A few of young nobles in the observation room rose to their feet, eager to get a clearer view of what had just transpired.
A smile crept across their faces—not out of satisfaction with Percival's misfortune, but because they found the spectacle utterly entertaining.
Amid the deafening cheers of the crowd, the only words Elias could discern were, "Go make him crippled!"
Meanwhile, Percival remained on the floor, sobbing and hurling curses at him. As he lay there, a strange sensation began to spread through Elias' body.
With blood smeared across his mouth, he suddenly felt a powerful thump in his chest. His body went completely numb, and he fell silent.
The overwhelming noise of the crowd—and even his own thoughts—seemed to vanish, as though all his senses had abandoned him.
Sweat began to seep from his pores, and his body hair stood on end. Terrified by his condition, he found himself unable to do anything but listen to the persistent, rhythmic pounding emanating from his chest.
This feeling... he thought. And that strange burning sensation when I first arrived here…
Could this be a consequence of my coming to this place? he wondered, searching Elias' memories for a similar experience that might offer an explanation.
Eventually, a peculiar sense of satisfaction washed over him as he gazed at the bloodied Percival lying motionless on the ground.
Thirsty, he thought. I'm thirsty, the words resonated within him, as though he were craving something—some kind of beverage.
The scene before Elias seemed to decelerate, as though time itself was grinding to a crawl.
In this surreal slow motion, Percival turned his gaze toward him and began to rise from the ground. He appeared ready to summon another branch from beneath, but as Elias observed the unfolding events, an unusual sense of boredom settled over him.
Feeling restless, Elias decided to test his limits and attempt to break free from the massive hand that held him. To his astonishment, the immense grasp, which had seemed so unyielding, now resembled nothing more than a fragile display. With minimal effort, he broke free.
It's as if I was folding a cardboard box, he thought, marveling at the ease of his escape.
Around him, the world remained trapped in slow motion, even as he fully emerged from the clutches of the colossal golem tree.
With confusion etched across his face, he surveyed the vast underground establishment, his eyes eventually settling in the observation room.
This is becoming stranger by the moment, he thought to himself, uneasy creeping into his mind.
As he continued to glance at the observation room, a faint tingling sensation pricked at the back of his neck. Startled, he turned around, only to find Percival moving in an agonizingly slow motion. Both of Percival's palms were pressed firmly against the ground, his face drenched in sweat, a clear sign of his struggle.
His aether is completely drained from all those branches, he thought with a smirk curling at his lips.
Crouching down besides his opponent, his gaze fell on the peculiar glove the individual was wearing. A glowing crystal embedded on the back of the glove pulsed faintly, its surface adorned with an intricately engraved rune.
I wonder how much a single pair like this would cost, he mused, his thoughts drifting to the possibility of wielding elemental specialties himself one day.
Rising to his feet, he felt a lingering urge to repay Percival for those slaps, his cheeks still throbbing and swollen.
Before he could act on his impulse, his gaze fell on his opponent's bleeding ear. A thought crept into his mind—one he couldn't ignore. Deciding to put his unsettling theory to the test, he hesitated briefly, then leaned closer.
It can't be... can it? he wondered silently. Earlier, the sweet, intoxicating scent of blood had stirred a craving he found hard to resist, an unsettling desire that gnawed at his resolve.
Carefully, he swiped a finger through the blood smeared on Percival's cheek, holding it up to inspect the crimson streak.
This almost feels like I'm a kid at a birthday party, sneaking the first taste of the cake, he thought wryly, attempting to lighten the strange tension within himself.
With a mix of reluctance and curiosity, he brought his bloodied finger to his lips and sucked it clean.
A strange sensation coursed through him, and to his shock, the gnawing thirst he hadn't even fully acknowledged began to subside. The realization solidified his worst fears, a hypothesis he'd desperately hoped to disprove.
He was becoming the very thing he'd feared most as a child.
Am I becoming a zombie? was his first thought. "No, if that were the case, I'd be hungry for flesh, not thirsting for blood," he blurted out, correcting himself.
It's too early to jump to conclusions, he thought, trying to deny the unsettling fact that the blood had quenched his thirst.
As he raised his hand to return Percival's slap with a fist, a sudden cheer erupted from the crowd. Everything went back to normal. Percival, still struggling with both palms on the ground, stared in disbelief at the unfolding scene.
The crowd fell into stunned silence, as the young nobles in the observation room exchanged puzzled glances.
The massive hand of the tree golem, once a formidable force, lay shattered as if struck by a fourth-grade pyromancer's fireball. But more shocking was the figure the golem had been holding—now standing beside Percival with his hand raised triumphantly.
"What just happened?!" demanded the young woman in the observation room, her voice tinged with confusion.
"I don't know, young miss," the bodyguard responded, his voice worried. "I didn't see it clearly."
"Body enhancement?" one noble speculated.
"Maybe an artifact?" another suggested.
"Are you serious? You think someone like him could possess such an artifact?" a third scoffed.
As the crowd continued to murmur, Victor stood frozen, unable to believe his own eyes. His friend, the one he had known since childhood, was now displaying an impossible feat.
"I told you, there are people like him among them," the old man said, his voice gravelly as he spoke to the man beside him. He wore a weathered top hat, adding a touch of old-fashioned flair to his rugged look.
"It was worth the effort coming here," one of them said, a member of the group with the old man. Their outfit was a blend of rugged leather armor and practical design—reinforced with brass buckles and a high-collared vest. Sturdy boots and guns completed the look, showing signs of frequent use.
The crowd was left utterly stunned by what they had witnessed, as were the onlookers in the observation room. Among them, a young girl with a high ponytail clenched her fists, her wide eyes betraying disbelief.
Even Sebastian, a fifth-grade body enhancer, didn't see it, she thought, her mind racing. Could he be... a half-magi?' The idea sent her thoughts spiraling. 'No, that's impossible. If he were, the Wardens would have intervened by now. She shook her head, forcing herself to find a more reasonable explanation, though none came.
A heavy silence filled the arena, broken only when a voice from the audience shouted, "Go get him, El!"
The words stirred Elias, his focus narrowing. He recognized the voice but didn't glance toward it. Instead, he steeled himself. There was no time to second-guess, no time to doubt. With one decisive movement, he surged forward, his hand swinging toward Percival's face.
But just as his hand neared its target, Percival's branch erupted from the ground, striking Elias' elbow from below. The sickening sound of bones cracking echoed through the air, and the arena fell silent. The force of the impact launched Elias into the air, and he was slammed back to the ground with a violent thud.
The nobles and spectators alike could only utter a single word in unison: "Oh." Their faces reflected collective disappointment.
Elias coughed, spitting a mouthful of blood as he struggled to breathe. Pain radiated through his body; his arm hung limp, clearly broken, and bruises across his skin. He tried to move but felt the weight of reality pressing down on him. He had no strength left, no means to fight.
"I surrender," he muttered, his voice strained but clear enough for all to hear. It was over. He'd given them what they wanted. Surely, this was enough.
But instead of mockery or disdain, the crowd erupted into cheers. The shift was startling. They shouted his name, their voices a chaotic chorus of admiration and approval. He blinked, stunned, his vision swimming as he stared up at the ceiling.
Elias lay on the ground, pain coursing through his battered body. His vision blurred, but through the haze, he turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward the audience. There, amidst the sea of faces, one figure stood out. Victor.
Victor raised his hand, a confident smile playing on his lips, and gave Elias a firm thumbs-up.
It wasn't loud applause or a cheer, but it was enough. A silent acknowledgment. A gesture that said, You did well.
I hope that's enough, he thought, the faintest trace of a weary smile tugging at his lips before darkness claimed him.
When he opened his eyes, the world swayed in and out of focus, a kaleidoscope of dim streetlights and the cold embrace of the midnight air. He was moving—or rather, being moved. Victor's arms carried him with a strange mix of urgency and care, feet crunching softly against the cobblestones of the empty streets.
The chill stung Elias's cheeks, dragging him further into wakefulness. As he raised his head, Victor's voice broke through the haze, a constant stream of words tumbling out with fervent excitement.
"…and the crowd was cheering, roaring even, and then—just like that—you were gone, a blur, and then reappeared next to him! It was—"
"Enough." Elias cut him off, his voice hoarse, sharp, but with the faintest edge of dry humor. "If you keep going, I'll start bleeding from my ears next."
Victor stopped in his tracks, startled by the sudden retort, and carefully eased Elias down onto a narrow stair beside a modest house. His brow furrowed, but his excitement refused to ebb.
"How did you even do that?" Victor asked, crouching beside him with wide eyes. "You never told me you were a specialist. Is it a technique? A secret skill?"
Elias didn't answer. He couldn't. His body was a ruin—drained, battered, and fraying at the edges. His lips were pale, a chalky white that betrayed his dehydration and hunger. His broken arm hung limp at his side, and the blood loss had left him on the verge of collapse.
Victor's words turned into noise, distant and garbled, like echoes in a cavern. Elias's vision blurred again, spinning as if the world itself were unraveling.
Just before the darkness claimed him once more, he caught a fleeting image: Victor mimicking the fight, his arms flailing in exaggerated movements, a performance that would have been comical if Elias weren't already sinking into oblivion.
When Elias opened his eyes again, the world felt muted, subdued. The rough surface of a threadbare mattress pressed against his back, its lumpy form familiar yet offering little comfort. His gaze drifted upward, catching the faint lines of light spilling through the gaps between the walls.
He turned his head and spotted his sister standing on a wobbly chair near the counter, her small hands busy arranging something. The counter itself was little more than a worn wooden plank propped up by bricks, cluttered with simple utensils and a few chipped bowls.
Elias tried to push himself upright, only for a sharp jolt to remind him of his injuries. A coarse piece of cloth bound his broken arm, the makeshift sling resting against his chest. Beside him, a small bowl of water and a white cloth waited, their presence a quiet testament to someone's care.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to sit, his back pressing against the chill of the stone wall. From this new vantage point, the room revealed more: a table in the center, laden with unexpected bounty. Bread, glistening jam in a half-filled jar, a pot of steaming tea, and a simple pitcher of water. The sight stopped him cold.
For a moment, his breath caught. This wasn't their usual reality. Their meals were meager at best, hastily assembled and barely enough to fill their stomachs. Yet now, the table looked almost… abundant. It was absurd. How...
As Lily carefully made her way down from the chair, her foot slipped for a moment, making the chair wobble. Elias, instinctively reacting, tried to move as though to reach her, despite the distance between them. The movement caused a sharp pain in his broken arm, and a grunt of discomfort escaped his lips.
In that moment, Lily's gaze fixed ahead, seemed to hear the cry, her attention snapping to him. Her eyes widened as she turned toward the source of the sound, finding Elias propped against the cold stone wall, his face pale, the effort of sitting upright evident in the strained lines of his features.
Her descent was slow and measured, her every movement cautious, as though acutely aware of the fragile thread by which she was tethered to this fragile moment. Once on the ground, Elias, fighting through the pain, managed to raise a trembling hand, weakly gesturing to her, his silent question hanging between them—how had she managed to gather enough money to buy food?
With a bright smile, Lily responded, her hands moving with excitement. "I found a soli in your vest pocket," she gestured. "I thought it was meant for food, so I used it. Don't worry, I left five pence in your pocket. I got a bargain on the food—it'll fill our stomachs, enough for the whole day!"
Her words, though silent, carried with them a brief, fleeting warmth. For a moment, Elias could almost forget the ache in his body, the exhaustion that clung to him.
A soft smile tugged at Elias' lips as he reached out, gently patting Lily's head. His gesture was tender, yet it carried the weight of unspoken affection. With a quiet chuckle, he signed, "You should've spent all the money if it's for the food. You don't need to worry about that."
Lily's eyes softened, but she said nothing. Instead, she offered him her support as he made the effort to rise. Slowly, carefully, she helped him navigate toward the table, guiding him to sit in one of the chairs.
Once settled, Lily moved to the counter, claiming the chair there as her own. She positioned herself so that she could eat alongside him, her presence a comforting constant in the quiet room. The two sat together, their silence more meaningful than words—an unspoken understanding of the fleeting moments they had, shared in the simple act of eating together.