Idiocy is what that is. Sure, I'll give him his due credit—he was able to take out Aiden, a fairly strong wrestler with some serious accolades, in just a few seconds. But come on, we all knew Aiden was the weakest in this tournament. Vellin's ego is writing checks his body can’t cash. Ego is only justified when you’ve got the power to back it up, and Vellin? He hasn’t proven a damn thing yet. The only way he’ll make any kind of statement is if he beats Ryan, Hal, or me—the three favorites to win this whole thing. If, by some miracle, he does manage to pull that off next round, there’s still no way he beats the Demon Buddha. That guy is a monster. There are only two men stronger than him in this entire country: Sun’s brightest, Leo, and Obsidian’s toughest, Toda. And let’s not forget, there’s no time to rest after you win this thing. That’s why nobody ever challenges the Flame that is assigned to watch over the tournament. Three days of brutal fighting, injuries piling up, the exhaustion from scraping through each match—it’s idiotic! Vellin thinks he’s invincible, but he’s just digging his own grave.

Vellin returned to the dark tunnel, his steps steady, his body unscathed. The distant roar of the crowd echoed behind him, fading as he retreated into the shadows. No injuries, no signs of wear, just a cold, focused expression etched across his face. The announcer, standing just beside the imposing figure of the Demon Buddha, seized the moment. Leaning into his mic, he asked, "Demon Buddha, what are your thoughts on that chilling declaration?" The Demon Buddha’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice gruff and serious, cutting through the noise like a blade. "Talk is cheap," he rumbled. "but what wasn’t cheap was beating Aiden in only a few seconds. If you ask me, though, Vellin was seconds away from being killed in that throw. It’s impressive how he recovered from such a position." The announcer nodded, a hint of excitement in his tone. "The last fight is destined to be impressive too! Lucas and Noah, to the stage, please!"

I shifted my gaze to the other fighters—Oliver and Mason, both clutching their injuries, faces twisted in pain. Aiden wasn’t even here; his harem was already rushing him to the hospital. This whole scene was just sad. Everyone on my side had lost. Sure, it didn’t matter much since we’d be reshuffled tomorrow, but it felt like an unlucky omen. I clenched my fists, determination boiling in my veins. I must end this streak.

I walked out onto the sand, the gritty texture crunching beneath my sneakers. I smell blood. To my right, the half-destroyed wall where Mason had been nearly killed loomed. Every time I fight, there’s that nagging worry in the back of my mind. No matter how strong I am, death is always a possibility. The announcer’s voice boomed. "Look at these two fine men! On the left, Lucas! A former Finger from the Fist of God!" The crowd erupted into murmurs, some in shock, others in admiration. "Yes, I know. He's leaving your organization to join Sun?! Calm down, we found a replacement, and Lucas has no ill will toward us. Sun and Fist of God are allied anyway."

I suppressed a scoff. That was only half true. The real reason I left was simple—I couldn’t stand that insane bitch Lilith. She was a ticking time bomb, and I wasn’t going to stick around to watch her explode. The announcer continued, now detailing my so-called achievements. "Lucas is a master of Reinforced Fist, with an uncanny durability! Swords made by the famous blacksmith Eishido couldn’t even scratch him! When he was in our organization, he took out a whole Minor Clan on his own! Which Minor Clan, you ask? One whose history was wiped from existence!" The crowd gasped, eating up every word. But in truth, that clan wasn’t anything special. Just a group of weaklings from some backwater town. Taking them out wasn’t a grand feat—it was more like cleaning up a mess. He stated, "His bets return one and a quarter!"

The announcer swung his arm dramatically toward Noah, his voice full of enthusiasm. "On the right, we have Noah! Another member of the Fist of God, but from the Entertainment Sector! For those unfamiliar, the Fist of God has two sides: the actual Clan, and the Entertainment Sector. The latter consists of gladiators who don’t fight for the Clan but instead battle in arenas. Noah here is the top gladiator, boasting an impressive record of eighty-six wins and only one loss! His primary martial art? Silat. And as a side gig, he even teaches it to kids! Let’s hope he doesn’t die today—he’s actually a good guy. His bets return two times."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I glanced at Noah. The thought of killing someone like him didn’t sit well with me. He wasn’t some bloodthirsty maniac, just a fighter doing what he loved. Not that it changed what needed to happen here. The referee stepped forward, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "This announcer talks way too much, but the spectators love him, so what can you do?" He shrugged. "Alright, let’s get this show on the road." He raised his hand, his voice cutting through the noise. "Three... two... one..." With a sharp motion, he brought his hand down and shouted, "Begin!"

I raised one finger, yelling. "I'll give you one minute, Noah! Hit me as much as you want, anywhere except the groin, head, and eyes! I won’t fight back. But if I’m still standing by the end of that one minute, I win. Okay?" Noah didn’t waste a second, appearing in front of me with a sudden burst of speed, his arms casually tucked behind his back. His eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and disbelief. "That’s too cocky," he muttered, glancing over at the referee. "can you confirm he has to stick to that challenge?" The referee nodded with a grin. "Sure. It’ll be fun to watch. If he backs out, he loses." Noah’s smile twisted into something almost feral. "Are you an idiot or what?!" he barked, his excitement palpable. I braced myself, tightening every muscle in my body and planting my feet firmly into the sand. The first punch landed on my ribs—a sharp jab with real force behind it. I felt nothing. Not even a flicker of pain. His expression hardened as he followed up with a roundhouse kick to the same spot. Still, nothing. I kept my face calm, almost bored. This was going to be one long, uneventful minute.

Noah stretched his fingers out, aiming directly at my sternum. With a swift shift of his body weight forward, he hit me. A powerful gust of wind erupted from the motion, rippling through the entire arena. It was strong, I’ll give him that, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I yawned, barely hiding my indifference. "Ten seconds have passed." He didn’t flinch, keeping his composure. Without missing a beat, he delivered another strike—this time with his other hand—aiming for the same spot on my stomach. The spectators gasped audibly, a collective intake of breath. But I didn’t budge. The strike was identical to Mason’s one-inch punch, but lacking the extra power Mason had absorbed from Hal. It was significantly weaker in comparison. Noah’s eyes narrowed as he shifted tactics, landing a punch on my shoulder. It was aimed deeper than expected, targeting my bone beneath the muscle. I could feel the precision of the strike, but it still didn’t faze me. He balled his fist, the middle knuckle slightly extended.

"You do have uncanny durability," he admitted, a smirk creeping onto his face. "I’m going to move onto your bone now." Lowering his stance, the veins near his elbow bulged ominously. With a sharp, explosive movement, he drove his elbow into my chest. The impact was forceful enough to push me back slightly, but the pain was negligible—maybe a one on the scale at best. His creepy smile returned as he noted my reaction. "That got you. I have thirty seconds left, I believe." Noah leapt into the air, executing a clean backflip, creating significant distance between us. I watched, my curiosity piqued. What is he up to? Before I could fully process, he jumped again, this time reaching a height of about four meters. His body poised mid-air, it became clear what he was planning. An elbow drop.

Noah was aiming for my sternum again. I concentrated my reinforcement to that single spot, bracing for impact. He came down hard, slamming his full weight onto me. My chest heaved under the pressure, but I held firm. The sickening crack of his elbow breaking echoed through the arena, and he collapsed forward, face-planting into the sand. That must have been his ace in the hole. "Five seconds left," I taunted. His face twisted in terror. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but then stopped himself. You’ll get fired if you surrender, won’t you?

"Zero." I announced.

I closed the distance between us. Grabbing him with my leg, I lifted his limp body off the ground, his stomach curling over my foot. I chambered my leg, feeling the tension build, then unleashed a powerful kick. Noah flew high into the air, his body flailing as he reached the peak of his ascent. For a brief moment, he seemed suspended in time before gravity took over, pulling him down rapidly. He hit the ground, then rising a foot from the rebound. His body raddled. The referee stood there, stunned, at a loss for words. I shot him a glance and spoke evenly. "Go ahead and call the match so he can get medical attention, would you?" The referee snapped out of his daze, raising his arm. "Noah has collapsed! Winner... Lucas!"