I stood.
The tension in the air was thick, the stench of blood and sweat clinging to my senses. The arena still bore the scars of the last match—the cracked concrete where Stryker had fallen, the lingering echoes of his screams lost beneath the roars of the crowd.
I felt three sets of eyes on .
"Good luck." Sienna's voice was softer than usual, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. She didn't need to say more. I could hear the unspoken plea in her words—co back.
Camille was next. She smirked, though her usual teasing edge was dulled. "Break a leg. Preferably hers."
Alexis, ever the observer, simply studied before nodding. "Be careful. She's different."
I gave them all a small nod before turning toward the pit. My heart was steady. My muscles were loose. The doubt that should have been there, the fear of stepping into a deathmatch, never ca. Because I wasn't just fighting to win. I was fighting to live.
As I stepped into the pit, the heat from the floodlights pressed against my skin, mingling with the scent of sweat and old blood. The walls lood high above, their rough surfaces scarred by countless battles. A place built for violence. A place where hesitation ant death.
Above , beyond the bars separating us from the spectators, Ragnar leaned forward from his private booth. His smile was the kind that made n nervous—sharp, expectant, filled with a hunger that had nothing to do with the fight itself. He wasn't just watching. He was assessing.
I had felt that gaze before. It was the look of soone asuring a piece of at before deciding how much of it to carve away.
I set my feet, exhaled, and let that feeling roll off .
Gabriella "The Gavel" Ruiz was already waiting. She stood with a lawyer's poise, her fitted black suit sohow pristine despite the dust swirling through the pit. She regarded like I was a case to be dissected, cold eyes scanning for weaknesses before the fight even began.
When I approached, she tilted her head. "A mber of the Masked Syndicate in a tournant like this?" Her voice was smooth, asured, like she was in a courtroom rather than a bloodstained pit. "Curious."
I needed an excuse. Sothing plausible.
Lowering my voice, I let a small smirk tug at my lips, channeling the kind of nace that suited the role I had taken on. "What can I say?" My voice dropped into a quiet rasp. "I just want a good fight. Sothing entertaining."
Gabriella's expression didn't change, but I caught the faintest flicker of sothing in her eyes. Interest? Amusent? Suspicion? Whatever it was, I didn't get the chance to analyze it further, because in the corner of my vision, I saw Ragnar watching.
And he was smiling.
Looks like I guessed his motivation correctly.
The announcer's voice rang through the arena. "Next match—Mr. Beetle versus Gabriella "The Gavel" Ruiz!"
As Gabriella rolled her shoulders, I activated Scan.
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Na: Gabriella "The Gavel" Ruiz
Job: Strategist (A-Rank)
Predictive Counter (Lv. 8) – Anticipates opponent's attacks with near-perfect accuracy, allowing for preemptive counters.
Mind's Eye (Lv. 7) – Enhances perception, identifying patterns in an opponent's movents to predict their next action.
Tactical Precision (Lv. 6) – Optimizes movent to conserve energy while maximizing effectiveness, ensuring efficient strikes and defenses.
Weakness Exploitation (Lv. 5) – Identifies and capitalizes on opponent vulnerabilities, adjusting strategy in real-ti.
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I exhaled. So that was it. High-level ntal abilities, but none that helped her endurance. That ant if I hit her, it would hurt just like anyone else.
And I was fast enough now to hit her. After all, with the last few days of training, my Jab and Hook were now level 3 and my Hand-to-Hand Combat was level 4. Not to ntion that my skills actually affect my physical body unlike anyone she's likely encountered.
Fight.
The buzzer sounded.
Gabriella moved first. Not charging, not hesitating—just shifting into position, her steps precise. She was reading , waiting for an opening. I wasn't going to give her one.
I snapped out a Jab.
She leaned back, just enough for my fist to graze air. Her counter ca instantly—a sharp palm strike toward my ribs. I twisted, narrowly avoiding it, and fired a Hook.
Her head dipped beneath it. Another strike, another evasion.
Gabriella didn't flinch. Her body moved with an efficiency I hadn't expected, a chanical precision that was closer to a chess player making a move than a brawler throwing a punch. As my hook sailed past her, she snapped forward, stepping into my space with a vicious elbow strike aid at my sternum.
It was a brutal move—fast, calculated. If it landed, it wouldn't just knock the wind out of . It would disrupt my entire rhythm.
I twisted, barely avoiding the hit, and felt the force of it pass centiters from my ribs. She was good. No, better than good. Every attack I threw, she dissected, countered, and redirected as if she had seen the fight unfold a hundred tis before it even began.
Her Predictive Counter was in full effect. She knew my moves before I even committed to them. I couldn't afford to be predictable.
I grinned.
That ant I just had to do sothing she couldn't predict.
I stepped in and threw a feint—my left shoulder jerking forward as if to punch. Gabriella reacted, shifting defensively. That was my opening.
I pivoted, using Muscle Optimization to shift my weight with unnatural efficiency. My right fist shot forward. A perfect Hook.
She dodged—almost.
My knuckles clipped her jaw. It wasn't a full hit, but it was enough to rattle her. I saw it—the microsecond hesitation, the realization that her prediction had been wrong.
I pressed forward.
Jab. Hook. Feint. Feint. Jab.
Her defenses held, but only barely. She was adjusting, but so was I. My Reflex Calibration let react faster than she expected. My Muscle Reinforcent made each punch carry weight beyond what it should.
Then, I saw it.
A shift in her stance. A fraction of hesitation. A mistake.
She had predicted a right hook. I gave her a left straight.
My fist crashed into her cheek. Her head snapped sideways. She stumbled.
The crowd roared.
I didn't let her recover.
I surged forward, slamming my knee into her gut. She choked on the impact, doubling over. My elbow ca next—straight down, hamring against the base of her skull.
She crumpled.
Silence.
Then—
"Winner—Mr. Beetle!"
The roar of the arena returned.
I stepped back, rolling my shoulders. My breath was steady, my heart rate already settling. Gabriella lay still, unconscious but alive.
I could tell that certain individuals like Kane and Ragnar were disappointed. As if knocking her out simply wasn't enough. That I had to go for the kill.
I turned, walking away from the pit as the realization settled in.
I had won, but I likely had the easiest target.
And the tournant was far from over.
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