Malik left the underground coliseum, his mind already weaving a plan. The woman's words lingered in his head—to meet Lady Cadrill, he had to be noticed. But the underground scene thrived on spectacle. Strength alone wasn't enough to earn her attention. It had to be something more.
He needed a legend to precede him before he even stepped into the ring.
As he walked the dimly lit streets of Eldarath's lower districts, Kairo spoke in his mind, a note of amusement laced in his voice.
"So? How are you planning on doing this?"
Malik's fingers brushed against the fabric of his hood, his expression hidden beneath the deep shadows it cast. "I'll need a fight that makes the arena shake. Something brutal, something that'll make them remember my name."
Kairo hummed in thought. "You do realize you can't use shifting openly, right? Even down here, people fear the unnatural. If you suddenly grow claws or breathe fire, you'll attract the wrong kind of attention."
Malik exhaled sharply. "I know. No dark magic either. I'll have to do this using only my body."
Kairo chuckled. "That doesn't sound like a problem."
Malik smiled. "Not with the new upgrades."
The issue wasn't his strength—it was presentation. Anyone could walk into the arena and win a fight. That wasn't enough.
He needed to walk in as a monster. A force of nature. Someone who defied logic, and most importantly, entertained the audience.
That was how he would break into the Challenger's Ranking.
Malik stopped at a small craftsman's stall tucked away in a darkened alley. The merchant, an elderly man with rough, calloused hands and a single remaining eye, was tending to a collection of finely crafted masks—some simple, some ornate, all laced with an eerie aura.
Malik's gaze landed on one instantly.
A black Draconic mask, sleek and smooth like obsidian. It was carved to resemble the face of an ancient beast, with faint etchings that resembled scales across its surface. The eyes were left open, allowing his own ever-shifting gaze to remain visible—a detail that would make his presence even more unnerving.
He ran his fingers along its edges. The craftsmanship was near-perfect.
"A fine choice," the old man rasped, watching him closely. "That one was carved from the bone of a dead wyrm. Worn by a warrior who was said to be cursed."
Malik met his gaze. "What happened to him?"
The man's smile was gap-toothed and knowing. "He was eaten alive by something worse."
Malik chuckled, tossing a few gold coins onto the counter before slipping the mask over his face.
The weight of it settled comfortably, cool against his skin.
"Fitting, but why not just create one?" Kairo muttered with amusement.
"Feel's a bit more authentic this way." Malik turned, the mask concealing everything but his eyes. With this, the legend of 'The Devourer' would begin.
...
...
The underground coliseum was busier than before. Word had spread of an upcoming match, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and greed.
Malik strode through the crowd of mercenaries, thugs, and nobles, his presence immediately drawing attention. He wore his black robe, its fabric flowing behind him like shadows come to life, and the Draconic mask that concealed his features entirely.
He was a phantom, a specter that had stepped from the void itself.
Whispers followed him.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Some new fighter?"
"Look at his eyes… they're shifting colors. What kind of monster is he?"
Malik ignored them. He wanted them to fear him. To question him. That was part of the game.
As he approached the coliseum's entrance, two heavily armed guards stepped forward, eyeing him warily. They were strong—both of them radiating an aura of at least Advanced+, seasoned killers.
One of them, a brutish man with jagged scars, narrowed his gaze. "You lost, stranger?"
Malik tilted his head slightly, his mask expressionless. "No. I'm here for a fight."
The second guard, a leaner but equally dangerous-looking man, sneered. "That so? You don't just walk in and demand a match, masked freak. You need to be invited."
Malik exhaled, then stepped forward.
"Then invite me."
The first guard stiffened. "And why the fuck would we do that?"
"Because…"
Before the first guard could react, Malik closed the distance in an instant, his foot slamming into the man's chest. The sheer force sent the guard hurtling backward, his body colliding against the stone walls with a sickening crunch. The second guard barely had time to draw his weapon before Malik was on him. His hand shot out, gripping the man's throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground.
The crowd fell silent.
Malik leaned in, his voice low, rumbling beneath the mask.
"I'm not asking."
He let go, allowing the guard to stumble back, choking on his own breath.
The first guard groaned, trying to push himself up, but his ribs were shattered.
A hush had spread through the entrance. The onlookers—mercenaries, slavers, gamblers— around the entrance watched in stunned silence.
Then, someone in the crowd laughed.
A slow, amused chuckle.
Malik turned.
A man in deep blue robes, his face hidden behind a silver mask, stepped forward.
"How delightful," the man mused. "It's been a long time since someone made an entrance like that."
The guards hesitated, then stepped aside.
The masked man gestured toward the coliseum. "Very well, stranger. If you want a fight, then we shall give you one. Step inside… and entertain us."
Malik smirked beneath his mask.
This was exactly what he wanted.
Kairo's voice hummed with satisfaction. "That was easy. You have their attention now. Let's see what you do with it."
Malik strode into the underground coliseum with measured steps, the weight of the Draconic mask pressing against his skin. Around him, the air hummed with anticipation, the roar of the crowd thick with bloodlust and excitement. The underground arena wasn't just a place for battle; it was a spectacle, a temple of violence where the strong ascended, and the weak were ground into dust.
And tonight, all eyes were on him.
Rows of spectators filled the towering stands, a chaotic mix of mercenaries, slavers, criminals, and nobles alike. The wealthy sat in the upper balconies, clad in opulent silks and enchanted jewelry, sipping on golden goblets filled with rare vintages. Their laughter was cruel, their eyes gleaming with amusement as they watched men and women tear each other apart below.
One noble, a corpulent man with rings on every finger, leaned forward with interest. "Who is this masked fighter?" he murmured, turning to his companion—a woman draped in crimson silk, her dark hair coiled into an intricate braid.
She twirled a jeweled dagger between her fingers, watching Malik with the sharp gaze of a predator. "Not sure… but I like the way he moves. He carries himself like he already owns the arena."
A third noble, an older man with graying hair and a jagged scar across his cheek, scoffed. "Tch. Another fool looking for quick coin. He'll be dead in minutes."
But the woman in crimson smirked. "Or he might surprise us."
Malik stepped onto the bloodstained sand of the coliseum, his cloak billowing slightly with each step. He didn't rush. He didn't acknowledge the crowd. He simply walked, as if he belonged here.
A large, iron gate at the opposite end of the arena groaned open, the chains rattling as a hulking figure emerged from the shadows.
His opponent.
A towering brute of a man, at least seven feet tall, his muscles layered like slabs of iron beneath jagged scars. His skin was darkened by exposure to the sun, his arms wrapped in leather straps covered in metal studs. He wielded a massive greatsword, the blade chipped from years of use, yet still deadly.
"The Butcher!" the announcer's voice boomed across the arena. "Slayer of twenty men! Crusher of bones! And tonight, he welcomes a new challenger!"
The crowd roared, their cheers filled with malice and excitement.
The Butcher cracked his neck, his gaze locking onto Malik. "You're new." His voice was a gravelly growl, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. "Let me guess—another fool who thinks he's special?"
Malik tilted his head slightly, his shifting eyes glinting from beneath his mask. "Something like that."
The Butcher barked out a laugh. "I'll enjoy breaking you."
"Then come try."
The moment the signal was given, The Butcher moved.
He was fast for his size, his greatsword carving through the air in a brutal arc, aimed to cleave Malik in two.
But Malik was faster.
He sidestepped smoothly, the tip of the blade missing him by inches, sending a gust of wind across his cloak. The sand beneath his feet barely shifted—his movement was effortless, precise.
The Butcher snarled, immediately swinging the massive blade horizontally. Malik ducked, the sword slicing through empty space as he slid to the side, repositioning himself.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
"He's quick!" one noblewoman gasped.
"But that won't matter once he gets caught," another man laughed.
Malik remained silent. His focus was absolute.
He had already begun secretly shifting, enhancing his physical attributes without visible changes.
Dragon blood, phantom panther's agility, reinforced muscle fibers—each enhancement layered upon him, pushing his speed, strength, and reaction time to unnatural levels. With the collective boost he was well within the rank of Master-, an Advanced+ like the Butcher was just an annoyance in Malik's eyes.
But no one could see it. To the audience, he was simply a man with impossible reflexes. And he was about to demonstrate why that made him terrifying.
The Butcher roared in frustration, charging forward, his greatsword raised high, the full extent of his strength behind it.
Malik moved to meet him—
Then vanished.
In the blink of an eye, he had sidestepped to the Butcher's left, slipping behind him before the brute could react.
The Butcher stumbled, his sword slamming into the ground, kicking up a cloud of sand and leaving a deep cleave-mark. For the first time, hesitation flickered in his eyes.
Malik didn't give him time to recover.
With inhuman precision, he lunged forward, his elbow colliding with the Butcher's ribs.
Crack.
The sound was sickening. The Butcher staggered, his body jerking violently as the force of the blow sent him skidding across the sand.
The crowd gasped.
A noble leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "That speed… what kind of technique is that?"
The Butcher gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand. His breath was ragged, his ribs broken. But he was a warrior, and warriors did not surrender.
He lifted his greatsword once more.
Malik tilted his head. "Still standing?"
The Butcher spit out blood, a wild grin on his face. "Damn right."
Malik sighed. "Alright. Then I won't hold back."
The Butcher charged.
But Malik didn't move.
Not until the last second.
Then—he ducked low, stepping inside the Butcher's guard, his arm snapping forward like it was spring-loaded, a blur to the audience.
His fingers plunged deep into the man's stomach.
The Butcher froze, eyes wide.
A beat passed. Then—Malik twisted.
The Butcher let out a choked gasp, his entire body trembling as blood spurted from his mouth, the result of his internal organs being rearranged.
Malik withdrew his hand, stepping back as the Butcher collapsed to his knees.
The crowd was silent.
Then, the announcer's voice rang out, his tone filled with awe.
"The winner—The Devourer!"
The silence shattered.
The coliseum erupted in chaos, cheers and screams filling the air.
Malik stood over the fallen warrior, his masked face betraying nothing.
[Level Up! Reached Level 15!]
The familiar sound of the system rung in his mind.
In the noble balcony, the woman in crimson silk smiled, her hunch confirmed.
And from somewhere in the shadows, Lady Cadrill watched.
Her lips curled, intrigued. "Now what do we have here..."