The Arena of the Unblooded wasn't just a place; it was a sensory assault that hit Kaelen long before he reached its sunken stone entrance.
The roar of the crowd was a physical force, vibrating through the cobblestones beneath his worn shoes. The air grew thick with the coppery tang of blood and the pungent smell of sweat, both fresh and old, mingling with the scent of cheap ale and unwashed bodies. It was the stench of desperation, and it called to something primal in him.
Torchlight flickered from the entrance, casting dancing shadows that seemed to beckon him into the city's bowels. This was the path Lyra had pointed him toward—a path of blood and coin, and most importantly, Evolution Points.
He used two of his precious coppers to pass through the competitor's gate, a rusted iron thing manned by a brute with a scarred face and a missing eye who grunted, "Name for the roster, kid?"
"Kaelen," he said, forcing his voice steady.
The man scrawled on a wax tablet. "Free-for-all. Try not to die in the first ten seconds. Bad for business."
The holding pen was a cage of damp stone and straw, filled with the Unblooded—a dozen desperate souls. A hulking man tested the edge of a cleaver. A wiry woman spun twin daggers with practiced ease. Others just had the wild, cornered look of starved animals. They were all here for the same reason: to trade their blood for a chance, however slim, at something more.
This was madness. But it was also the most direct application of the **[Path of the Blooded Brawler]**.
He focused inward, pulling up the System interface. The 100 EP glowed, a tangible resource waiting to be spent. The choice was no longer a choice.
**[Confirm Evolution: Path of the Blooded Brawler? Cost: 100 EP.]**
**Yes/No.**
He selected *Yes*.
The change was not gentle. It was a lightning strike grounding itself through his marrow. His muscles tightened and hummed with new potential, fibers subtly re-knitting themselves.
The lingering ache in his ribs vanished completely, replaced by a raw, coiled power. A cold, sharp clarity descended upon his mind, sharpening his senses.
The fear was still there, but it was now a tool, honed and focused.
**[Evolution Stage Updated: F (Blooded)]**
**[New Passive Skill Gained: Combat Instinct (Novice). Enhances reaction speed and situational awareness in combat.]**
**[New Stat Bonuses: Strength +3, Agility +2, Vitality +3]**
He was still F-Rank, but he was no longer Mundane. He was Blooded.
A horn blared, and the iron gate to the arena ground open. Sunlight and the deafening roar of the crowd flooded the pen.
"Go on, meat! Entertain us!" the scarred guard yelled, shoving the first competitor out.
Kaelen was the seventh to enter the sandy pit. The arena was smaller than it looked from above, the walls too high to climb.
The other competitors immediately scattered, some forming temporary alliances, others, like the cleaver-wielding man, simply charging the nearest target.
Kaelen didn't move. He stood near the wall, his posture relaxed, his senses expanded. **[Combat Instinct]** painted the world in shades of threat. The cleaver-man was a blazing red signal of immediate danger.
The dagger-woman was a flickering orange, moving erratically. He saw the tells in their stances, the shift of weight before a lunge, the flicker of their eyes before a strike. The System provided the data; his body knew how to react.
The cleaver-man, having downed one opponent with a brutal swing, turned his gaze to Kaelen. "Scrawny little rat! You're next!"
He charged, cleaver held high, leaving his torso wide open. A week ago, Kaelen would have been dead. An hour ago, he would have panicked. Now, he saw the opening with crystalline precision.
He didn't retreat. He sidestepped at the last possible second, the wind of the heavy blade rustling his hair.
As the man stumbled past, over-committed, Kaelen didn't punch or kick. He used his own body as a lever, hooking his foot behind the man's ankle and shoving his shoulder into the brute's back.
It wasn't about overpowering him. It was about using his opponent's momentum against him. The cleaver-man crashed face-first into the arena wall with a sickening thud and slid down, unconscious.
The crowd, which had been baying for blood, let out a collective gasp, then a louder, more interested roar. They hadn't expected finesse.
The dagger-woman saw her chance and lunged at Kaelen's exposed back. But his **[Combat Instinct]** was already screaming. He dropped into a crouch, feeling the blades whistle over his head. He spun, sweeping her legs out from under her.
She hit the sand hard, and before she could recover, he stomped on her wrist. She cried out, her dagger skittering away.
He didn't finish her. He just looked at her, his eyes cold and empty. The message was clear: *Stay down.* She scrambled backward, clutching her injured hand, and yielded.
The rest of the fight was a blur of controlled movement. He became a ghost in the chaos, a trip here, a disabling joint lock there.
He didn't land a single killing blow, but one by one, his opponents fell or yielded, until only he and one other, a terrified boy younger than him, were left standing.
The boy raised his hands. "I yield! I yield!"
The horn blared again, signaling the end. The crowd was on its feet, chanting a name—not his name, but the title the arena master bellowed: "The Ghost! Your winner!"
Kaelen stood panting in the center of the pit, sand and blood sticking to his clothes. He felt no exhilaration, only a cold, hollow satisfaction. He had survived.
A pouch was thrown into the sand at his feet. Five copper crowns. The price of his blood.
But the true reward came from the System.
**[Conditional Mission Complete: Trial by Combat.]**
**Objective: Survive the Arena of the Unblooded. Status: Victor.**
**Reward: 50 Evolution Points. Reputation in the Veridian Underworld (Minor Increase).**
Fifty points. It was a start. It wasn't enough for the next major evolution, but it was progress. As he walked out of the arena, the cold eyes of the spectators upon him, he knew this was only the beginning. Lyra had been right. This was a path. A brutal, bloody one.
Back in the shadows of an alley, he opened his **[Inventory]** for the first time. It was a small, ten-slot space, nebulous and blue. He willed the coin pouch into it, and it vanished from his hand, appearing as a tiny icon. A simple, profound magic that was all his own.
He was no longer just a survivor. He was a fighter. He had taken the first conscious step on his path of evolution. The Blooded Brawler was just the beginning.
The System was whispering, promising more. All it required was more blood, more struggle, more evolution.
The Ghost had been born in blood and sand. Now, he needed to learn what else he could become.