I watched as Mason emerged from the wall, his steps heavy as he dropped down onto the sand. Even from my spot in the stands, I could see the blood streaming down his arms and legs, his body battered and littered with pieces of rubble wedged into his skin. Dust clung to him, turning those bloodstains a dull, rusty color, but he didn’t seem fazed. Medics rushed forward with a stretcher, reaching for him, but Mason shrugged them off as if he were perfectly fine. I could tell he wasn't, though—his injuries looked far worse than Oliver’s. Still, he stood there, refusing help, his gaze hard and distant. Then, something shifted. His muscles tightened, like he was about to explode—and suddenly, he did. His body tensed and with a single, brutal flex, shards of concrete and metal erupted from his skin, scattering into the sand. The blood sprayed out in a short arc, but he barely even winced.

Is that... a battlefield healing technique? Zero told me of expert mercenaries trained to expel debris and close wounds on command, but seeing it happen was something else entirely. Mason turned without a word, walking back toward the wall, his body still bleeding but somehow lighter, like he was already done with this tournament. “Impressive,” Ryan called out, echoing my own thoughts. “I acknowledge that, Mason. That was a spectacular performance from you.”

"Mason didn't even need medical attention like Oliver, and his injuries were worse! That shows us how the battlefield works, doesn't it?" the announcer boomed. He paused, adopting a reflective tone. "So far, we've seen two fights: one between near equals, and one where the odds were skewed. Mason was outmatched in sheer physicality, but he wielded a technique that could have turned the tide… if only he’d managed to land it. Now, the stage is set for something different—a match between two fighters whose strengths and weaknesses remain a mystery. Vellin and Aiden."

That’s my cue.

I drew in a deep breath. Just then, the door creaked open, and Hal stepped into the room, ducking under the low frame as he entered. His presence was impossible to ignore. Despite the fierce battle he’d waged against Mason, he bore only a few light scratches, proof that he’d had the upper hand for most of the fight. I noticed a faint shadow of bruising around his liver where Mason had kneed him—a mark left by the only hit that might have done real damage. He seemed unfazed, though, his expression hard. I rose, moving past him without a word. There was nothing to say.

I wasn't going to just walk out like the others had. They had their reputations to ride on, hype that spoke for them long before they stepped onto the sand. I had none of that. The only fight I’d been in here was the quick one against Emma—and barely anyone had even been there to see it. I paused just before crossing the line into the open, where the crowd could see me. Taking a deep breath, I threw a punch into the air, channeling my energy with precise force. The impact rippled forward, carrying across the arena and hitting the sand. Instantly, the sand churned, rising and solidifying into a wall that blocked everyone’s view. Gasps and murmurs rose from the stands, the crowd electrified with curiosity and confusion.

Then, with deliberate steps, I moved forward, letting my silhouette emerge from the shifting sand as if conjured by magic. The wall dissolved, grains trickling down like a veil pulled back, revealing me in full view. The crowd erupted, roars of excitement and scattered applause mixing with shouts of disbelief. I could hear people whispering to each other, asking how I’d done it, speculating on my powers. A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. The announcer’s voice rang out, amplified and booming. "A fantastic entrance! This is Vellin, a newcomer who appeared out of nowhere just days ago! Nobody knows his fighting style, his origins, or where he’s honed his skills. A true wild card in this tournament, folks! His odds are set at one and a half times, for those feeling lucky!"

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Across the way, Aiden stood with his arms crossed, glaring at me with a look that was half smug, half annoyance. His gaze burned with challenge, a clear warning not to get too cocky. The announcer turned his attention to him, the excitement only ramping up. "And here we have our main man—Aiden! Known for his beautiful but deadly wrestling style, the Chivalrous Man himself! Some call him a ladies' man, others call him old-fashioned, but his reputation speaks for itself. Let’s just say he’s got a loyal following for a reason, folks!" From the VIP section, a chorus of female voices cheered, shouting encouragements and calling his name. Nearly a dozen women leaned over the railing, waving, shouting promises and praises that made Aiden grin confidently.

Martial masters tend to fall into two camps: either they’re notoriously promiscuous, spreading their strength far and wide, or they’re fiercely loyal to one partner. Many people believe that strong genes are meant to spread, that prowess should be passed down. I didn’t care much for either path—Aiden’s fan club showed he clearly leaned toward one of them. This fight wasn’t going to be easy. I had no real strategy for dealing with wrestlers, no tricks for surviving on the ground. If he got me there, I’d be at his mercy. I didn’t plan to let it come to that. I’d end this in a single blow. I couldn’t use Piercing Hand; that would give me away as a disciple of Zero, a reputation I wasn’t ready to reveal. Instead, I’d rely on my Muay Thai. It was raw and powerful—precise enough to catch even a skilled wrestler off guard if I timed it right. The referee stepped out into the middle, silent and stoic. I’d seen him announce the rules to the earlier fighters, a pointless exercise, and I guessed they’d finally ditched it. He glanced between us, raising one hand as he called, “Three... two... one…” With a heavy stomp, he shouted, “Begin!”

Aiden blinked, and in that split second, I was already in front of him. I caught a faint murmur from the announcer. "He’s nearly as fast as Oliver!" I’d gained speed from training with Jane. I turned my hips, pouring every ounce of strength into my strike. My fist shot toward his face—until he leaned back just in time, dodging by a hair. Before I could adjust, his hands clamped onto my hips, pulling me down with the force of a boulder.

He nearly lost his balance, his footing wavering, but his grip was iron-tight. I felt the ground speeding up to meet me, his hold dragging me headfirst. If I landed at this angle, I’d snap my neck or worse. Could I use my hands to break the fall? No—my momentum was too strong, propelling his throw with even more force. Bracing wouldn’t work either; my arms would shatter on impact. There was only one option. I drove my knee upward, fast and hard, right into his chest. I felt the impact ripple through his torso, his ribs buckling beneath the force, and his grip faltered. The throw fell apart as his body heaved, the power lost. Free from his hold, I shifted my weight, channeling the momentum into my knee, letting it drive him back. Aiden’s eyes rolled back, his body going limp as he collapsed onto the sand, knocked out cold.

The force of the throw still carried me forward, and I rolled, claws digging into the sand to stop myself. The crowd went wild, their cheers thunderous, but I had my focus set on something else—someone else. My gaze shot up to the third level of the colosseum, to the shadowed figure watching from the exclusive lounge. The Demon Buddha, seated with his massive arms crossed, observed me like a hawk. I raised my hand and pointed straight at him, feeling the fire of the moment consume me.

“That was for you, Demon Buddha!” I called out, yelling as loud as feasibly possible. “I shall win this tournament—and then I’ll challenge you. I'll become a Flame!”