wasn't enough anymore.
The system approved.
> [Stat Distribution Locked]
"You have chosen well, Wicky Varian."
And then the voice—low, ancient, and cold as steel—echoed again inside my skull.
"You've tasted survival," it said.
"But survival isn't victory."
"Win ten battles. Awaken your Class."
"Win one hundred… and the Arena might kneel."
I stood, spine straightening under the weight of exhaustion and revelation.
I wasn't just here to survive.
I was here to ascend.
As the guards dragged Drogan's corpse away, I walked toward the gate, rustblade still in hand, system light still hovering beside me.
My body ached. My heart thundered.
But something in me had changed.
I'd lived my life as a shut-in, mocked by the world, forgotten even by ambition.
Now… I was a Gladiator.
And the world would remember my name.