Five minutes. That's all it took for the first hunter to arrive.
A muscular girl with a broadsword nearly as tall as she was, leather armor splattered with dried blood. She sized them up with a predator's grin—why wouldn't she? Two mana-less targets against her earth-enhanced strength.
Kiera slipped behind Vael. Without shadows, she'd guard his back while he led. They both knew what was coming—a swarm. Five against one. Ten. Arrows from above. The only chance was to end fights fast.
The girl charged, stone armor enveloping her torso and limbs. Her blade descended like a guillotine.
Peak first-stage, both realized. What once counted as weak now felt overwhelming.
Vael pivoted, rapier flashing, deflecting the strike just enough—
THUNK. The broadsword buried itself in the earth. Her eyes widened as Vael's rapier lunged for her chest—
PING. The steel bounced harmlessly off her stone plate.
Kiera swore under her breath. They weren't just powerless. They couldn't even hurt anyone.
The girl's fear melted into smug confidence.
Note to self, Vael thought grimly, get a magic weapon. Arconis wasn't just showing off.
Their eyes met. Same plan.
If they couldn't fight, they'd run.
Kiera bolted right, legs carrying her like a wraith. Vael went left, scaling an oak in three desperate leaps.
The hunt was on—this time, they were the prey.
Night fell, and with it came the horrors.
Assassination. Extortion. Torture.
Why? Because the dark concealed sins. Because the pale moonlight didn't expose, and the stars didn't argue.
For those with weak stomachs, night was a friend. For victims, a false hope.
Vael leaned against a rock deep inside a cave, breath ragged. Sweat drenched him head to toe. Yet no injury marred his body.
Six hours of running, dodging, countering, while a dozen hunters hounded his every step.
At its peak, nineteen people had pursued him. Nineteen who could've fought each other—easy points squandered. Instead, they had united, driven by the promise of his head.
Amazing, really. Even enemies found brotherhood when a bigger prize appeared.
Enough of that.
His location was marked by a bright red dot. Crude, but enough. The cave entrance was distant; it'd take time before they closed in.
He couldn't drink. No pocket space. No respite.
So he sat. Muscles trembling. Neck screaming from hours of constant swiveling, jerking, checking shadows for imagined arrows. His one eye struggled without spatial awareness—half the world a blind spot his pursuers gleefully exploited.
If there was one piece of good news, it was his two kills.
The first: skill. A rapier thrust through an eye as its owner lunged. Clean. Surgical.
The second: luck. Some poor fool stumbled into him mid-sprint. Vael's blade pierced his gut before either had time to blink.
Only one life remaining. Points secured. Pride curdled into ash.
He'd sell his left arm for ten minutes of sleep.
But sleep meant death.
And he'd be damned before some third-rate noble claimed his head.
Kiera pressed deeper into her hiding crevice, jagged stone scraping her back. Cramped. Uncomfortable. Safe—for now.
Sweat slicked her skin. A cut along her ribs burned, shallow but stinging.
Not weakness. Not failure.
Numbers.
She wasn't being hunted by elites. She was being swarmed by the desperate—thirty at once, blades flashing, hands grasping. A shallow cut was inevitable.
Then fortune struck.
The strong realized chasing her was pointless. Why settle for bronze when silver and gold were flashing just a map away? The pack thinned. Turned on each other.
Kiera summoned her mana screen with a flick.
Remaining: 78
Time Left: 06:00:00
A grim smile curved her lips. The frenzy was fading. Candidates were remembering this was still a battle royale—and that Elana didn't die easily.
Six hours.
She could last six more.
Arconis moved through the forest like a force of nature—untouchable, inevitable. While the others scrambled to survive, he *hunted*.
Ten kills.
Ten candidates who'd learned too late that stripping his mana meant nothing.
The scythe whispered through the air, its three forms cycling with lethal precision:
**Blood Moon** – The blade phased through armor and bone alike, leaving no defense but enchanted steel. Kiera's neck had learned this firsthand.
**Early Dawn** – Golden light erupted along the edge as its weight multiplied, crushing shields and shattering weapons in single swings.
**Midnight Requiem** – The weapon dissolved into violet mist, reforming into a perfect duplicate of Arconis himself. Two-thirds his strength. Twice the terror. Its downsides were that it only took one strike for it to dissolve, and its cooldown was long.
The scythe's own mana reserves meant limitations were for lesser men.
Cocky challengers became cautious. Then desperate. Then *corpses*.
By hour twelve, the forest around him was empty—not from lack of hunters, but from the pile of dissolved bodies that had taught the rest to flee.
Arconis Von Dratona didn't run.
The battlefield ran from *him*.
Nobody bought Arconis' backstory.
"Commoner from a nowhere village" didn't explain the healing magic. Didn't explain the scythe. Real healers worked in temples, not battlefields. Weapons like that didn't just turn up in some farmer's shed.
The way he fought told the real story - too efficient, too practiced. This wasn't Academy training. This was someone who'd learned to kill the hard way.
So why was he here? Not for lectures. Not for titles.
Right now, he only seemed interested in one thing:
Vael's cave lay dead ahead.
He was looking for a fight. A real one.