The sky above the arena turned gray.
Not from clouds—but from pressure. The kind that made weaker hunters clutch their chests and stronger ones reach for their weapons.
Thorne had arrived.
He didn't walk into the arena. He stalked in—barefoot, shirtless, covered in ritual scars. His guild, Black Halo, was known for one thing: blood magic. Every member was a killer. Thorne was their king.
Minwoo stood across from him, calm, unreadable. The Nexus Blade rested against his shoulder, humming like it knew what was coming.
The announcer's voice cracked.
No cheers.
Just silence.
Thorne grinned, revealing sharpened teeth. "You're the one they whisper about. The ghost. The Sovereign. Let's see if you scream."
Minwoo didn't respond.
The bell rang.
The Clash
Thorne moved like a predator—low, fast, unpredictable. He didn't summon magic. He bled for it. Slashed his own palm, and the blood turned into spears mid-air.
Minwoo dodged, barely.
The crowd leaned in.
Thorne's blood magic warped the arena—spikes from the ground, illusions in the air, echoes of screams that weren't real.
Minwoo closed his eyes.
Shadow pulsed.
He vanished.
Reappeared behind Thorne.
Struck.
Thorne blocked with a wall of blood—but the Nexus Blade cut through it like mist.
Thorne staggered.
Then laughed.
Minwoo's eyes narrowed.
He stepped forward.
The shadows surged.
Thorne tried to cast again—but the arena itself bent around Minwoo. The Nexus Blade glowed black. One final strike.
Thorne dropped.
Aftermath
The crowd didn't cheer.
They stared.
Minwoo stood alone in the center of the arena, cloak fluttering, blade humming.
Kinro watched from the stands, arms crossed, eyes glowing faint gold.
The bracket board updated.
A new name appeared.
Next match.
No more warm-ups.