Smith's announcement still echoed off the walls, leaving a trail of uncertainty in the air. John processed his opponent's name in silence, scouring his memories of the initial draw.
"Kevin…" John murmured, his eyes fixed on the void. "He's from that strange guy's group. I have no idea what his fighting style is, but his posture... he seemed to carry a different kind of weight. He's someone strong."
Lance crossed his arms, leaning against the damp wall with a bitter smile. "This is simultaneously the best and worst-case scenario for us. If one of the girls had been drawn now, it would be the end of the line. Let's be realistic: you and I are the only ones here with a real chance of surviving man-to-man against a stranger."
"I agree," Theo added, adjusting his glasses and checking his medical kit. "I'm an excellent doctor, but I don't have the combat training you two received. In the hands of a fighter, I'd be nothing more than a statistic."
"Alex's group isn't in an enviable position either," Lance commented, shifting focus. "From what I saw, that Dante kid is the weak link. He looks like the type who shakes at the knees."
John turned to him, his voice taking on the sharp, disciplined edge of his military background. "Never underestimate an opponent by their appearance, Lance. That's the fastest mistake someone makes before they die. On the battlefield, fear can be both a weakness and a dangerous fuel."
Meanwhile, miles away, Alex's group tried to organize the chaos. The cave environment was saturated with the smell of damp earth and the rhythmic sound of Yuki practicing her aim.
"We know nothing about this Zack," Harry said, his voice trailing off with exhaustion. Dark circles underlined his eyes, betraying sleepless nights, in direct contrast to Foxy, who seemed strangely invigorated, and Alex, who maintained a firm posture despite the wear and tear. "He must belong to one of the groups that chose neutrality until now. You need to double your caution, Dante."
Alex took a bite of an apple, watching Yuki's effort to stabilize her weapon. "John's fight will come first; Smith followed that order in the announcement. We'll all head to the arena at the scheduled time. We can't leave him alone in that lion's den."
In the background, Elisa moved like a shadow among the passages, checking every trigger and steel cable of the traps protecting the entrance. The snap of adjusting metal was the only sound interrupting the planning.
Far from there, in the dusty basement of the hotel, sunlight filtered through small cracks in the ceiling, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Zack rose slowly, shaking the dirt from his clothes. A calm, almost serene smile formed on his face as he stretched his shoulders. "It seems, at last, it's my turn to shine."
Outside, the shadows began to lengthen ominously. The sky was stained a blood orange. Finally, evening arrived.
The arena was not what they expected. Far from the spotlights and TV-studio aesthetic of the previous trials, the location Smith had chosen was a brutalist structure—a concrete amphitheater wedged underground, where the smell of mold mingled with the metallic scent of old blood. The walls, marred by cracks and damp stains, echoed every footstep of the survivors settling into the cold bleachers.
To everyone's surprise, Smith was already waiting. He sat in a crimson velvet armchair positioned at the highest point of the gallery. However, something was different. The black suit, which seemed to be his second skin, had been replaced by an impeccable white linen ensemble that glowed under the sickly fluorescent light of the ceiling.
"Well, it seems everyone is here!" Smith exclaimed, opening his arms as if welcoming guests into his own home. His voice, devoid of microphones, projected with supernatural clarity, maintaining that bizarre game-show host timbre. "As you must have imagined, the fights will follow the order of the draw. No interruptions, no edits. Only the truth of steel."
He crossed his legs, leaning back with almost childish delight.
"Let the show begin. John and Kevin, the stage is yours. The rest of you, settle in. Learning from others' mistakes is the only form of education I offer today."
John was the first to descend. His combat boots hit the packed sand floor with a steady cadence. He didn't look at the bleachers; his focus was entirely on his breathing, oxygenating his muscles, preparing his nervous system for the surge of adrenaline to come. He stopped on the east side of the arena, his right hand resting discreetly on the hilt of his combat knife—a piece of matte carbon steel, made not to reflect light.
From the opposite side, Kevin emerged. He didn't wear armor or tactical gear. He wore a basic white t-shirt and black pants, attire so common it felt like an insult to the gravity of the situation. What truly stood out, however, was his hair—dyed a vibrant shade of pink—which contrasted with his icy gaze, devoid of any trace of hesitation.
"He looks strong," Alex commented from the bleachers, his voice low, almost a whisper to himself. "His posture... he isn't tense. He is in absolute repose. That's dangerous."
Below, the two fighters measured each other. John analyzed Kevin's base: feet shoulder-width apart, weight distributed on the balls of his feet, hands relaxed at his sides. It was the stance of a predator who knows exactly the reaction time needed for any attack.
Kevin, in turn, gave a lopsided smirk. A dry, humorless smile. He drew his weapon. It wasn't a common knife, but a Karambit—a curved blade, resembling a tiger's claw, with a safety ring on the handle. The design was perfect for fast, arterial cuts and close-quarters combat.
The silence in the arena became absolute. One could hear the hum of the lights above. Smith raised his hand and, with a theatrical gesture, gave the signal.
The bell rang.
The beginning was not an explosion of violence, but a cautious dance. John moved first, circling to the left, forcing Kevin to adjust his position. As a veteran, John knew the Karambit required the opponent to be very close; his advantage lay in the slightly longer reach of his straight knife and his physical strength.
John threw the first strike: a testing thrust toward Kevin's shoulder. It was a quick movement, calculated to be retracted instantly. Kevin didn't even flinch. He simply tilted his torso to the side, letting John's blade pass millimeters from his clothes, and spun the Karambit on his index finger with mesmerizing dexterity.
"Too slow for a soldier," Kevin taunted, his voice soft, almost a whisper amplified by the arena's echo.
John didn't answer. He lunged again, this time with a sequence of three cuts: a horizontal sweep at the abdomen, followed by an upward strike and a front kick to create space. Kevin blocked John's arm with his left forearm, using the momentum to slide under the soldier's guard.
Kevin's curved blade flashed. He attempted an upward cut, aiming for John's bicep. The soldier reacted by instinct, twisting his body and feeling the cold air of the blade slice through nothing but air. He felt the fabric of his uniform tear slightly at the arm, but the skin remained intact.
They broke apart and resumed circling. Mutual respect was now etched in their eyes. John realized Kevin wasn't just a brawler; he had technical mastery of Southeast Asian martial arts, likely Silat. If he let Kevin enter his "dead zone," John would be shredded before he could even draw a second weapon.
"You're good at staying alive," Kevin admitted, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his shirt. "But fighting a soldier is predictable. You train for efficiency, for the killing blow. Me? I train for systematic destruction."
This time, Kevin took the initiative. He moved like a blur. The Karambit moved in short, unpredictable arcs. John was forced into a sharp defensive stance, using the hilt and the spine of his knife to parry attacks coming from impossible angles. The sound of colliding metal—clink, clink, sparks—filled the space, sending tiny sparks to the dirt floor.
John attempted a heavy counter-attack, a downward strike aiming for Kevin's neck. It was a brute force maneuver. Kevin, instead of blocking, used the Karambit's ring to hook John's blade for a brief second, diverting the knife's trajectory into the ground. With his free hand, Kevin delivered an open-palm strike against John's chin.
The impact snapped the soldier's head back. John staggered, the metallic taste of blood instantly flooding his mouth. Kevin gave no quarter; he lunged into a spinning cut, aiming for John's legs to immobilize him.
John, however, regained tactical awareness mid-stumble. He didn't try to flee the attack; he threw himself to the ground, rolling over his injured shoulder and delivering a sweeping kick that caught Kevin's ankle.
The pink-haired youth lost his balance for a split second, enough for John to scramble up and re-establish distance. Both were now panting, but the glint in John's eyes had changed. The "standard soldier" mode had been replaced by something darker.
In the bleachers, Lance was leaning forward, his hands gripping the concrete railing. "They're just testing each other... If this is the warm-up, the arena will turn into a slaughterhouse in a few minutes."
John spat blood onto the ground, wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand. He adjusted his grip on the knife, now holding it in a reverse grip, blade pointing down.
"No more testing," John said, his voice raspy and laden with a violent promise. "Let's see how long that smile lasts once you start losing fingers."
Kevin laughed, a short and genuine laugh, as he positioned the Karambit in front of his face, hiding part of his features behind the curved steel. The afternoon was fading outside, but inside that arena, time seemed to have stopped to make way for the dance of death.