Chapter 69 – The Final Gambit

  The arena floor was wrecked—scarred tiles, smoking craters, glowing rune-wards strained to their limit. Recruits clung to the railing, wide-eyed, while veterans leaned forward in silence. This was no sparring match anymore. It had become a spectacle.

  Seven staggered out from cover, chest heaving, blood streaking across his tunic where Arne’s last volley had tagged him. Every bruise burned like fire, every breath cut like glass. Yet his lips curled into a faint smirk as he jammed another mana cell into the shotgun.

  “I see,” he rasped, voice rough but steady, “no mercy for a cripple with one arm, eh?”

  Arne grinned wolfishly from the rubble, his wiry frame bouncing between vantage points. “Mercy? In a fight?” he boomed, laughter rolling. “Don’t count on it, rookie!” His shotgun thundered again, dampened rounds hammering into Seven’s ribs like sledge blows.

  Seven stumbled, pain screaming in his thighs and chest, but he forced himself upright. This wasn’t Earth. Not clean drills. Not tidy tactics. He pressed a palm to his scarred shoulder, inhaled sharply, and let the words echo in his skull: Adapt or die.

  Mana surged. He pushed Enchanted Combat further than before, doubling the flow. His veins burned, nerves alight, body humming with violent energy. His frame blurred as he darted between craters, reckless speed carrying him closer.

  Fluffy squealed, bouncing on her toes. “He’s going all out! Look at him go!”

  Brinley gripped the railing so hard her knuckles whitened. “And he’s going to drag my guns straight to the grave with him! That idiot’s pouring raw current through unshielded chambers!”

  Raven, calm and cutting, murmured under her breath: “No. He’s adapting. For the first time, he’s stopped fearing the power.”

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  The fight turned savage. His movements blur muscle strained keeping

  Seven’s handgun barked in short, disciplined bursts, every shot paired with a surge of movement—slide, fire, cut the current before the weapon melted. Arne answered with chaos, shotgun blasts propelling him through the air in dizzying arcs, rifle spitting tracer fire in spirals. Sparks and smoke painted the arena, the barrier groaning with every exchange.

  “Finally!” Arne whooped mid-flip, shotgun booming. “Now you’re playing my game!”

  Steel clanged as Arne swung the butt of his rifle, Seven meeting it with the shotgun’s frame. A brutal clash—kick, block, shot fired point-blank. Both fighters reeled back, bruised but grinning.

  Seven dropped low, lever-cycling the shotgun one-handed. He fired as Arne landed—pellets raked across the gunner’s vest, tearing fabric, driving him sideways. Arne hissed, then twisted his lanky legs and swept Seven’s feet out.

  Seven slammed onto his back, air driven from his lungs. Arne loomed above, shotgun aimed for the finishing blow. The recruits gasped as one.

  But Seven rolled. The blast ripped the ground apart, shards showering the wards. He came up on one knee, shotgun leveled square at Arne’s chest.

  Arne’s grin faltered.

  Seven did the unthinkable. He deliberately overcharged the weapon.

  The runes screamed, barrel flaring white-hot, heat searing his palm. The recoil slammed through his spine like a thunderclap, hurling him forward as the round detonated.

  The blast caught Arne full in the chest, flinging him back in a cloud of smoke and blue sparks.

  The crowd erupted—but when the haze cleared, both men were still on their feet. Barely.

  Seven’s shotgun glowed dangerously, mana channels cracking with light. His breath came ragged, sweat pouring into his eyes. Across the field, Arne staggered upright, smoke curling from his vest, rifle trembling but still steady.

  They froze—guns raised, bodies shaking, too stubborn to yield.

  Seven’s voice was a growl through grit teeth. “Call it quits, bunny man? No shame in letting me win.”

  Arne’s chest heaved with laughter, hoarse but genuine. “Not a chance, Lucky Seven. You first.”

  The arena held its breath. Neither moved. Neither blinked.

  Then a thunderous bark cut the silence.

  “Enough!”

  Ripper strode onto the field, his shadow falling between them, arms crossed like iron. “Another second of this and you’ll both be sucking soup through straws in the infirmary. Duel’s done.”

  The tension snapped. Cheers and curses erupted from the stands.

  Seven sagged, lowering his weapon with a shaky sigh, his knees threatening to buckle. Arne straightened slowly, chest still smoking, and gave a crooked grin.

  “Not bad, rookie,” he rasped. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Seven chuckled weakly. “Neither did I.”

  The recruits buzzed in awe. Fluffy clapped wildly, ears bouncing. “See! I told you he wasn’t boring!”

  Brinley slammed her fist on the railing, fuming. “Tch! I knew it—scorch marks all over my shotgun! You’re lucky it didn’t explode!”

  Miss Hopps said nothing, but for the first time in weeks, her lips curved into a faint smile.

  Seven stood there amid smoke and ruin, bloodied, exhausted, weapons barely holding together. But for once, he wasn’t just fighting to survive. He had earned his place—among them, among the War Rabbits, among warriors.