"I knew it'd be one-sided," muttered a third-year in flowing blue robes, grim satisfaction edging his voice. "But I didn't think it'd be this brutal."
The crowd around him nodded in agreement, their faces a mix of shock and bloodthirsty excitement. They couldn't tear their eyes away from the spectacle unfolding on the elevated stone platform—the dueling stage of House Solvaris. It had been set up just minutes ago, and the moment the two combatants stepped onto it, the beatdown began without mercy.
A brutal fist slammed into Silas's abdomen. The impact lifted him off his feet, and before he could gasp, Orin drove a knee into his chest, blood spraying in a crimson arc.
Silas hit the stone like a discarded rag, his body twitching once before going still.
For a heartbeat, even the crowd fell silent.
"Didn't I tell you?" one spectator sneered, folding his thick arms across his chest. "He wouldn't last thirty seconds, let alone thirty minutes. The kid's beyond pathetic."
"Should've bet my entire allowance," another groaned, kicking at the ground. "Damn waste."
Laughter rippled through the gathered students.
But as Silas's lifeless form struck the cold stone, something extraordinary happened. His soul departed, vanishing into the void, only to be replaced by another.
A new consciousness surged into the battered body, crossing the boundaries of life and death.
Memories flooded in like a raging torrent even as his eyes remained shut. His brows furrowed in confusion and pain.
This wasn't Earth. This was a world ruled by raw power—cultivation, bloodlines, and martial prowess were the only currencies that mattered. Strength was survival. Weakness was death.
The body he now occupied belonged to Silas Vyserion, a sixteen-year-old orphan and a member of House Solvaris. Like his old self, this Silas had no family—only a cold, resentful adoptive noble house that tolerated him out of obligation. He possessed zero talent, no aptitude, and no skills. He was the house's eternal punching bag, the weakest of the weak.
The only reason he remained was obligation. The family didn't want him, but throwing him out would look worse.
As for this mess on the stage? It started innocently enough. The original Silas had overheard a joke aimed at Orin and let out a chuckle. Orin, humiliated that the house's biggest loser dared laugh at him, had dragged Silas onto the stage for a "challenge."
It was less a duel and more an execution.
Silas's single eye fluttered open for a split second, taking in the blurred faces of the crowd. A shout rang out: "Look! He's still alive!"
He snapped it shut instantly, playing dead.
"I swear I saw his eye move."
"No way. He's faking it."
The debate buzzed through the crowd, but it only darkened Orin's expression. He stared at the prone figure, then strode forward with murderous intent, hand clenched into a tight fist.
Reaching Silas, Orin grabbed the front of his tattered robe and hauled him upright. Silas's body dangled limp, head lolling to the side. He committed fully to the act, even as his heart pounded.
Orin released one hand, balling it into a fist, ready to smash it into Silas's face. That's when he "woke." His eyes shot open, and he scrambled back, feet skidding until he teetered on the stage's edge.
"Ah-ha! The scum was pretending all along!"
"The rat was faking it!" another student yelled.
The crowd erupted, those who'd believed gloating over the skeptics. Bets were called out, jeers flying thick and fast.
Silas's mind raced, ignoring the noise. Fighting Orin—who had blood threads curling around thread-like fingers—head-on? He might as well drive a stake through his own heart.
He scanned the surroundings for an escape route, but the students formed a tight ring around the stage, blocking every path.
"Nowhere to run, trash," Orin taunted, cracking his knuckles as he saw Silas looking around. "Come here, and I'll make it quick. Short and sweet, just for you."
The crowd nodded eagerly. One voice rang out among the students: "Yeah, Silas. I've got serious coin riding on you dying today. You wouldn't want me to lose that bet, would you?"
The glares boring into him were pure malice. Why so much hate for someone powerless? Silas wondered. Someone who posed no threat to anyone?
Orin didn't wait for an answer. He charged like a bull, closing the distance in a blur. Cornered with no way out, Silas braced for impact. The punch connected with his jaw, snapping his head back.
Before he could fall, Orin spun mid-air and delivered a devastating kick. His heel struck the back of Silas's skull, driving his face into the stone with a sickening thud.
"Yesss!" The spectators roared, fists pumping in delight.
Orin landed lightly and raised his boot. Sharp, pointy blood-threads shaped like a sword formed around it, preparing to stomp Silas's head into the ground.
Silas rolled at the last second. The stomp shattered the stone where his head had been, sending cracks spiderwebbing outward.
Gasping, Silas pushed himself up, wiping blood from his split lips. He glared at Orin through swollen eyes, then at the bloodthirsty spectators. Chest heaving, he wiped more blood away and straightened. If death was inevitable… then fear was pointless. So if he was going to die again today, he would at least put up a fight.
A cold pressure wrapped around his mind the moment that resolve hardened.
[Plundering Condition Fulfilled]
[Fortune Interface Initializing…]
A voice echoed in his mind, clear and mechanical. Silas blinked in shock as a translucent screen materialized before his eyes, hovering like a ghost.
[Host: Silas Vyserion]
[Age: 16]
[Bloodline: Sealed]
[Cultivation: 1st rank of Initiate realm]
[Skills/Abilities: None]
Time seemed to slow. His gaze shifted to Orin, and another screen appeared.
[Target identified: Orin Solvaris]
[Age: 19]
[Bloodline: Hemarch Bloodline]
[Purity: Tainted]
[Cultivation: 3rd rank of Initiate realm]
[Skills/Abilities: Blood manipulation]
[Martial Arts: Blood Step, Crimson Finger Thread, Scarlet Guard]
[Fortune Halo: Brown]
[Fortune Points: 60]
Orin smirked, mistaking Silas's stunned expression for defiance. "Smiling because you dodged one hit? I promise, there won't be another."
[Stealing Condition: Acceptance of Death (Met)]
[Heavenly Protection Revoked]
[Host can steal one of the target's martial arts]