She’d probably heard about Langdon’s death. Had probably mourned, thinking she’d lost soone real. The guilt of that deception—however necessary it had been at the ti—sat heavy in Akhil’s gut.
’I’ll have to find her after this,’ he thought. ’Explain everything. She deserves to know the truth.’
His gaze shifted to another familiar figure, and this ti surprise colored his recognition.
A man in a cowboy hat stood on his platform, casually taking a drag from a cigarette as he surveyed the arena with the calm assessnt of soone who’d seen plenty of violence and wasn’t particularly impressed. His other hand rested on a revolver at his hip, fingers tapping an idle rhythm.
’Greg.’
Another adventurer from the emblem quest. Akhil had honestly thought the man was all talk—the casual attitude, the seemingly lazy deanor, the way he’d approached everything like it was barely worth his effort.
But clearly, Greg had backed up his confidence with skill. He stood unwounded, unbothered, smoke curling from his cigarette as if he’d just finished a light workout rather than a death match.
’Seems he wasn’t all talk after all,’ Akhil acknowledged. ’There’s real power there. He must pack quite the energy.’
But despite these few bright spots—Layla, Greg, Seth, Ryan, and the others who’d succeeded—the overall picture was grim.
Thirty dead. Forty-two critically injured. And this was just the first round.
"Now then!" Jeren’s voice drew everyone’s attention back to him. "Our fighters have earned a brief respite. Five minutes to catch your breath, tend your wounds, and..." His smile widened behind his mask. "Receive gifts from our gracious divine audience!"
As if on cue, divine light began manifesting throughout the arena.
Akhil watched as one of the critically injured participants—a man clutching a shattered arm, blood pouring between his fingers, face gray with blood loss and pain—suddenly found himself bathed in golden radiance.
A voice echoed around him—lodic, sweet, carrying the weight of divine power:
{Human, you have fought with courage and an undying will to survive. The odds were stacked against you, yet you persevered. Your determination has entertained . Here is my gift.}
The man’s eyes widened—pain replaced by hope, despair giving way to desperate gratitude. A notification appeared in his vision, visible to him alone, and he imdiately activated it without hesitation.
"Full recovery!"
Warm energy flooded through him, visible even to those watching on screens. His mangled arm began to reform—ligants knitting back together with impossible speed, shattered bone fragnts gathering and fusing, muscles regrowing over the skeletal structure. Even the skin reford, fair and smooth and perfect, as if the injury had never occurred.
Within seconds, his arm was whole again. Better than whole—it looked stronger, the muscle definition more pronounced, the skin slightly tougher.
He jumped to his feet, tears streaming down his face, flexing his newly restored arm with the wonder of soone given a miracle.
"Thank you!" he shouted toward the sky, toward whatever god had chosen to bless him. "Thank you, thank you!"
Around the arena, other participants were receiving their own gifts. Divine light descended on perhaps thirty or forty of them—those who’d fought well enough to earn divine favor.
So received glowing boxes that disappeared into their inventory. Others got imdiate healing—not as dramatic as the full recovery, but enough to close wounds, restore stamina, dull pain.
But two fighters received sothing different. Sothing more.
Seth stood on his platform, and three separate divine lights descended upon him. Three gifts, from three different gods who’d been impressed by his performance. The divine attention was so intense it actually made the air around him shimr.
{God Poloneus grants you his favor!}
{Goddess Nova acknowledges your skill!}
{God Verbraucht rewards your victory!}
Three notifications. Three gifts added to his inventory.
Seth’s expression didn’t change much—still that focused intensity, though his eyes flickered briefly to the notifications before dismissing them. He didn’t need the gifts now. Wasn’t even injured. Better to save them for when they’d actually matter.
Ryan received similar treatnt. Three divine lights, three gifts, three gods impressed enough to invest in his continued performance.
{God of War claims interest in your strength!}
{Goddess Vaydrix nods in satisfaction and approves your thods!}
{Ancient Titan Protheus offers his blessing!}
Ryan’s reaction was even more understated than Seth’s—barely a glance at the notifications before dismissing them entirely, arms crossing back over his chest as he resud his patient waiting stance.
Everyone watching could see the divine lights descending. Could count how many gifts each fighter received based on those telltale flashes of radiance.
But they couldn’t see what the gifts actually were. That information remained private, known only to the recipient and the god who’d sent it.
’Smart,’ Akhil thought. ’If everyone knew what advantages others had, it would create too much chaos. This way, uncertainty remains. Strategy stays complex.’
But the gifts weren’t distributed equally. Not by a long shot.
The thirty or forty who received sothing were the lucky ones. The rest—especially those critically injured, barely clinging to consciousness—received nothing at all.
No divine light. No healing. No items. Just silence and the cold indifference of gods who’d already written them off as poor investnts.
"The gods only gift those they’re satisfied with," Akhil said quietly, and several people near him on the screen—others watching from his group—turned to look at him.
"That’s cruel," Aria said, her voice tight.
"It’s logical," Akhil countered, though he hated agreeing with such cold reasoning. "Why invest resources in fighters who won’t provide good entertainnt? From the gods’ perspective, those critically injured participants are already finished. They won’t survive the next round. Giving them gifts would be wasting divine favor on garbage."
The words tasted bitter, but they were true. This tournant wasn’t about fairness or giving everyone a chance. It was entertainnt. Performance. The strong would be supported to beco stronger, to put on better shows. The weak would be discarded.
But there was sothing else Akhil had noticed, sothing that made this entire setup even more insidious.
’Each match makes the participants stronger,’ he realized, watching as several fighters who’d struggled in their first battle now stood with visibly improved posture, better energy flow, sharper awareness.
The constant combat, the divine gifts, the pressure of life-or-death stakes—it was forging fighters, tempering them like steel in a furnace. Those who survived would erge more powerful than when they’d entered.
’Which ans they’re preparing us,’ Akhil thought grimly. ’Building us up, making us stronger, getting us ready...’
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