Up in the VIP combatant zone, Alex stood frozen—his eyes wide, his breath caught in his throat.
He had watched it all.
The way that thin net of fla had sliced through Grugrim.
It wasn't like a raging fireball. Not like a chaotic explosion.
It was surgical.
Precise.
Silent.
Deadly.
Then ca the mont where everything stopped.
The crowd.
The wind.
Even the dust hanging in the air.
Ti itself seed to hold its breath.
Grugrim still stood, the grin plastered across his blood-sared face.
Motionless.
Almost… peaceful.
Then—
SCHLICK.
That sound—quiet but sharp, like a knife carving raw at.
And red lines began to form.
Horizontal.
Vertical.
Diagonal.
Like a butcher's wire net pulled tight, crisscrossing his entire body.
Then, gravity did the rest.
FLOP.
Grugrim's body fell apart into neat chunks—each one landing with a wet, soft thud.
The noise echoed too long in the arena.
Like soone had dropped slabs of at onto stone.
Over and over.
And then… silence.
A deep, unnatural silence.
Only Malik remained standing.
His chest rose and fell, flas simring quietly around him.
The ground beneath him was blackened.
The air stank of burnt blood and scorched stone.
Alex instinctively flinched, his stomach twisting.
He had seen death before.
He'd witnessed killings—so arguably worse—by his own hand.
But this...
This felt different.
It felt cold.
Chilling.
Maybe it was because this had happened to soone Alex was slightly attached to.
Soone who ant sothing, even if just a little.
Then, cutting through the weight of silence, ca a loud voice from the Proctor:
"AND THE WINNER OF THIS DUEL IS—MALIK OF THE DEMON CLAN!!"
He roared, and the crowd reacted in waves—
So cheered.
So gasped, still shaken by what they had seen.
Ripples spread through the coliseum, so chanting Malik's na.
But Alex barely heard any of it.
His eyes stayed locked on the fading embers of what had once been Grugrim.
Or more accurately, what was left of him.
The good news?
Grugrim wasn't dead.
Not really.
He had only been eliminated from the Legacy Trial.
His body would reform in his world.
This was only a test, and that knowledge eased Alex.
Besides, looking at the fight, one could say Grugrim hadn't completely lost.
What he did in that arena couldn't be overlooked.
He'd gotten into Malik's head.
Made him hesitate.
Made him feel—fear, doubt, uncertainty—for the first ti in his life.
Malik had strutted into the match full of pride and arrogance, declaring that Grugrim wouldn't even touch him.
And yet…
Grugrim had not only scarred his face—
He had almost killed him.
And then, with nothing left, Grugrim chose how to go out.
He didn't beg.
He didn't crawl.
He taunted.
Forced Malik's hand.
And died on his own terms—
A quick, clean death instead of slow, humiliating torture.
That alone was a kind of victory.
Alex took a breath and slowly let it out.
Then gave a small nod—a quiet sign of respect.
"Good fight," he whispered under his breath.
Alex looked down at the battlefield again…
And this ti, his lips curled into a smile.
Sothing was stirring inside him.
His blood burned hotter.
His nerves buzzed with energy, like electricity in his veins.
The next battle was against Sylen.
He turned his gaze to the figure across from him, and his lips curled into a grin.
This will be fun.
*
Down in the arena, Malik stood frozen in boiling frustration.
His chest heaved up and down, every breath sharp and heavy—
Not from exhaustion…
But from rage building inside, like magma under pressure.
His fists opened and closed.
His claws twitched.
His eyes burned.
How…?
The thought growled in his mind.
Why did I let that dwarf get to ?
He could still feel it—
That pain when Grugrim had used Full Counter.
The abyss he'd fallen into...
The spring he'd launched right out of.
He rembered it too clearly.
That one mont.
When he had hesitated.
When doubt had crept in like poison.
That flicker of fear.
Just a flicker—
But it was enough.
Enough for Grugrim to close the gap.
Enough for Grugrim to nearly stab him.
Him. Malik.
The Demon Prince.
Son of the Demon King.
The one chosen to represent his race.
He clenched his jaw so hard it felt like his teeth would shatter.
Even though Grugrim was gone—
Dead, burned to ash, scattered across the arena floor—
He had still landed a different kind of blow.
He had bruised sothing worse than Malik's body.
He had struck at Malik's pride.
All around him, the arena thundered with noise—cheering, shouting, screaming.
But it barely reached Malik's ears.
It all sounded distant. Muffled.
Like he was standing in a soundless void.
His vision blurred slightly as his eyes lifted to the VIP stands above,
Where elite warriors of every race sat, watching.
And then, Malik saw him.
Up near the center of the VIP stands, watching.
A tall figure stood like a statue carved from pure nace.
He wore blood-red armor, its surface etched with ancient demonic runes that shimred faintly.
Two sharp black horns curled from his temples, gleaming under the arena lights.
Beneath the shadow of his war helm, his eyes burned like molten coals—unblinking. Intense.
Malik saw him.
Instant recognition hit like a slap to the face.
Malik knew who that was...
The Demon King's Blade.
One of the highest-ranking generals in the demon army—
General Kael.
He wasn't cheering.
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't even frowning.
Just watching.
Still.
Cold.
Silent.
A wall of judgnt wrapped in crimson steel.
Malik locked eyes with him—
And froze.
Because the look Kael gave him wasn't anger.
It wasn't approval, either.
It was disappointnt.
A quiet, ruthless stare that cut deeper than any blade.
Like he was silently saying:
That was not the performance of a prince.
Malik's breath hitched in his throat.
His heart slamd against his chest.
He had won.
He had destroyed his opponent, turned the dwarf into nothing but bloody chunks.
And yet…
It wasn't enough.
This...
This wasn't a win.
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