Chapter 350
The battles resumed with renewed intensity.
The arena echoed with the roars of combatants who remained not for glory alone—but for pride, defiance, and the refusal to back down.
Those who had stayed behind were not fools.
Especially those with more knowledge about Michael.
Many had seen what Michael did and had done before, and still chose to stay. Whether out of unyielding will or sheer stubbornness, they remained—and it showed.
Every clash on the stage now felt heavier, fiercer.
The crowd watched, gripped by the relentless back-and-forth. Power exploded like fireworks. Blades clashed with ripples.
There were fewer participants now, but that made each bout stand out more.
But elsewhere, a different kind of tension grew.
Back in the waiting chambers, the atmosphere had changed drastically.
Michael had noticed it first when the illusion displaying the outside events had cut out. At first, he’d thought it was a malfunction.
But when it didn’t return—even after several minutes—his suspicions deepened.
Then people began to leave.
One by one, once the participants in Group B were called on stage, they never returned.
He kept track.
The first few didn’t rattle him. The middle few made him raise an eyebrow.
Now, only he was left.
Michael didn’t panic, but his senses were fully alert.
What he didn’t know was that he wasn’t the only one.
In the waiting rooms of Groups A and C, three others also sat alone.
Renn was seated with his hands folded calmly across his lap. His wooden sword rested against the bench, untouched, but never far from hand.
Uga was also alone but unlike before, his eyes were open.
And the fourth—the prince?
Well, he also stayed in silence with Renn.
Michael had no idea they were the others.
Just as his thoughts began to whirl faster, the illusion center on the wall of his chamber flickered—then returned.
Abruptly.
The image of the coliseum filled the space again, showing a battle already in progress. A young man wielding twin daggers was locked in a vicious exchange with a staff-wielding opponent. Their movements were a blur.
Around the stage were six other people, collapsed.
The impression it gave was that they took each other out.
Fortunately it didn’t seem like anyone died.
But the bloody stage, unlike its earlier appearance at the start of the competition, told a lot of story.
Michael stared.
The dagger-wielder launched forward with blinding speed, flickering like a shadow across the stone. His opponent spun the staff defensively, parrying three strikes in rapid succession before planting its base against the ground and releasing a sudden shockwave.
Dust burst upward. The crowd gasped.
But the dagger user wasn’t deterred. He weaved through the dust like a phantom, appearing beside the staff user with a sharp pivot—dagger aimed at the neck. It was blocked, barely, by the flat of the staff.
Sparks flew.
Their battle raged like a storm trapped in a cage. The staff wielder—a tall, wiry youth—backpedaled swiftly, then swept low, trying to trip his opponent.
The dagger user jumped, flipping backward mid-air and tossing a small dagger as he did.
The projectile was caught. Not by the opponent—but by the staff, which had twisted mid-spin to intercept it with almost lazy precision.
Then came the counterattack.
The staff came down in a vertical arc, fast and unforgiving. The dagger-wielder crossed both weapons in defense, but the force of the blow knocked him to one knee, cracking the arena stone beneath.
The crowd roared again with the commentator making comments in the background.
The dagger-wielder shot back up, spinning into a whirl of slashes that forced his opponent to retreat.
But even as the staff user moved, he did so with grace—every step measured, every motion fluid.
The match was close. It could go either way. But it wouldn’t last much longer.
It was about to end.
And just as expected, the next exchange happened in a flash.
The staff wielder feinted high, then jabbed the base of his weapon toward the dagger-user’s side.
But instead of dodging, the dagger-wielder stepped into the strike, twisting as he did.
The staff hit—but the blade found its mark first.
A clean slice across the shoulder. The crowd roared. The staff dropped. The wielder stumbled. But the dagger-user didn’t gloat. He didn’t smile. He just stepped back, panting, and waited for the announcement.
The illusion dimmed slightly, shifting to a wide-angle view of the coliseum as the announcer’s voice echoed once more.
“Let’s hear it for our brave fighters! Of spirit. Of skill. Of everything they represent!”
The crowd cheered.
The commentator stated the winners—Group D.
Cheers erupted across the arena.
The commentator smiled brightly, his voice booming again, “Please head to the waiting room. The officials will be with you shortly to guide you on what comes next.”
As he spoke, several individuals in flowing red robes stepped onto the arena stage. They moved swiftly, efficiently, and without much ceremony, tending to the unconscious participants.
The crowd grew quieter, watching the figures carefully lift the fallen fighters and carry them toward an archway that had opened at the far end of the coliseum.
Michael leaned forward.
That wasn’t the exit normally used by participants. He had watched the earlier matches while participating in one to know where each group typically entered and exited.
This… was different.
Michael narrowed his eyes.
So it’s not just my group, he thought. None of them are coming back.
Then the commentator’s voice broke through again, vibrant and theatrical. “And that marks the end of the team section!”
Thunderous applause followed.
Michael kept his eyes on the illusion display, but now he was listening more intently.
“Spectacular, wasn’t it?” the commentator went on. “From the vicious clash to unshakable pride… We saw warriors rise, fall, and shine with everything they had!”
The crowd cheered again. Nobles clapped and Commoners stood and hollered.
“I must give special mention to our bold contenders: Dela Myre, who fought with elegance and unshaken will. Lige the shadow, who moved like wind through his enemies. And the twin blades of Kalen and Riss. Heroes, all of them!”
The names caused murmurs and reminiscence to ripple through the stands.
“And now—” the commentator’s voice suddenly sharpened with excitement, “—it’s time for what we’ve all been waiting for. The individual matches!”
The reaction was instant.