The massive iron gates of the arena didn't open. Instead, the floor beneath the 100 contestants of Block C glowed white.
[Teleportation Initiated.]
[Destination: Floor 11 - The Whispering Jungle.]
Elian's stomach lurched. As the world twisted around him, the Administrator's voice boomed in his head, outlining the rules that would decide their fate.
[Elimination Round Rules:]
The Goal: Be in the Top 10 Rankers when the timer ends (2 Hours).
Points System:
Kill a Player: +10 Points.
Kill a Monster: +1 Point.
Survive: No passive points. You must hunt to climb.
Restriction: Potions are limited to what you brought. No drops.
Flash.
Elian hit the ground rolling, instantly crouching behind a massive, moss-covered root. The arena was gone. He was deep in a humid, dense jungle. The air buzzed with insects, and the canopy was so thick it blocked out the sun, leaving the forest floor in a perpetual twilight.
"Floor 11," Elian whispered, scanning the trees. "In the past, this floor was known for 'Silent Vipers' dropping from branches. But with the timeline shifting..."
He didn't rush. He didn't sprint for points. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of Flour. He dusted it over his own shoulders and the ground around him.
If there are invisible enemies or players with stealth skills, the dust will settle on them, he reasoned.
It was paranoid. It was excessive. It was perfect.
He moved silently, The Reaper's Edge held low. He ignored the low-level boars and monkeys. They were worth 1 point—waste of stamina. He needed players.
Ten minutes in, he heard a twig snap.
Elian froze, blending into the shadows of a fern.
Three men walked into the clearing. They wore the signature steel breastplates of the Iron Fists. They weren't fighting monsters. They were scanning the bushes, weapons drawn.
"Check the perimeter," one whispered. "The GM said he's in this block. We flush him out, GM takes the head."
Elian narrowed his eyes. They're hunting me.
He could have ambushed them instantly. But he waited. He watched their formation.
The one in the back, a Ranger, suddenly stopped. He pulled a small, red crystal from his pocket and crushed it.
FZZZT.
A high-pitched, sonic screech echoed through the jungle. It wasn't loud enough to hurt, but it carried for miles.
Elian frowned. A Sonic Lure? Why use that? It attracts every monster in a mile radius. Are they trying to create a chaotic zone to farm points?
He scoffed quietly. Amateurs. They'll get overwhelmed by mobs before they find me.
Elian decided to punish their stupidity.
He stepped out from the fern, his movement silent.
"You're loud," Elian said.
The three Iron Fists spun around. Before they could raise their weapons, Elian was already moving.
He didn't use his sword. He used the Grappling Hook he had bought.
He threw it. The hook wrapped around the Ranger's ankle. Elian yanked hard.
"Gah!" The Ranger flew off his feet, dragging through the dirt toward Elian.
Elian stepped on the Ranger's chest to pin him and swung his greatsword in a one-handed arc at the other two.
CLANG.
They blocked, but the weight of The Reaper's Edge drove them to their knees.
"Formation!" the Swordsman yelled. "Signal is sent! Hold him!"
Signal? Elian thought, kicking the Ranger in the jaw to silence him. That screech wasn't for mobs?
Before he could finish the thought, the jungle to his right exploded.
A massive figure burst through the trees, moving faster than a tank had any right to move.
"FOUND YOU!" a deep voice roared.
Elian instinctively raised his blade to block.
BOOOOM.
A fist wrapped in a massive, spiked steel gauntlet slammed into the flat of Elian's sword.
The impact was terrifying. Elian was launched backward, his boots carving deep trenches into the mud as he slid twenty feet away. His arms vibrated from the shock.
[-15 HP]
Elian shook his head, looking up.
Standing over the unconscious Iron Fists members was a giant of a man. He stood nearly seven feet tall, wearing full plate armor painted a deep crimson. His weapons were a pair of oversized Pneumatic Gauntlets—mechanical gloves with pistons that increased punch force.
[Player Encounter: Garrick - Guild Master of Iron Fists]
[Rank: 5th in Block C]
"So," Garrick grunted, slamming his fists together. Steam hissed from his gauntlets. "You're the rat that embarrassed Darius. You look small."
Elian stood up, shaking the numbness from his hands. He's strong. Pure Strength build. Probably Level 12 or 13.
"And you look like a walking tin can," Elian retorted, shifting his stance.
"The signal wasn't for mobs, boy," Garrick grinned, his helmet visor sliding down. "It was the dinner bell. And I'm starving."
Garrick charged. He didn't run; he propelled himself. The pistons in his gauntlets fired, adding explosive speed to his punch.
Elian dodged left. The punch hit a tree behind him. The tree splintered and fell over.
If that hits me, I'm dead, Elian realized. My Wolf Vest can't take that.
Elian went on the offensive. He swung The Reaper's Edge low, aiming for the legs.
Garrick didn't dodge. He punched the sword.
CLANG.
The parry knocked Elian's blade into the dirt. Garrick followed up with a left hook.
Elian barely leaned back, feeling the wind of the punch scrape his nose. He dropped a Flash Pellet.
BANG.
White light blinded the clearing.
"Cheap tricks!" Garrick roared, swinging blindly.
Elian used the second of blindness to circle behind. He aimed a heavy slash at the back of Garrick's knee—the weak point he had practiced on the Death Knight.
CRUNCH.
The blade bit in, but not deep enough. Garrick's armor was high-tier.
[-40 HP to Garrick]
Garrick roared in pain and spun around with a backhand swing. Elian ducked, but the metal forearm clipped his shoulder.
Elian rolled away, gritting his teeth. [-20 HP].
Elian HP: 145/180.
Garrick HP: Unknown (Estimating 80%).
They circled each other. The jungle was silent, the birds scared off by the violence.
"You're slippery," Garrick admitted, checking his leg. The armor was dented, cramping his movement. "But you can't hurt me. My defense is too high for that rusty blade."
Elian touched the hilt of his sword. It wasn't rusty. It was hungry.
"You're right," Elian said, his breathing steady. "A direct hit is hard."
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a Vial of Acid.
"So let's soften you up."
Garrick laughed. "You think a little chemistry scare—"
Elian didn't throw it at Garrick. He threw it at his own sword.
The glass shattered. Green, sizzling liquid coated the black blade of The Reaper's Edge.
"What are you doing?" Garrick asked, confused.
"My sword inflicts Bleed," Elian explained calmly, taking a stance. "But you don't bleed through plate armor."
Elian's eyes flashed with the Terror Gaze skill, freezing Garrick for a split second.
"So I'm going to melt a hole first."
Elian charged.
It wasn't an overwhelming victory. It was a dogfight. Elian had to dodge every massive, piston-fired punch that could end him in one hit, chipping away at the armor with acid-coated strikes.
He was struggling. Sweat poured down his face. His stamina was draining fast. But he wasn't losing.
He was dissecting.