Creed stood at the edge of the hallway, a storm of armored knights awaiting them, stretching from wall to wall like a human blockade forged from steel and blind obedience.
Black and red glints shimred down the corridor, and each helt glead with unnatural light, their faceless visors all reflecting one target—him.
A breath escaped him like smoke.
He wasn’t angry that Nicholas had made the smart move. No. Truthfully, if he were in Nicholas’ shoes—ard with the floor control key, already ahead in the throne race—he’d have done the exact sa thing.
Set up a defensive line. Send in troops to delay the competition. Stall until the throne locked into his na.
So no. He didn’t bla Nicholas.
But he was still angry.
Angry at the mountain in his chest. At the clock ticking above his head. At the hundred knights trying to stand between him and victory when he was this close!
"Nicholas," Creed muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "You clever bastard."
Lilith, already stretching her back and spinning what remained of her cracked scythe handle, snorted.
Tierra calmly adjusted the sleeves of her gray armor, her eyes glowing faintly. "We don’t have ti for a full fight. Not if the countdown is already ticking."
"I know," Creed said, his voice tight. "That’s why you two are staying."
Lilith blinked. "Wait, what?"
Creed turned to them, his gaze sharp but burning with trust. "This is a rush job. I’ll punch through. But I need a path. That’s your job—stall them, wreck their lines, keep them from chasing. Make them bleed, scream, run—I don’t care how. Just hold."
Tierra tilted her head, a sharp grin tugging at her lips. "You’re finally letting go full chaos?"
He cracked a tight grin. "I need you to go full chaos."
Lilith slamd the broken staff of her scythe into her palm. Lightning hissed off the edges, dancing around her arms.
"You better be the one to stop that smug bastard, Creed. If he wins this floor, I’m personally cutting off your next bath privileges."
Creed snorted. "Noted."
Then the ti for jokes passed.
The knights stepped forward, shields raised, weapons drawn, and the leader, the massive knight with the dragon-shaped helm, raised his blade once more.
"None shall pass the command of the Arena Lord!"
Creed gritted his teeth.
"Then try and stop ."
BOOM!
He exploded into motion. Not running, soaring!
His Path of Freedom surged within him like a geyser that had finally broken its seal.
His body felt light, weightless, as if every cell in his being had broken free of gravity’s leash.
Wind howled past him, blasting outward with enough force to shake the hallway as he lifted from the ground, leaping into the air and taking flight like a blazing cot.
The knights roared.
Dozens launched arrows. Others threw spears. And a wall of bodies surged to pile atop one another, attempting to create a human mountain that reached the ceiling.
It was dozens of warriors building a grotesque shield wall with their own bodies to block his path.
But behind Creed...
Chaos blood.
Lilith cackled like a mad goddess, her broken scythe spinning with electric death as she leapt into the wall of knights like a thunderbolt in human form.
Every swipe, every swing of her weapon carved arcs of lightning that lted tal, cooked armor, and flung bodies like ragdolls.
Even with only half a weapon, she wielded her might like a divine executioner. Her hair sparked with static. Her laugh echoed with delight. And her eyes burned with fury.
anwhile, Tierra vanished.
Literally.
One blink, and she was gone from sight, only for gray flashes to start appearing all across the battlefield.
Each one ca with a whisper and ended with a splat. A knight’s helt fell. A sword dropped.
Then a body hit the ground; throat cut, spine snapped, heart pierced. Every flicker was death. Unpredictable. Swift. A blade without rcy.
Together, they shattered the ground line.
And up above, Creed soared.
He dipped, spun, twisted through the air like he was born to fly. Arrows missed. Spears clanged off the wind pressure he naturally radiated.
His aura flared with the brilliance of a Path that had found its rhythm; his Freedom surging like a tidal wave, crashing over his soul and lifting him ever higher.
He was almost clear.
Almost past the final block.
Then—
WHAM!
The dragon-helted knight leapt.
It was perfect timing; an expert move. The knight had studied Creed’s rhythm, waited for him to dodge a different attacker, and jumped at the exact mont Creed couldn’t change direction again.
A hand reached for Creed’s ankle, inches from grabbing it and dragging him down and smashing him into the horde below.
Creed’s eyes widened. He knew he couldn’t dodge in ti.
But then sothing clicked.
It wasn’t a sound, it was a feeling. A pulse in his chest. A beat in his soul.
Freedom... isn’t just about escape.
It’s about choice. About going where no one says you can. About choosing your path even when the whole world says no!
Creed inhaled sharply.
And in that mont, everything slowed down.
The world blurred. His mind cleared.
And then, he vanished.
Not in the sense of fading from view. No. Creed beca a streak of multicolored light, blazing across the hallway like a shooting star, faster than arrows, faster than lightning, faster than a blink.
He was a cot of pure will, bursting forward at a speed that shattered air and tore fabric from banners.
The knight’s hand missed by a hair.
Creed shot past him, past the wall, down the corridor. He was free, unchained and unstoppable.
Behind him, the knight spun mid-air, crashing into a squad of his own soldiers.
Lilith stopped mid-swing and stared up at the light trail. "Was that...?"
Tierra reappeared beside her, eyes wide. "He did it."
Lilith grinned slowly, lightning sparking at her fingertips.
"He just got his first art."
There was no ti to think. No ti to breathe.
Creed was a streak of multicolored light, blasting down the labyrinthine halls of the Apex Floor like a divine missile, shattering air and sound with every heartbeat.
His new art—Wings of Freedom—wasn’t just fast, it was liberation incarnate.
For the first ti in his life, he wasn’t running toward sothing or away from danger, he was the path. He was the freedom.
The world around him blurred like sared oil paint, walls lting into streaks of crimson and black.
Arrows didn’t matter anymore. Traps snapped too slow. Even the floor itself, which had started twisting and shifting under the control of Nicholas’ key, struggled to catch him.
One hallway turned into a slide of rotating blades? He flickered past it before the first one revved up. A collapsing ceiling tried to catch him in a tid crush? He was already three chambers ahead!
But it ca with a cost.
Every second felt like he was being flayed alive from the inside. His muscles scread, veins bulged unnaturally, and his lungs felt like two bricks inside a furnace.
Blood leaked from his ears. His eyes were burning. Not taphorically, actually burning, the veins in them glowing like molten fire.
’Hold on... just a little longer...’
Every pulse of light was a dagger in his chest, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself onward, blazing through shifting illusions, spike-laced bridges, even enchanted vines trying to ensnare him with glowing tendrils.
He effortlessly dodged traps that could likely kill dozens of other candidates instantly. There was no ti for hesitation. No ti for fear.
Only forward.
Only freedom.
Until finally, he saw it.
A vast doorway opened ahead, glowing with golden light, its fra a carved crescent of obsidian marked with pulsating blue veins.
And beyond that, a chamber like no other.
Creed’s art flickered.
His body crashed to the ground like a dying teor, montum spent, his knees slamming into the stone floor as he skidded forward.
Blood gushed from his nose. His vision blurred. His fingers twitched from overexertion, and his breathing ca in ugly gasps, like his lungs were clawing for air.
But he made it.
He was here.
And what he saw made him freeze in place.
The "throne" wasn’t a throne at all.
It was a coliseum.
Massive. Circular. Dozens of tiers tall, built from stone carved from the bones of mountains, with enchanted fire flickering across the upper ring.
In the center stood a massive disc-shaped platform glowing with gold inscriptions, clearly the "throne" in question—though there was no chair, no scepter.
Just a ring with carved runes and ancient dominion glyphs etched into the floor, glowing like sunlight against bloodied stone.
And standing on it with one foot casually resting on the edge like he had all the ti in the world, was Nicholas Grey.
His short white hair shimred beneath the flas above, and his face—so calm, so sure—curved into a lazy grin the second he saw Creed stumble into view.
"Took you long enough," Nicholas said, his voice echoing like a taunt across the arena.
Creed stood up slowly, spitting blood to the side and wiping his mouth. "I had... traffic."
Nicholas chuckled, eyes gleaming. "Impressive, really. That art... I felt it halfway across the floor. Like soone struck a gong with a lightning bolt."
Creed didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the countdown glyph floating above the arena platform—shaped like a sun dial with burning numbers. It was ticking down.
5:03... 5:02...
Only five minutes remained before Nicholas won everything.
The silver-haired Arena Lord stepped fully onto the platform, spreading his arms.
"You’re here now, Creed. But I’m already on the throne. This is my arena, my floor. The only way to win now... is to push off. And hold the throne until your own tir runs dry."
Creed cracked his knuckles, his lip twitching with a grin. "Good. I was starting to get bored."
"Oh, I hope not," Nicholas said, stepping forward as runes flared beneath his feet. "Because this arena? It’s not just a throne. It’s an ascension trial. The mont we both step into it—only one of us walks out standing."
The air humd.
The glyphs on the arena flared.
And the runes on Creed’s badge began pulsing wildly, syncing with the arena as it prepared to lock in the combatants.
Nicholas’ voice dropped into a smirk. "Let’s give the Dominion Pyramid sothing worth watching."
Creed stepped forward, the flas reflecting in his bloodshot eyes.
"I plan to."
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