The commentator's voice rang out again.
"And without further ado, we already know the second fighter—the Reaper of the Slums!"
Cheers echoed from the stands.
Melissa looked toward the gate as the Reaper stepped into the arena. His body was still wrapped in bandages, and he held his staff like it meant everything to him. He glanced at it briefly, the same way he always did, but this time, he didn't linger.
His eyes moved to Zeck.
Melissa noticed the difference. During his fight with Killmonger, he seemed more carefree, almost like he was enjoying the attention. But now, all of that was gone. He looked serious, like something had changed.
The crowd quieted a little as both fighters took their positions.
Melissa felt her chest tighten.
This wasn't going to be a regular match.
As the bell rang, Zeck launched forward with a thunderous boom, the sound trailing behind him like a storm.
Melissa flinched.
But the Reaper didn't flinch. He didn't trace any runes this time. Instead, he raised his staff high and slammed it into the ground with a heavy thud. The floor trembled beneath him.
He took one step back.
A faint shimmer rose around the staff, forming a dome that pulsed gently, as if the staff had a life of its own.
Then, without wasting a second, the Reaper turned to meet Zeck head-on.
Their fists collided with a deafening boom, the shockwave rattling the walls of the arena.
Zeck wasted no time—he threw a wild punch at the Reaper's face. The Reaper slipped past it and responded with a solid blow to Zeck's abdomen.
Zeck didn't dodge.
The punch landed deep, and blood spilled from his mouth. But he just grinned, eyes wild, like he was enjoying the pain.
He swung again, but the Reaper caught it with his free hand and followed up with a sharp headbutt.
Zeck staggered back, three steps.
As much as Melissa had a feeling deep down that this fight could end quickly, it was clear both fighters were holding nothing back—not for the sake of a swift win, but to enjoy every moment of the battle. They were pushing each other to the edge, and oddly enough, that was exactly what she had been hoping for.
She glanced toward where the scarred man had been standing earlier—just out of habit.
But he was gone.
"Looking for me?" a rough voice said beside her.
She turned, startled, to find him settling into the seat next to hers, casually trying to adjust it like they were watching a stage play.
Another deafening boom from the arena pulled her eyes back to the fight.
Both Zeck and the Reaper were sent flying in opposite directions from the center, dust rising around them like a smoke curtain on a broken stage.
Zeck rose to his feet, dust clinging to his clothes. The ground beneath him trembled softly, responding like an old friend. From the sand, a rope began to form—twisting, weaving—until it slithered up like a serpent. Zeck reached for it and grabbed the other end, then with a sharp flick of his wrist, cracked it forward like a whip.
Across the arena, the Reaper stood, slow and steady. His hand stretched out, and with a low hum, his staff flew to him. Without hesitation, two ice soldiers materialized beside him—one gripping a broad shield, the other armed with a bow, nocking an arrow with silent precision.
From the stands, the scarred man leaned back, watching closely.
"Interesting," he murmured. "He's evolved again... and in such a short time."
The sand-whip seemed to sense its own purpose, coiling and lunging with intent. It lashed out at the Reaper like a beast with eyes of its own.
The ice soldier with the shield moved quickly, stepping in front of the Reaper just in time to block the incoming whip. A loud clang echoed through the arena as sand met ice. Melissa leaned forward slightly, her heart racing. The battle had shifted—no longer a test of brute strength up close, but now a fierce exchange at mid-range.
The archer didn't waste time. He pulled back his bow and released arrow after arrow in rapid succession. Each shot whistled through the air, aimed with deadly precision. But the sand whip, as if guided by instinct, struck each one down effortlessly—spinning, twisting, reacting with uncanny awareness.
Then came the shift.
With a sudden crack, the whip disintegrated into countless grains. They didn't fall—they attacked. A barrage of sand pellets rained down with speed and force, heading straight for the Reaper and his two summons.
Without hesitation, the Reaper raised his hand and pointed at the soldiers. With a simple squeezing motion, their forms shattered—not in ice, but in a burst of water. The liquid surged upward just in time, clashing with the sand barrage in midair.
The collision sent shockwaves across the arena. A cloud of dust erupted from the ground, rising high and shrouding everything in a thick haze. The crowd went silent, straining to see who would emerge from the smoke.