Thankfully, unlike the endless cultivation sessions I’d read about in web novels back home, our training didn’t take hours—or days—for a single breakthrough. At least, not at our current level.

After our first session, sparring match, and a bit of energy consolidation, I had the vague sense that only about half our time had passed.

“Should we start on the second reservoir? I think our right shoulder would be a good spot. It’ll connect naturally to the chest reservoir and branch out toward our hands. Then, our third can be centered on the hands themselves,” I suggested.

“Yeah, that sounds like a great plan. Let’s begin!” Thea replied, her voice carrying that same gleeful spark she always got when cultivation was involved. Total cultivation nerd.

We settled back into our positions, closing our eyes and sinking into focus. Just like before, I began drawing in world energy, guiding it to my main channel first, letting it build and saturate until nausea started to creep in. Then, carefully, I directed the excess upward, weaving it into a new web-like reservoir in my shoulders.

The process felt smoother this time—like my body was slowly getting used to it. But I could tell this shoulder reservoir wasn’t fully stable yet. Another session would be needed to solidify it properly.

I opened my eyes, finding Thea already staring back at me with a satisfied grin.

Neither of us said a word—we both knew what came next. With a heavy sigh, I pushed myself up and fell into a sparring stance once again.

By the time we collapsed back onto the floor, chests heaving and muscles aching, the sharp crackle of a voice echoed from a hidden speaker above.

"Time’s up. Leave now or you will be charged for another session."

“I guess we should go register for battle,” I said between breaths, pushing myself upright. “I can’t imagine skipping registration ends in anything good.”

Thea nodded, and we trudged back to the front desk to return our key.

We made our way back to the Hall's entrance, weaving through the ever-present crowd of recruits and vendors. At the far end of the grand archway, another desk stood, the one Thea identified as registration earlier, was tucked under a stone alcove. Behind it sat yet another tired-looking attendant, her posture slouched and her expression utterly uninterested in life itself.

Her hand was already outstretched as we approached. “Orbs?”

We handed over our glowing point orbs. The faint green numbers flickered softly from our earlier transactions.

“Names?” she asked, her eyes still glued to the glowing interface in front of her.

“Peter.”

“Thea.”

She tapped something on her desk with mechanical precision, her fingers dancing across the glowing symbols. After a brief pause, she handed our orbs back. A faint shimmer passed across their smooth surfaces as if sealing some unseen agreement.

New information glowed faintly in green lettering across the surface of both orbs.

Unfortunately… I couldn’t read any of it.

I leaned slightly closer to Thea, keeping my voice low like we were hatching some grand conspiracy. “Thea?”

“Yeah?” she replied, squinting at her orb with sharp focus.

“Teach me how to read. Please.”

She glanced up at me, her mouth already forming what I could only assume was going to be a sharp-witted, sarcasm-drenched retort.

But before she could unleash it, the attendant’s voice cut through the space between us.

“Wait for your names to be called. It shouldn’t take long.”

We both fell silent, stepping aside to make room for the next pair of recruits.

Around us, names were called one by one, each followed by the soft shuffle of boots and murmured conversations.

I turned my orb over in my palm, its green letters glowing faintly in the dim light. It felt heavier somehow, like it carried more than just numbers and letters—it carried expectation. Somewhere within these unreadable symbols was the next step, the next challenge.

And whatever it was… it was coming.

“So—?”

“What?” Thea asked, confused. “Oh, right. Um, sure, I can teach you. But we’ve only got a few books to practice with, and they’re all about cultivation and plants. Not exactly packed with daily conversation material.”

“How about just the characters first?” I suggested with a laugh. “I just need to know the sounds. I think I can pick it up pretty quickly that way.”

At least, I hoped they were phonetic symbols and not some overly complicated pictograms that could represent entire words—or worse, entire concepts.

Before we could talk more, a sharp voice crackled through a speaker above us, echoing across the hall.

"Peter!"

My heart practically punched me in the ribs. But before panic could fully settle in, a firm hand landed on my shoulder.

“You got this,” Thea said softly, her storm-gray eyes steady and reassuring.

I managed a nervous smile, took a deep breath, and walked up to the front desk.

The attendant looked me over and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Good, you didn’t run away. Happens more and more these days. Honestly, I still think opening the arena to spectators was a mistake.”

She gestured vaguely to an opening behind her, an indent in the stone wall that looked suspiciously like a doorway. “Through there.”

I stepped into the narrow space, and before I could so much as adjust my stance, the floor jolted beneath me. A stone wall slammed shut behind me, and then—I shot upward.

The world blurred around me, and my feet scrambled for balance on the smooth stone floor. My stomach tried to stay three feet below me, and I was pretty sure I let out an embarrassingly high-pitched noise at least once.

Just as abruptly as it started, the elevator slammed to a halt. I stumbled forward, catching myself against the wall. A moment later, the stone door in front of me slid open with a faint grind.

I stepped out into the center of the massive coliseum-like Hall of Heroes.

The noise hit me first—a chaotic storm of shouting, clashing steel, and bursts of magical energy. Battles raged all around me in smaller arenas, recruits clashing in duels while floating numbers and glowing ranks hovered over their heads.

I instinctively tried to spot Thea in the crowd, but it was hopeless. There was just too much happening.

A booming voice echoed from above, projected by some unseen magical force.

"Present Systems!"

Across from me, a guy who looked about my age stepped forward. He raised his head confidently and shouted, “System!”

“Confirmed: Warrior Class. Blessing: Clubist. Waiting for opponent.”

The glowing words shimmered into existence above him.

Right. That was my cue. Embarrassed and feeling incredibly out of place, I mumbled the word under my breath.

“System.”

The air around me crackled faintly.

“Confirmed: Late Bloomer.”

The words rang out like a bell tolling doom.

The guy across from me visibly relaxed and then—cheered up. He was nervous before, but now? Now he looked like he was about to have a nice afternoon stroll.

The voice overhead continued, unfazed by my existential dread.

"When an opponent cannot continue, the fight will end. Killing the opponent will result in punishment."

Wait… punishment? That didn’t sound nearly serious enough. Shouldn’t there be something like ‘severe consequences’ or ‘eternal imprisonment’? My heart thundered in my chest again.

"If you would like, shout 'surrender' to forfeit the match. However, doing so will cost you five points. If you have no points, you cannot surrender."

This system was ridiculous. I thought back to my earlier assumptions. The fact that the guy across from me looked so visibly relieved meant he probably wasn’t planning to actually kill me.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

But still. Fighting until one of us couldn’t continue? How did the arena decide what counted as ‘cannot continue’? Was it based on blood loss? Unconsciousness? Emotional damage?

Before I could spiral further into panicked theories, my opponent pulled out a heavy, wicked-looking metal club.

A weapon.

A real weapon.

Something I had completely forgotten about in my wild overthinking.

The voice thundered overhead again.

"Begin!"

My opponent charged.

Although still panicked, I forced myself to focus. After all, that club didn’t exactly look like it was painted to resemble metal—it was metal. Heavy, unforgiving metal.

I pulled energy from my chest reservoir, letting it flow lightly into my shoulders and arms. My legs, though—they felt distant, unresponsive. Circulating energy into them felt like trying to thread a needle during an earthquake. The reservoirs we’d built had become too good as shortcuts. Without one in my legs, I couldn’t guide energy there properly.

No time to fix that now.

The warrior lifted his club high above his head, the metal glinting faintly under the arena lights. I dove backward just as it came crashing down.

BOOM.

The impact shook the ground, leaving behind a jagged dirt crater. The cracked earth around the impact looked like someone had tried—and failed—to grow a miniature forest with dynamite.

He didn’t stop. With me on the retreat, he charged again. This time, his swing came with less force but far more speed. And unlike the first time—it hit.

The moment the club collided with my side, it felt like I’d been struck by a freight train barreling down a mountain. My breath vanished in an instant, ripped away like a rug pulled out from under me.

Thea had been right. So right. Yesterday, she’d refused to fight, and now I understood why. The stat boosts from these systems weren’t just arbitrary numbers—they were real. Tangible. Devastating.

My ribs felt like they were folding in on themselves, and every attempt to breathe felt like inhaling shards of glass. If not for Thea’s and my cultivation method—if not for the thin thread of energy I kept circulating in desperation—I would’ve collapsed then and there.

But even with that… breathing was still painful.

The edges of my vision darkened. My head felt light, my chest hollow. Yep. Definitely blacking out.

Before I could recover, another swing came. Faster this time.

I had no time to think. Instinctively, I threw up my arms to block it.

Which… bad idea.

CRACK.

The sound was sharp, sickening, and final. Pain flared up my right arm, racing to my shoulder in an instant. My arm went limp, hanging uselessly at my side.

Somewhere, faintly, I heard a scream.

At first, I couldn’t place it. Then the realization hit me: Oh. That’s me.

I stumbled back, my breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. My chest burned. My vision wavered. My ears rang with the aftermath of that brutal impact.

Even if I wanted to shout “surrender,” even if my pride would allow it, which it totally would, it wouldn’t have mattered. My throat was locked, my lungs empty. I couldn’t pull in enough air to form the word.

This arena system was ridiculous. How could anyone forfeit if they couldn’t even speak? Was I supposed to tap dance in Morse code? Raise my hand politely while a giant metal club flattened me into the dirt?

He charged at me again.

Alright, focus.

Instead of trying to dodge backward, I leaned into his swing, narrowly slipping past the ridiculous speed of his club. It felt like dodging a falling piano in slow motion—except the piano was angry, fast, and actively trying to murder me.

I summoned every ounce of energy I had left into my left arm, planning for something—anything—that might resemble an explosive comeback. Some epic move that would leave the crowd cheering, my opponent unconscious, and me looking vaguely competent.

When my fist connected, it did have an effect. My guess? Endurance, stamina, or whatever stat this guy had poured points into gave him enough natural armor to shrug off a blow that should’ve put him on his knees.

Still, he staggered. His breath hitched, his eyes widened slightly, and for one glorious moment, I thought—this is it!

Unfortunately… he recovered. Quickly.

And now he looked… how can I put this delicately? Visibly annoyed.

“Fun’s over,” he said flatly, his voice carrying an edge of genuine irritation.

But my punch—and his little victory speech—had given me something far more valuable than damage: a second to breathe.

Air filled my lungs in a ragged gasp, and a surge of defiance flared through me. I used my moment wisely.

I raised my hand—middle finger proudly extended.

His expression shifted from annoyance to… confusion? Oh. Right. Maybe flipping someone off didn’t mean anything in this world.

But that didn’t matter, because with the last shred of air left in my aching lungs, I croaked out the word:

“Surrender.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t heroic. Honestly, it sounded more like a dying cat being dragged over a chalkboard.

But it was enough.

The speaker above crackled to life.

“Continuing the fight will result in severe punishment. If able, return to the room you entered from. Five points will be deducted from the loser upon exiting.”

The tension in the air cracked and fell away like shattered glass.

I let out a shaky breath, my legs trembling beneath me. My opponent stood there, still holding his club, frozen in place. Slowly—almost reluctantly—he lowered his weapon.

I was alive. Bruised, broken, humiliated, but alive.

I walked back into the strange elevator, this time choosing to sit on the cold stone floor rather than try to stay upright. As the platform began its slow descent, the adrenaline faded, and I noticed just how much everything hurt.

I’m not ashamed—okay, maybe just a little—to admit that my eyes started to well up. Not crying, mind you. Just… a bit of water pooling in preparation for the kind of sobbing usually reserved for toddlers who’ve lost their favorite toy.

When the door finally creaked open, three figures were waiting for me—two holding a stretcher, and the ever-exhausted attendant standing between them.

Before I could say anything, the attendant reached into the tattered pocket of my ragged shirt. Let me tell you, having someone dig into your chest pocket while your ribs feel like shattered glass? Not fun.

She plucked out my glowing orb, tapped something on it, and handed it back to me, now flashing 40 instead of 45.

“Move him quickly,” she said to the stretcher carriers, her tone flat, like she was giving directions for moving a sack of potatoes. And they did, gently placing me on the cloth stretcher and draggin me away.

The younger healer stepped closer, his face lined with worry. “Ten points for beginner healing.”

The older one—probably in his early twenties, with sharp eyes and an air of confidence—glanced down at my arm, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Twenty for my services. But you’ll be back on your feet before you know it. Plus, you won’t have to rest that arm of yours.”

Until then, I’d been carefully not looking at my arm. But now, thanks to his helpful observation, my gaze zeroed in on the mess of flesh and bone that used to be straight.

My right arm was bent in a way that could only be described as wrong. Like, cartoon characters after an anvil drop wrong.

Panic spiked in my chest, sharp and dizzying.

“Peter!”

The familiar voice cut through my haze, and I turned just enough to see Thea rushing over, her storm-gray eyes wide with worry—no, actual worry, which was a rare sight from her.

“Why did you choose to fight, you idiot?!”

Not exactly the warm, heroic welcome I was hoping for.

“Points are valuable,” I said weakly, offering a half-hearted shrug that immediately sent a fresh wave of pain down my shoulder.

“And now,” she said, crossing her arms as her eyes flicked briefly to my mangled limb, “we’re going to have to spend more.”

She turned sharply to the older healer, her expression somewhere between stern and desperate, and thrust her glowing orb at him. “Hurry up.”

He nodded, tapping his orb against hers. His flashed with a number I couldn’t read, and hers dipped down to 25.

Before I could mutter a weak protest, the older healer extended his hand.

A faint hum filled the air—a low, resonant note that seemed to reverberate somewhere deep in my chest. His fingers began to glow softly, and from his palm, thin threads of white light began to unravel into the air, weaving delicate trails around me.

The light wasn’t harsh or blinding—it was soft, gentle, like moonlight filtering through a canopy of leaves on a summer night. The threads of energy swirled lazily around my broken arm, wrapping it in a cocoon of shimmering light.

Warmth flooded through me—not the sharp, artificial warmth of a hot pack, but something deeper. It felt like a quiet campfire on a freezing night, the kind of warmth that sinks into your bones and chases away the cold.

The pain, which had been screaming in every nerve ending, dulled to a faint throb. My breath came easier, my chest no longer feeling like it was filled with gravel and glass shards.

For a brief moment, the world felt still. Quiet. Peaceful.

The glowing threads of magic finally settled, fading away like fireflies blinking out one by one. The healer exhaled softly, lowering his hand.

“There. You’ll still be sore for a bit, but it’s set properly now. Don’t push it too hard.”

I flexed my fingers experimentally, and while it still hurt, the sickening wrongness of my arm was gone.

Thea let out a long sigh, her shoulders slumping as the tension drained from her frame.

“Let’s go back to camp,” she suggested softly.

I pushed myself to my feet, the lingering ache in my arm a faint reminder of my earlier failure. Shame pooled in my chest, heavy and suffocating. What was I thinking, going up against someone with stats like that?

The healers had already dispersed, the younger one casting a brief glance back at me as he walked away. His expression—uneasy, maybe even nervous—lingered in my mind. He was probably a new recruit, not hardened to injuries like mine. Not yet, anyway.

As Thea and I began our slow trek back to camp, she must’ve noticed how quiet I’d gotten. The familiar rhythm of our banter was gone, replaced by an awkward silence that clung to the air.

She bumped me lightly with her shoulder, her voice carrying a forced cheerfulness. “I told you stats are too hard to catch up to with just cultivation.”

I didn’t respond, keeping my eyes fixed on the uneven ground beneath my boots.

She hesitated for a moment, her smile faltering slightly before she tried again. “But with our Spiritual Reservoir Formation, we’ll be tougher than anyone once we get ours.”

That was supposed to cheer me up. It should have cheered me up. But instead, it felt like a knife twisting in my chest.

I stopped walking.

Thea took a few steps before realizing I wasn’t beside her anymore. She turned, her storm-gray eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Peter?”

“I won’t.”

“What?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

“I won’t get a system...ever”

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and unyielding.

For a moment, Thea just stared at me, her expression unreadable. The distant murmur of the bustling Hall of Heroes filled the silence, a stark contrast to the quiet, fragile space that had formed between us.