It only got louder the further he moved through the tunnel. The volu was reminiscent of those crowds during championship gas of national sports.
As he reached the end of the walkway, a light filled his vision before he stepped out.
He covered his eyes montarily as he was imdiately swallowed in the noise of the audience.
"What the...?" He muttered.
Moving his hand away, he saw the colosseum he stepped into; a vast, exuberant structure built of pristine gold. Dazzling crystals were embedded into the walls, with hundreds if not thousands of spectators seated.
In the battlegrounds he stood in, the ground was made up of snow-white sand, stretching far and wide.
"A NEWCOR HAS ARRIVED! WILL THIS FRESH AT BE SQUASHED OR REIGN VICTORIOUS IN HIS DEBUT...? PLACE YOUR BETS!" The announcer’s voice bood.
It sounded like the eccentric speaker had a microphone, even if the technology was surely beyond the fantasy world.
There were many more people in the audience than expected, as though it were a concert.
’This is a bit much, isn’t it...? Guess nobody else has anything else better to do than to watch so fighting,’ he thought.
Amidst the heavy atmosphere, his focus laid on the tunnel opposing where he stood. He knew nothing of who he was slated to face; a complete mystery.
"THE WAGERS HAVE BEEN PLACED! FOR OUR NEWCOR HERE, HE’S BEEN GIVEN ONE THOUSAND TO ONE ODDS TO WIN!" The announcer shouted.
As the crowd erupted further, a chill ran over his body as he heard what left the speaker’s mouth, almost finding it hard to believe.
’A thousand to one? They’re basically saying it’s impossible for , then? Who the hell am I facing?’ He thought.
On the other side of the arena, he watched a silhouette erge from the opposing tunnel. A man of chalky skin, seeming painted white, walked out.
From the black-and-white makeup on the stranger’s face, he looked like so sort of clown. The man wore a black, flared coat, shut by a silver brooch.
’That’s my opponent?’ He thought.
A certain air was felt around the pale stranger; a malice laid in his hollow eyes, the look of a tried-and-true killer.
"IT’S TI! The "VENATOR REAPER"—RURIK!" The announcer presented the combatant.
A na like that imdiately stuck in the young man’s mind. It wasn’t a weightless title; no, even he, ignorant of the world, understood its gravity.
’Venator Reaper? If there’s any truth to a title like that, this guys a problem—no, I’m dead at if that’s the case,’ he considered.
It almost seed like an urban legend, sothing too far out of reality to be true. After all, he’d struggled to even survive against the sparse Venator he’d encountered.
The pale-painted man stood no more than ten ters across from him, intently watching him. In each of the Venator Reaper’s hands, he carried thin, needle-like blades.
"You’re nervous, aren’t you? I can sll it," the words left the lips of the enigmatic man.
Gael breathed in, trying his best to hide it, "What’re you talking about over there?"
"There’s no point in evading the question. When sobody is anxious, it produced a certain pheromone from their sweat glands," Rurik claid, tapping his own nose.
"What are you, a dog...?" Gael questioned, feeling a shiver run over his skin.
There was sothing unsettling about the man; an eerie calmness that shrouded his true malice. His remark didn’t reel in a response as the slender combatant quietly flipped one of his blades between his fingers.
"—BOUT: BEGIN!" The announcer’s voice bood.
The mont it started, he felt the air shift as the crowd thundered with anticipation. None of that was what he focused on though; he could feel the malice of the Venator Reaper.
’Here he cos...!’ He thought.
He hadn’t blinked, yet he found the distance between himself and his opponent already snatched away. Those unforgiving, hollow eyes stared right at him, no more than a ter away—
["Invisibility"]
He vanished, ducking down at the sa ti as both of the thin blades passed over. At the sa ti, he manifested his scythe into his hand, sweeping it towards the abdon of his opponent.
"—!"
Sohow, though he remained unseen, the pale man slipped back as though moving purely on instinct.
’He dodged that—? Does this guy have a spidey sense?!’ He thought in surprise.
"Oh, a user of magic? A spell to turn one invisible—it must be shadow magecraft," Rurik calmly remarked.
The strain of invisibility quickly built up, forcing him to deactivate it, though not before storing his scythe away again.
"Phew," he breathed out.
Rurik turned to face him as soon as the breath was heard, "Ah, there you are."
He saw the man glance towards his hands, as if expecting him to have held a weapon. It imdiately proved to him he made the right call in hiding the scythe with as perceptive as the Venator Reaper was.
’This guy is dangerous—incredibly so. He’s different from Dolus...There’s a sharper, more visceral air around him,’ Gael felt.
The cheers of the spectators felt vexing; they were more excited that he managed to survive just a few seconds. It wasn’t a question of him winning; no, it seed everybody decided that was impossible.
"Co on, then. Let’s not bore the audience," Rurik calmly dictated, flipping his blades between his fingers.
It was with a single step that the distance was crossed between them again. Gael found his breath caught in his lungs, faced down by the pale killer.
All he could was clench his fists, igniting the marking tattooed on his arms, pushing both hands in front—
The air flashed with heat and fulmination, birthing the arrival of the twin dragons.
"LOOK AT THAT, FOLKS! IT SEEMS OUR ROOKIE HERE HAS SO DAZZLING MAGIC! HOT! HOT! HOT!" The announcer shouted excitedly as the crowd followed.
Of fire and lightning, the ethereal beasts burrowed forward from his call, lunging right for the Venator Reaper before—
Rurik ducked down, continuing his sprint in a forward slide as the elental dragons passed above.
’Seriously—?! He dodged it?!’ Gael witnessed.
The crackling lightning and swirling flas brushed through the pale man’s hair as he closed the distance. Gael brought his arms back, guiding the twin dragons to suddenly curve around, "C’mon!"
It took all of his strength to redirect the elental force, curving it upward and turning it back around. He was face-to-face with the killer, watching those thin blades draw near his neck.
Inches? Centiters? It didn’t matter; they were close enough that the phantom sharpness tickled his throat.
—VROOOM.
The fire and lightning beasts crackled, swooping inward as the pale killer jumped out of the way. A mont later, and his neck would’ve been split open, he felt.
Each of the twin dragons dispersed upon colliding with him, infusing into his tattoos as he imdiately spun around.
He watched Rurik land a few ters in front of himself, not wasting a mont drawing in a breath before vanishing into the unseen.
"This trick again?" Rurik questioned with a blank expression, twiddling his blades.
"IT’S GETTING INTENSE NOW! IS THIS ROOKIE ACTUALLY HOLDING HIS OWN AGAINST THE VENATOR REAPER?! ONE MINUTE!" The announcer shouted while the crowd cheered.
He stepped back quietly while unseen, whispering as quietly but clearly as he could, "Temporary Summon: Skill."
[Skill Summoning Initiated | (N): 70% | (R ): 20% | (SR): 7% | (SSR): 2% | (UR): 1%]
[Chance Summoning complete...You’ve obtained...!]
Reviews
All reviews (0)