*Rattle~* *Rattle~* *Rattle~*
The metallic bars rattled upon impact, amplifying his moment of helplessness.
Breathing heavily, Daseos leaned against the cold steel wall, feeling its ridged pattern press into his back.
His blade felt heavier now, tainted by the realization of his helplessness against Krakus's unyielding exterior.
Sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he blinked it away.
Krakus laughed, a guttural sound that seemed to shake the very air around him.
"You think you're the first to try that? I've crushed bones in the Wasteland, kid. Survived raids by the Deathstalkers. These tattoos?"
He gestured to the ink lacing his flesh.
"Each one is a victory, a triumph hard-earned in blood and pain. You're nothing more than my next prey!"
Krakus roared, closing the distance with a predatory glint in his eyes.
Daseos's back was against the cage now.
Krakus exploded forward, his bulky form a blur of savage speed.
Fists launched like battering rams, targeting Daseos's face, chest, and midsection.
Each punch was a declaration: I am your end.
But Daseos had other plans.
His eyes narrowed, embers of resolve igniting within their depths.
He quickly tossed his blade to the side.
As Krakus closed in, Daseos channeled all he had learnt in the first few pages of the Demon Codex, muscles augmenting around his elbows and knees.
Daseos felt his muscles stiffen, ready for the next assault.
His stance shifted, lowering his center of gravity.
His elbows aligned perfectly with his torso, ready to thrust outward like spear tips.
His knees were similarly bent, their points razor-sharp thanks to the augmented muscles around them, fortified through his perverse control of his muscles.
As Krakus's fist rocketed toward his face, Daseos twisted his torso, pivoting on the ball of his foot.
He brought up his elbow, not just to block, but to strike.
The point of his elbow, now fortified by layers of taut muscle, clashed with Krakus's knuckles.
Just as Daseos blocked Krakus's punch, he felt it—the faintest flicker of weakness.
A vulnerability in that iron-clad defense.
His eyes narrowed; the real fight was about to begin.
*CLAAAACK!*
Krakus recoiled, his face contorted in unexpected pain.
His metal-like skin might be impenetrable, but the bones beneath were as vulnerable as anyone else's.
Seizing the moment, Daseos glided into his next position. Krakus, roaring with frustration, aimed a low kick at Daseos's leg.
Swift as a viper, Daseos countered, raising his knee to intercept the incoming kick.
*CRUUUUNCHHH!!!*
A sickening sound echoed through the arena as Krakus's shin collided with Daseos's ankle. Krakus howled, hobbling back on one foot, betrayed by his own offensive.
Each time Krakus's fist or foot lunged in for a strike, Daseos countered with surgical precision.
His elbows aimed for the tender knuckles that Krakus's Tier 1 status hadn't yet fortified.
His knees, with the same calculated sharpness, sought out the Villain's ankles.
Every attempted strike from Krakus was met with a debilitating counter from Daseos, who moved with surgical precision.
It was a dance of devastation, and Daseos was leading.
Each elbow and knee he employed didn't just block— they struck back.
*CRAAACCKKK!!!*
The sound was ear-splitting this time as Daseos's elbow met another of Krakus's punches.
The crowd felt it—the bone-jarring vibration that sent shockwaves through the arena.
For Krakus, that crack wasn't just physical; it was the sound of his certainty shattering.
*THUUNKK!* *THUUUDDD!!!*
The sound was repetitive and rhythmic—a dance of defense that transferred pain back to the one aiming to cause it.
Each encounter between flesh and bone made Krakus wince, the sensation like striking a wall of needles instead of the soft target he had expected.
See, the mechanics of villain cultivation were something Daseos knew intimately well—each tier had its purpose, its focus.
Tier 1 toughened the skin, turning it into a virtually indestructible layer.
Tier 2 targeted the muscles and organs, making them more resilient.
Tier 3 fortified the bones, laying the groundwork for the awakening of a Villain's unique gift.
Krakus, for all his bravado and muscle, had never made it past Tier 1.
His skin might be as hard as metal, but inside?
He was just a buff Antagonian—muscles, bones, and all—slightly better than a non-villain, but far from invincible.
*CRAACCKKK!!!*
The air resonated with the crisp sound of bone meeting fortified muscle.
Daseos's elbow clashed squarely with Krakus's next punch.
For a moment, both stood frozen, locked in that clash of force against force.
But it was Krakus who pulled back, a tremor of disbelief shaking his fist.
The crowd erupted, caught in the sudden turn of tide, and Daseos flashed a feral grin.
The sound of bone colliding with bone reverberated through the arena.
In the stands, bets were furiously changing hands.
Whispers grew into a roar.
"Is he...is he actually holding his own against Krakus?"
For each strike that Krakus launched, he found himself wincing in pain, feeling as if he were punching and kicking a wall of iron.
Krakus hadn't expected this.
In his aggression, he was the one getting hurt
He hesitated, for the first time sensing that he might be the nail, not the hammer.
Daseos saw it—the flicker of doubt—and a slow grin spread across his face.
He grinned, a dark glint in his eyes.
"You sure you still want to talk about gaps?"
==========
[ VIP Room 1 ]
Devian leapt from his seat, arms flailing with unfiltered excitement.
"GOOO [5] !!! I've got a 100k on you! 1:11 odds WAHHAHA HERE I COME!!! Don't let me down!"
The room jolted to life at Devian's outburst, the atmosphere breaking like a tautly pulled string suddenly snapping.
Mayor Malachor sighed.
"Well, someone's quite enthusiastic."
"Antagonia rewards the audacious, sir!"
Devian fired back, his eyes not leaving the arena below where his idol fought.
"I've got no doubt [5] will make me proud!"
Occulus who was standing quietly in the corner could only smirk at Devian's naive excitement.
'If only it were that simple.'
Fiszure, standing next to Mayor Malachor by the glass wall overlooking the arena, felt a jolt of regret, his eyes widening with disbelief.
His gaze switched from the arena to Devian and back again.
'Fuck! How could I have forgotten to place a bet?!'
Fiszure mentally kicked himself. He knew that opportunities like this came once in a lifetime—the high stakes, the unbelievable odds.
It was a gambler's dream.
His hands clenched, gathering invisible air, as if trying to capture the opportunity he had just missed.
It was no doubt easy to say such things in retrospect, but there was a reason the odds were 1:11!
The mere fact that a non-villain's blade isn't able to scratch a Villain's skin said it all.
Although Antagonia was a World of Villains, the majority of the population were but normal people.
While the rest of the population existed in various shades of grey, being an actual "Villain" was like being royalty.
It was the ultimate privilege, rewarded with unimaginable perks and unimaginable power precisely because the financial support and talent needed to birth a Villain was a barrier of entry.
Most of Antagonia's citizens were normal folks.
They might hustle, cheat, or exploit to survive in their harsh world, but in the end, they were ordinary.
Only a small fraction broke through the societal restraints to reach the coveted rank of Villain.
As to why their entire society was led in such a Darwinian direction, the general populace didn't exactly know;
Why did the world work this way?
Why did audacity reign supreme in Antagonia?
Most didn't question it, just like they never questioned the perpetual darkness that shrouded their lands.
It was simply the way things were—unchallenged, unyielding, and as unforgiving as the gritty landscape they called home.