Arcelus barely dodged the assassin's first strike. The brown-haired man's speed was almost impossible to follow, a blur of motion. Arcelus's body moved instinctively, his mind already calculating the trajectory of each strike, but this man was fast, too fast. He could feel the rush of air as the blade narrowly missed his neck.
Before he could react, the assassin lunged again. The blade sliced through the air, and this time it found its mark. Arcelus felt the sharp pain of metal grazing his arm, the faint sting of blood beginning to seep from the wound. He took a step back, his dark violet eyes narrowing. *So they all have magic, and I... am the one who is nothing.* The thought settled cold and heavy in his mind, the realization that he was the only one among them who couldn't bend reality to his will.
The assassin's grin was cold, calculating, as if he could already smell the weakness in the air. But Arcelus was not one to falter easily. He analyzed the man in an instant, gauging his movements, searching for a flaw in his technique. *One more strike, and you'll regret it.*
But before Arcelus could make his move, two more men appeared. One carried a staff crackling with volatile magic, the other brandishing twin daggers—an unholy alliance of brute strength and arcane power. Without hesitation, they dove into the fight, surrounding Arcelus like wolves closing in on a wounded prey.
The assassin was the first to strike again, his blade aiming straight for Arcelus's chest. The other two kept their distance for a moment, watching, waiting for the right opening. Arcelus could feel his blood mixing with the sweat on his skin, but his focus never wavered. Stay calm.
He twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the assassin's blade. But the pain in his side told him that it wasn't a clean escape. A cut. Shallow, but it was there. And that would be the last thing he'd allow. His breath quickened as the adrenaline surged through him. He couldn't afford to lose control, not now.
A blast of arcane energy shot past him, striking the ground where he had been standing a moment ago, sending a plume of dust into the air. The staff-wielder was getting bolder, sending unpredictable waves of energy that sent shockwaves through the arena. Arcelus could feel the pull of the magic, each wave of pressure trying to push him into submission, but he refused to yield.
The two men with daggers came at him from both sides now, moving in tandem like a deadly choreographed dance. Arcelus parried one strike but was forced to turn just in time to avoid another from the assassin. The pain in his body was beginning to mount—he had a few more cuts now, each one reminding him of the one thing he couldn't afford: weakness.
*I need more time.*
But time was something he didn't have. The assassin moved in close again, slashing at his face, and Arcelus's vision blurred momentarily as he dodged—just barely. Blood splattered, but not his. The assassin had taken a hit. But before he could capitalize on the opening, another blast of magic threw him off balance, knocking him to the ground.
The three opponents circled him now, their movements coordinated, like a pack of predators. He was alone, unarmed, magicless and surrounded by enemies who were fueled by magic and bloodlust. There was no escape, no way out unless he made a stand. Arcelus's mind raced. *I need to finish this. Now.*
The assassin lunged once more, but Arcelus had had enough. His reaction was sharp, deliberate, but the dagger still caught his skin, leaving a deep gash across his arm. The pain surged through him, but it was nothing compared to the cold rage building inside him.
With a sudden, violent twist, he disarmed the assassin, sending the blade flying. The assassin barely had time to react before Arcelus's fist collided with his face, snapping his head back with a sickening crack. The man dropped to the ground, unconscious—or worse.
But that moment of triumph was fleeting. The staff-wielder, enraged, unleashed a massive burst of energy that ripped through the air, forcing Arcelus to roll out of the way just in time. The ground beneath him cracked open, a chasm of energy threatening to swallow him whole. His heart pounded, his breath ragged, but his mind never stopped calculating. *If I can just—*
Before he could finish the thought, one of the daggers stabbed into his leg, and for a split second, everything blurred.
A sick smile crept across the face of the man who had struck him.
...
..
.
The world around Arcelus was a blur of pain and chaos. The last of the dagger-wielding men withdrew his weapon with a twisted grin, watching as Arcelus staggered, blood staining his clothes. His vision was fading—faster than he wanted to admit. He couldn't keep going like this. His body was betraying him, each wound a reminder of his vulnerability, each breath a reminder that he was not in control.
Just as his knees buckled, his chest heaving with every sharp breath, a voice—booming and divine—shattered the moment of despair. "Enough!"
The sound of it was deafening, but it wasn't the force of the words that stopped the chaos. It was the power behind them. Time itself seemed to freeze as every movement halted. The assassin, the staff-wielder, the dagger-wielding man—they all stood still, their attacks suspended in the air like frozen statues. Arcelus barely managed to stay on his feet, leaning on his injured leg, the blood pooling around him. His mind was a storm of confusion and frustration.
The god appeared, his form materializing above the scene, a figure clothed in radiant robes. His eyes glowed with the power of the cosmos, a presence that swallowed everything around them. Arcelus looked up, his breath shaky as the god's gaze fixed on him.
"The four people have died," the god's voice echoed across the arena, cold and final. "All of you who have survived, congratulations." With a snap of his fingers, the wounds on everyone healed instantly. The cuts on Arcelus's arms, the gash in his side, the stab in his leg—all of them were gone in the blink of an eye. It was as if nothing had ever happened. But Arcelus didn't feel any better. The pain was gone, but the realization still gnawed at him. He was still empty, still powerless.
The god's words carried on, the air around them thick with impending doom. "But it is not over yet. This was merely less than the beginning."
The arena shifted as the god raised his hand. Reality bent and twisted around them, forming new shapes and spaces. Arcelus barely had time to process the change before a glowing portal appeared, hovering just in front of him. And then, with a wave of the god's hand, the remaining survivors were sorted into groups.
In Arcelus's group was Scarlett Rose, the red-haired girl who had briefly spoken to him earlier. He had barely had time to analyze her, but now, as she stood next to him, he noted her features—her hair was a deep, fiery red, tied loosely behind her head in a braid that flowed down her back, and her blue eyes held a spark of confidence, as though she never doubted her ability to survive. She wore a loose, practical tunic, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a belt of tools at her waist. There was something almost unsettling about her ease in this chaotic moment. She must be dangerous in her own way.
The other two members of his group were a stark contrast to each other. The first was a tall, quiet man with jet-black hair that hung in loose waves around his face, a sharp jawline, and a pair of dark, brooding eyes that never seemed to blink. He wore a simple black coat that looked out of place in the arena but well-suited for battle. His posture was stoic, calculating—he didn't seem to react to the new development, as though he had expected this all along.
The last member of the group was a woman with short silver hair, almost platinum in hue, her piercing green eyes glowing with a strange intensity. She was small but moved with the speed and grace of a trained fighter, her outfit composed of light armor, clearly built for agility. Her movements were fluid, almost cat-like, and she exuded an air of quiet power, like a predator who knew she was the top of the food chain. Arcelus couldn't help but be intrigued by her, though he knew better than to let curiosity cloud his judgment.
"Now," the god continued, his voice ringing through the air, "you shall be taken to different worlds. There, your mission is to defeat the Demon Lord." His eyes gleamed as he looked down at the gathered survivors. "The first five groups to succeed will move on to the next stage."
The god's gaze locked with Arcelus's, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch between them, thick with an unspoken tension. "Those who fail," he paused, his voice turning cold, final, "will not die."
Arcelus's heart skipped a beat. Failure. The price for failure is worse than death.
"They will cease to exist."
The weight of those words crushed into Arcelus's chest like a leaden weight. The god's power was absolute, and the threat was clear. Death was a mercy compared to the obliteration that awaited them if they failed.
Arcelus's breath quickened. *Failure is not an option.*