I strained my eyes and ears, searching desperately for the next immediate threat. My breath came in ragged gasps, my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum. My arms screamed in protest as I swung at a goblin charging toward me. Any semblance of strategy had long since been abandoned—I could barely make sense of the chaos around me.

The goblin screeched as my blade met its mark, cleaving through its frail body. Its companions snarled in fury, scattering momentarily before regrouping. Their movements were erratic but disturbingly coordinated, each attack designed to distract while others flanked. A rock whizzed past my head, thrown by one of the creatures lurking at a distance. I turned instinctively, raising my sword to defend against another charge, but it never came.

Instead, a kobold darted in from my blind spot, jaws snapping at my ankle. I twisted, bringing the flat of my blade down like a hammer. The creature yelped and collapsed, its twitching form lost in the churn of sand and blood.

Around me, the Flame Fighters stumbled through their defenses, their inexperience showing in every panicked move. One of them, a spear-wielder, jabbed wildly at a goblin, missing entirely before being tackled to the ground. The goblin didn’t hesitate, its claws raking across his chest.

I rushed toward the man, but before I could reach him, the goblin bit down savagely into his throat. The wet, tearing sound was followed by a sickening spray of blood. The goblin’s maw dripped with gore as it hunched over its victim. The man’s eyes were wide with terror, his mouth open in a silent scream, his agony etched into his features even in death.

Gripping my sword tightly, I stepped forward, my blade already positioned for a horizontal strike. I flexed my core and swung with every ounce of strength I could muster. The edge of my blade bit into the goblin’s neck, cleaving through bone and sinew. Its body slumped over the man, twitching as blood pooled around it.

I spared a fleeting glance at the fallen Flame Fighter. There was no time to mourn or pray for him. The wind whipped past my face, and a shadow darted across the sand, catching my attention. I turned quickly, my eyes tracing its source, and saw the military team’s archers positioned behind their frontline. Their formation was tighter than ours, a clear attempt to protect their ranged fighters while still maintaining an offensive stance. It was a solid strategy, one that made immediate retaliation too risky for me… for now.

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I shifted my focus, scanning the chaos for any teammates I could assist. My gaze fell on the first group of fighters I’d met—the ones who had regrouped earlier. They had managed to hold their ground surprisingly well, their defensive line steady despite the madness that was surrounding them. I felt some relief. They might not be seasoned fighters, but they were holding their own; it looked like there was a leader who took charge.

Without hesitation, I moved to join them. My feet kicked up small clouds of sand as I sprinted across the arena, my sword ready at my side. I didn’t call out—noise would only draw unwanted attention but as I approached, one of them spotted me and gave a nod. The group adjusted slightly to let me slip into their formation, and I took my place among them.

A larger man wielding a crude club stood at the center of our group, barking out orders with surprising authority. He wasn’t an official leader—none of us were—but in the chaos, his voice carried enough weight to keep us moving as one. I took position at the front of our formation, readying myself for what was to come. Together, we gathered the remnants of our team, piecing together a shaky unity from the scattered fighters.

Slowly, we pushed closer to the opposing team. Their numbers loomed larger—about five men more than ours. It was a grim sight, one that ate at the edges of my confidence. But hesitation wasn’t an option. If we wanted to leave this arena alive, we had to act.

The crowd roared with deafening excitement, their cheers almost drowning out the clash of weapons and the cries of the wounded. They seemed to revel in our suffering, their enthusiasm rising with every drop of blood spilled. Strangely, they jeered when we tried to save each other, as if mercy offended them. The atmosphere was suffocating, but amidst the chaos, I felt something else—a different kind of attention.

A cold shiver ran down my spine, a sensation that felt far more invasive than the crowd’s bloodthirsty gaze. It wasn’t from the mass of spectators; it was singular, focused, and unrelenting. Though I couldn’t afford to spare a glance, I could sense its source. It came from the direction of the royal viewing box. That unseen scrutiny felt heavier than any sword, and it took every ounce of willpower to keep my focus on the battlefield ahead.