The forest arena flickered into view like someone slapped a cheap VR filter over his eyes. He barely had time to plant his boots on the damp moss before the first wave shimmered to life — four goblins, hunched over like they'd just crawled out of a bargain bin horror movie, each one brandishing a rusty blade that might as well have been a butter knife.
Zero cracked his neck once to either side, exhaled through his nose, and let the grin stretch under the cracked helmet. He could practically feel the dumb chant "Zero drip! Zero chance!" somewhere behind him on the plaza screens.
"Let's see who's dripless now, you sons of good mothers," he muttered, eyes flicking between the closest goblin and the one fumbling with its dagger near the back.
