The waiting chamber reeked of sweat, blood, and damp stone. It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but to Gorran, it was perhaps the closest thing to heaven. It was the culmination of months of struggle, pain, and persistence. He adjusted the grip on his shotels, the twin blades gleaming faintly in the dim torch light. They were curved like crescent moons, wickedly sharp, and as familiar to his hands as his own fingers. They had carried him through fifty-six fights and several losses in the arena, each fight pushing him further up the leaderboard.

And now, finally, after all those countless months of pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into this game and crawling through the ranks, he was here.

The fight to become the next grand champion.

The title alone sent a thrill through his chest. Gorran had watched every match he could of the reigning champion, though there weren’t many to analyze. Ninety-seven fights. Ninety-seven victories. No losses. And more terrifying, the champion’s last fight had ended in under a minute. Gorran wasn’t naive. He knew what he was up against, but still, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, his muscles coiling with anticipation.

In the corner of his vision, his HUD flickered faintly, showing his health bar, stamina bar, and the timer counting down to the start of the match. 00:10. His heart thumped harder. The iron gate in front of him groaned as it began to rise, the gears screeching above him. Blinding sunlight spilled into the chamber, making him squint as he stepped forward. The roar of the crowd hit him like a wall of noise, thousands of voices chanting, shouting, and cheering for blood. The arena stretched out before him, flat and golden, its floor covered in sand that gleamed under the midday sun.

Gorran shielded his eyes with one hand, scanning the circular battlefield as he walked toward the center. The heat was intense, and sweat was already starting to bead on his forehead. Around him, rows upon rows of spectators leaned forward in their seats, eager to see how this fight would unfold. Even though the crowd would have mainly been made up of NPC’s , today the crowd was a mixture of them and the players as many roared on the eastern side of the arena. The master of the arena, a shadowy figure seated high in the stands, raised a hand to quiet the crowd.

Gorran’s eyes darted to the opposite gate. It was still closed.

Then, with a metallic clank, the second gate began to rise.

From the shadows emerged the champion.

Gorran had seen him in clips, videos and even one fight he had been able to eke the time out to watch but standing here now, facing him in the flesh, was an entirely different experience. The champion wasn’t as tall as Gorran had imagined. He stood perhaps 5’9, maybe 6 feet, but his presence was undeniable. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, and a body carved like a statue of war. His fists were wrapped in white cloth, stained faintly red from previous fights, and he moved with a calm, deliberate grace that made Gorran’s stomach twist.

No weapon? Gorran’s brow furrowed. He’d fought unarmed opponents before, but none had lasted more than a few minutes. No weapon meant no range, no reach. The champion would have to close the distance fast if he wanted to stand a chance.

Still, Gorran felt a flicker of pity. A fistfighter? Really? Would have thought he’d go with the axes like his last fight?

The champion stopped a dozen paces away, his dark eyes meeting Gorran’s. They were cold, and unblinking, like the eyes of a predator sizing up prey. Gorran swallowed, his throat dry, and tightened his grip on his shotels.

As was customary, neither man wore armor above the waist, their chests bare and gleaming with sweat under the sun. Their only protection came from studded leather leggings and the circular amulets hanging around their necks. These amulets served a single purpose: to anchor their health bars, the glowing red indicators hovering just above their shoulders. Gorran’s bar was full and vibrant. The champion’s bar, too, shimmered faintly in the air.

The crowd fell silent as the master of the arena rose from his seat.

“Combatants!” The master’s voice echoed across the arena. “You stand on sacred ground, where champions are made and broken. May your fight be honorable, and may the gods favor the strong!”

Both men gave the other a curt bow as the silence was broken by the sound of a massive gong. Its deep, resonant tone vibrated through Gorran’s chest.

the fight had begun.

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Gorran didn’t hesitate. In a single, fluid motion, he surged forward, both shotels raised high. His blades curved down in a vicious arc, aimed directly at the champion’s neck. The kill would be clean, and fast. He had done this dozens of times, raising his speed stat to its absolute limit as he moved like lightning. The champion wouldn’t even have time to—

But in the blink of an eye, something had become apparent to Gorran: the champion wasn’t there.

Gorran’s shotels sliced through empty air, his momentum carrying him forward as he now found himself in a hunched forward position. He froze, his mind scrambling to process what had happened. Where…?

Behind him, he felt the arms wrapping around his chest, interlocking with strength very much like iron. It was only when he felt the twitch and pull in the muscles that he knew what was happening. 

No….way.

Before he could react, his feet left the ground. The world spun violently as the champion lifted him high and then brought him down, headfirst, into the sand.

The suplex landed with bone-rattling force, and for a moment, Gorran couldn’t move. His HUD flashed red, his health bar vanishing in an instant. The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, their cheers washing over him as his vision faded. His body disintegrated into shards of light, and then—darkness.

When he reappeared in the respawn chamber deep inside the arena, Gorran fell to his knees, his heart pounding in his chest. The fight lasted less than twelve seconds.

He sat there, stunned, his hands trembling as he replayed the match in his mind. One thought echoed louder than the rest.

What…the hell…was that?

***

The roar of the crowd filled the arena held his head high, the body of his opponent now fading entirely behind him. He stood in the center of the battlefield, sand clinging to his feet, waiting for the master of the arena to finish his speech. The sun beat down on his back, sweat trickling down his neck and chest, but he didn’t move. He kept his expression calm, his gaze steady, the perfect image of a warrior basking in glory.

Inside, he was begging for it to end.

“Today, we witnessed the power of the gods!” the master of the arena declared, his voice booming over the arena. “A perfect victory—again! Ninety-eight victories, zero defeats. This is what the gods demand! This is why the arena was created!”

Yes, yes. The gods, the arena, the glory. The champion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he tapped his sandaled foot against the ground, a steady rhythm that kept him from showing his impatience. The speech was always the same: victory, honor, destiny. He had heard it ninety-seven times before, and every word felt emptier than the last.

The crowd’s cheers rose in waves, the sound grating against his ears. He shifted his weight slightly, his hands twitching at his sides. His mind wasn’t here, in the middle of the sand, under the blazing sun. It was already on the next step: logging out as fast as goddamn possible.

Finally—finally—the master of the arena lowered his hands, signaling the end of the ceremony. “We honor you, Champion!” he bellowed. “May your victories inspire all who stand in the arena!”

The crowd erupted once more, and the champion bowed his head, a brief, formal nod that drew another surge of cheers. Without waiting for further acknowledgment, he turned on his heel and strode toward the gate he had entered from.

The moment he was out of sight, his composure cracked. His stride turned into a sprint as he ran down the narrow corridor that led to the waiting chamber. The stone walls were cool and dark, a welcome reprieve from the scorching heat of the arena. As soon as he crossed the threshold into the chamber, he swiped his hand through the air, bringing up the familiar, faintly glowing menu. It displayed his stats, health bar, and combat history. Ninety-eight wins. Zero losses.

He ignored the information as he hurriedly scrolled through the many bars atop the menu before smashing his finger repeatedly against the “log out” button. The moment the button registered being pressed, the world around him flickered and dissolved. The cool stone walls of the waiting chamber, the faint roar of the crowd above—it all faded into black, replaced by the sterile white glow of a loading screen. A single word hovered in front of him for a heartbeat:

DISCONNECTING…

And then, with a sharp gasp, he was back.

The VR headset practically flew off his face as he tore it away, tossing it onto the pillow beside him. His breathing was shallow, adrenaline still coursing through his veins from the fight. But there was no time to bask in the afterglow of victory.

He bolted upright, the sudden motion making his head spin, and sprang from his bed. His backpack lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and he snatched it up on the way to the door. His room was a mess: clothes everywhere, energy drink cans stacked precariously on his desk, and his setup glowing faintly with the remnants of the game. He didn’t even glance back at it as he darted into the hallway.

Still pulling the strap of his backpack over one shoulder, he sprinted down the narrow hallway of the house. His socks skidded slightly on the hardwood floor as he made a sharp turn, heading straight for the stairs. Two steps at a time, he descended in a blur of motion, heart pounding in his chest for the second time that day.

The heavy door to the building groaned as he shoved it open with his shoulder. Outside, the crisp bite of winter air hit him hard, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the arena he had just left behind. He stumbled forward, adjusting his shoes as his breath turned to mist in the cold.

The bus stop was just at the corner of the block, and he could already see it in the distance. Relief flooded through him as he sprinted toward it, his legs burning from the exertion. For once, he thought, he might have made it.

He skidded to a stop at the bus stop, panting, his hands on his knees as he sucked in air. After a moment, his lips curved into the faintest of smirks. Early. For once, he was early.

The thought was short-lived.

With a frown, he straightened and pulled his phone out of his pocket. His fingers trembled slightly from the cold as he unlocked it, the screen lighting up in his palm. The time read 7:53 a.m.

His stomach dropped.

The bus was scheduled for 7:30 a.m.

He was twenty minutes late.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He stared at the empty street where the bus should have been. He stood there, silent, his breath curling in the air as a single thought drifted through his head.

"Fuck."