How do we defeat an invincible monk…

  The arena sand was still warm, stained here and there with the dark, wet patches of the Basilisk’s blood. The heavy iron doors had just finished groaning shut after the guards were carried out on their stretchers. A strange, heavy silence had fallen over the Sovereign Spire. It wasn't the kind of silence that comes from boredom; it was the kind that comes when fifty thousand people are holding their breath at the same time.

  The announcer didn't speak. He knew better. He was giving the crowd, and me, a moment to let the reality of the last fight sink in. I stood there, my hands on my hips, my chest heaving in a slow, deep rhythm. The sun was starting to dip lower, turning the sky into a bruised shade of gold and purple, and the shadows of the high walls were stretching across the white sand like long, dark fingers.

  I looked across the ring at him. The Ultimate Paladin.

  He didn't look like the other fighters. He didn't have the nervous energy of the guards or the wild hunger of the beast. He just stood there. His massive sword was buried an inch into the sand, and his hands were rested lightly on the crossguard. He wasn't moving, but I could feel the energy coming off him. It was a cold, blue pressure that made the air feel heavy. It was a familiar feeling. I remembered the fight with Ivan Vondstein back at the Earl’s mansion. This was that same "absolute danger." It was the feeling of standing in front of a mountain that was about to fall on you.

  I can’t win a straight fight with this guy, I thought, my amber eyes narrowing. One swing of that sword and I’m a smear on the sand. The latex won't stop a magic blade. My guns won't penetrate that blue aura before he closes the gap. I need to change the game. I need to break the man, not the warrior.

  I saw a movement in the stands. Eren was waving at the yellow sundress, her tail flicking with a frantic "do it now" energy. I gave a small, almost invisible nod.

  "I need a moment," I said, my voice a low, smoky rasp that carried through the magical speakers.

  I didn't wait for an answer. I turned and slipped back behind the heavy iron doors into the shadows of the waiting hallway. The crowd let out a confused murmur, their voices a low, buzzing sound like a thousand angry bees. They didn't know what I was doing. They probably thought I was running away.

  Inside the cool, dark hallway, I moved fast. I didn't have much time. I stood in the center of the stone room and activated Hygienic Mode. I felt the electric chill as the obsidian latex, the armor that had kept me safe through the valley, started to seep back into my pores. It felt like being naked and vulnerable for a fight. I was shedding the nanoweave protection, the tactical holsters, the very skin of a fighter.

  If he hits me now, I’m dead, I thought, a small shiver running down my spine. But he won't hit me. Not if I can help it.

  I picked up the yellow sundress that Eren had portaled in earlier. The fabric was light, a soft marigold linen that felt like a breeze against my skin. I pulled it on, tying the fabric behind my head. I felt the silkiness of the skirt hit my thighs, a sharp contrast to the tight grip of the latex. I reached into my tactical boots, which I kept on, they were the only things I didn't shed, and made sure the small, hidden stiletto knife was tucked into the side. It was a thin, needle-like blade, meant for one thing only.

  Femme fatale it is, I whispered to the shadows.

  I stepped back out into the light.

  The transition was like a physical shock to the stadium. I walked out of the dark tunnel, and the "Berserker" in black was gone. In her place was a woman who looked like she belonged in a sun-drenched meadow, not a blood-stained arena.

  The yellow sundress was vibrant, a splash of joy against the grey stone and white sand. The wind caught the light fabric, making the skirt flutter and billow around my long, ivory legs. My platinum hair was no longer pulled back; I let it fall free, the silver waves whipping across my face as the breeze picked up. The sun hit the silver strands, making them glow like white fire.

  The crowd didn't cheer. They were frozen. The catcalls and the screams for blood died in their throats. It was too quiet. The only sound was the snapping of the banners and the soft, rhythmic thud of my boots in the sand.

  I looked at the Monk.

  He hadn't moved an inch, but his body language had completely changed. His hands were still on his sword, but I could see the tremors in his fingers. His knuckles weren't white from gripping the steel; they were shaking. His eyes, hazel and sharp, were wide, his pupils dilated until they were almost black.

  He was looking at me, but he wasn't seeing a gladiator. He was seeing a ghost. For thirty years, he had lived in the cold silence of the mountains, haunted by the memory of the woman he had lost. And now, standing in the middle of a golden arena, was a perfect mirror image of her. The height, the hair, the way the yellow dress moved in the wind, it was impossible.

  I saw a single drop of sweat roll down his temple, disappearing into his grey beard. His chest was moving in short, shallow gasps. He looked for a weapon in my hands, but he found only a terrifying, soft beauty that he wasn't prepared to fight.

  He's paralyzed, I realized, my heart hammering a steady, victorious beat. The legend is just a man who misses his wife.

  Was it correct to torture a man about his dead wife…I was’nt so sure either but this was a fight to win.

  I didn't walk toward him with the "rolling thunder" gait of a soldier. I began to skip.

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  It was a playful, girlish energy. I moved across the sand with a light, happy bounce, my feet barely touching the ground. My arms behind my back, and I let a small, innocent smile play on my lips. To the crowd, it looked like a girl playing in a park. But to me, it was a tactical "level-change." Every skip allowed me to close the gap faster, my body staying low and light, ready to explode into motion the second his magic flared.

  The Monk’s sword didn't move. He watched me come closer, his body rigid as stone. I could see the muscles in his neck twitching. He was fighting his own mind, trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the memory of the woman who used to wear that same shade of yellow.

  As I got within arm’s reach, I felt the air change. The metallic smell of the arena, the blood, the hot iron, the ozone, was suddenly cut by a different scent. Eren had prepared a perfume on the dress’s collar. It was the scent of crushed jasmine and wild roses, a soft, floral fragrance that filled the space between us.

  It was the final intoxication. I saw the Monk’s eyes soften for a split second. He breathed in, his nostrils flaring, and I saw his shoulders drop just a fraction of an inch. His monk-like focus was dulling, replaced by a deep, biological ache that he hadn't felt in three decades.

  He was having a "male reaction" to the sudden, overwhelming proximity of beauty and memory. I saw the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard, and the way his gaze dropped to the swell of my chest beneath the linen. He was shivering now, a fine, rhythmic tremor that traveled from his hands up to his shoulders.

  Poor thing…

  I stopped inches from him. I was so close I could see the grey hairs in his beard and the faint, blue glow of the magic still humming in his skin.

  I didn't strike. I reached out and placed a soft, warm hand on his chest, right over his heart. I felt the frantic, heavy thud of his pulse beneath the fabric of his robes. It was a gesture of "love," a mirror of a memory that I knew would shatter his will.

  I looked up into his hazel eyes, my amber gaze soft and liquid. "I love you, honey," I whispered. My voice was a soft, melodic chime that seemed to hang in the silent air.

  The Monk made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat. He was paralyzed. He was a statue of flesh and bone, trapped in an enchantment of his own making.

  While he was lost in the sound of my voice, I moved.

  It wasn't a strike; it was a weave.

  I ran my other hand slowly along his arm, feeling the muscle and the heavy pulse of his veins. I felt him shiver under my touch, his skin breaking out in goosebumps despite the heat of the sun.

  As I did, I used a subtle, fluid leg-lock. I stepped behind his lead leg and wrapped my own long, powerful thigh around his. I used his own weight and his "enchanted" stillness against him. I pressed my body closer, the yellow linen of my dress rubbing against his rough robes, and I felt the moment his defensive posture simply... slipped. He wasn't guarding his life anymore; he was guarding a memory.

  Now, I thought, my eyes going from soft amber to a cold, predatory gold.

  The transition was instant. The "gentle wife" vanished, replaced by the lethal gladiator.

  I felt the Monk start to "wake up." I saw the blue magic in his core begin to flare, a sudden, sharp light that signaled the return of his warrior’s mind. He realized the danger. He realized I was a storm, not a meadow.

  He tried to move. He began to swing his massive sword in a short, desperate arc meant to clear the space around him. But I wasn't in "combat range." I was in "breath-on-his-neck" range.

  I was faster.

  In one blur of motion, I reached down to my tactical boot. My fingers found the cold, smooth handle of the stiletto knife. I drew it with a sharp, metallic hiss.

  I didn't stab, there was the no-kill rule. I moved with grace and precision, sliding behind him while my leg was still locked with his. I brought the needle-like blade up and pressed it firmly against the side of his throat.

  The arena went so silent you could hear the flags snapping in the wind.

  For three long seconds, time seemed to stop. I stood behind the Ultimate Paladin, my chest pressed against his back, my arm wrapped around his neck. The cold, sharp edge of the stiletto was resting directly on his Adam's apple. One flick of my wrist and the legend was over.

  I could feel the heat of his body and the way his breath caught in his throat. I saw the way he looked down at the blade, his eyes filled with a pure, agonizing disbelief. I had won. A woman in a sundress had brought the mountain to its knees.

  One... two... three...

  Then, the blue magic erupted.

  It wasn't a swing of a sword; it was a burst of raw, elemental force from his very core. A wave of azure energy exploded outward, a physical wall of magic that hit me like a battering ram. I was blown backward, my feet leaving the sand as I flew ten feet through the air.

  I hit the ground hard, rolling through the dust and the blood-stained sand. The yellow sundress tore at the shoulder, and I felt a sharp, stinging pain in my hip. I scrambled back to a fighting stance, my hair a mess of silver and grit, the stiletto knife held low in my hand. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, and I could feel a bruise forming on my ribs where the magic had hit me.

  I looked at the Monk, ready for the final charge.

  But the charge never came.

  The Ultimate Paladin stood in the center of the ring, his massive sword lying in the sand at his feet. He wasn't looking at me with anger. He was looking at me with a profound, quiet sadness. He looked at his hands, then at the sword, and then he looked back at me.

  He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He raised his hands to the judges' box, slowly holding up all ten fingers.

  A full score. Ten out of ten.

  He gave a small, respectful bow, not to a "Nun," but to the gladiator who had seen through his armor. Then, he turned and walked toward the dark tunnel he had come from. He didn't look back at the crowd or the Prince. He simply disappeared into the shadows, leaving the arena behind forever.

  The silence lasted for a heartbeat. Then, the Spire exploded.

  It was a sound of pure, unadulterated madness. People were screaming, jumping, and throwing their hats into the air. The stadium was a sea of shifting colors and noise. They had seen a miracle. They had seen a woman in a yellow dress defeat the unbeatable legend with nothing but a skip and a whisper.

  "I... I... UNBELIEVABLE!" the announcer screamed, his voice cracking with pure shock. A perfect score! Thirty out of thirty! The champion!"

  I stood in the center of the sand, my chest heaving, the yellow sundress fluttering in the cooling evening breeze. I felt a wave of pure, ecstatic euphoria wash over me. I looked up at the stands and saw my friends.

  Eren was crying and laughing at the same time, her tail lashing in a wild frenzy. Joshua was standing on his seat, holding the empty popcorn bag in the air like a trophy, his face a mask of pure, beaming joy. Even Alan was standing, a small, genuine smile on his face as he watched me.

  I looked at the royal loge. The Prince was standing at the railing, his eyes fixed on me with a look of intense, fascinated intrigue. He wasn't just watching a gladiator; he was watching a woman he wanted to know.

  I reached down and dusted off the yellow linen of my dress, ignoring the tear at the shoulder. I smiled, a wide, genuine smile that felt like the sun coming out after a week of rain.

  I had the 1,000 gold. I had the full score. And I had the heart of the city in my hand.

  We’re going to the Gala, I thought, the words a sweet, triumphant song in my mind. And I’m going to need a much better dress.

  I turned and walked toward the tunnel, the roar of the crowd following me like a loyal shadow. The "Cozy Life" was no longer a dream on a horizon; with the 1000 gold, the dream of a safe happy capitol life was one step nearer.

  In front of me, behind the metal door, an Ox roared loudly.

  2. Must I write the MC to be OP, comments that MC is a wimp is kind of frustrating. I was hoping their progression journey ain't instant to op...

  3. I'm kind of lost on how to keep going if the story just ain't interesting enough for readers, I will be integrating ideas I see in the comments to the story.