The silence that followed the round was heavy. It wasn't the peaceful kind of quiet you find in a library; it was the breathless, ringing silence of a tomb.

  Wilhelm crouched on the edge of a floating basalt island, his fingers digging into the cold, gritty stone. He could feel the new level-up heat buzzing under his skin a frantic, prickling energy that made his hair stand up. He reached into the inner lining of his coat, his hand brushing against the golden Mystery Box.

  He pulled out the book. It was small, bound in a hide that felt uncomfortably like warm, living skin. It didn't have a title, just a sigil of a dying star pressed into the cover. Wilhelm didn't open it. He didn't have to. The thing hummed against his palm, a low-frequency vibration that whispered of ancient fires and the smell of ozone.

  "Perception," Wilhelm choked out, the word tasting like copper. "Feed the brain. I’m tired of being the last one to see the knife."

  He forced the system to swallow the point.

  The world... it didn't just get sharper. It got louder.

  Wilhelm gasped, clutching his head as the filters fell away. He saw the microscopic cracks in the obsidian floor. He saw the way the starry nebula above pulsed like a giant, bruised heart. He saw the dust motes dancing in the air, each one a tiny, jagged diamond.

  And then he saw Gerald.

  Gerald was sitting ten yards away, his legs dangling over the edge of the abyss. He wasn't checking his gear. He wasn't celebrating the 10,000 SP they’d just banked. He was just... staring. He held a small, rusted piece of metal in his hand a scrap of a child’s toy, half-buried in the sand of the arena.

  Wilhelm drifted over, his boots making a soft clack on the stone. "Nice find. Is there a hidden quest for junk collecting, or are you just sentimental?"

  Gerald didn't look up. His voice was low, a deep rumble that sounded like tectonic plates grinding in the dark. "It was a horse, Wilhelm. Painted red. A child stood here, centuries ago, and thought the world was a playground. Now his toy is fertilizer for a ranking match."

  Wilhelm sat down, careful to keep a foot of distance. "You're a ray of sunshine today, Gerald. We survived. We’re going to be Novaru or Zerathi or whatever the hell Desmus wants. We're winning."

  Gerald finally turned his head. His eyes were grey, like the sea before a storm, and they were full of a weariness that went deeper than bone. Through the Monocle, Wilhelm saw the status: [Condition: Soul-Tired].

  "Winning?" Gerald asked. He let out a short, dry laugh that had no humor in it. "Look up, Wilhelm. Don't look at the stars. Look past them."

  Wilhelm adjusted the bone mask, focusing his [Perception 3]. He looked at the "Concrete Sky," the massive ceiling of the world.

  He stopped breathing.

  It wasn't just stone. It was a mosaic. Millions billions of faces, carved into the grey rock, looking down with expressions of frozen agony. A architecture made of ancestors.

  "We aren't building a kingdom," Gerald said softly, turning the metal horse over in his palm. "We’re just rearranging the furniture in a graveyard. You think these stats, these numbers, are your strength? They’re chains. Every level we gain just locks the collar a little tighter."

  "Gerald, you're scaring me," Wilhelm muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

  "Good. You should be scared." Gerald stood up. He didn't move like a soldier; he moved like a king who had lost his crown and realized he was better off without the weight. He walked toward the edge of the void, stepping onto a bridge of starlight that shimmered under his boots.

  "I don't protect Astrid and Mary because I want them to be knights," Gerald murmured, his back to Wilhelm. "I protect them because I want to give them one more hour of being children. One more hour before they realize that the 'System' is just a hungry ghost that feeds on our blood to keep the lights on."

  He looked back over his shoulder. The intensity of his gaze was a physical weight.

  "Do you know where the mana comes from, Wilhelm? When you cast your ice, your fire? Do you think the universe just gives it to you for free?"

  Wilhelm blinked. "It's... it's Spirit Power…Blood. It's just there."

  "It’s recycled," Gerald spat. "We’re drinking the souls of the people who died on these islands before us. We’re burning the past to buy a future that doesn't want us."

  Gerald turned and started walking toward the center island, his grey cloak billowing like smoke.

  "Fight the next round," Gerald called back, his voice fading into the starry wind. "Get your rank. But don't you dare call it a victory. We're just deciding who gets to be the last one to die."

  Wilhelm sat in the silence, his hand trembling as he reached for the small, metal horse Gerald had left behind.

  Wilhelm tucked the toy into his pocket, his heart hammer-clanging against his ribs.

  "Well," Wilhelm whispered, the cynicism feeling thin and brittle now.

  He looked across the void. He saw Malachia in a crown trying to lick a floating crystal. He saw Volpert hiding behind Damian's emerald-green cape. And he saw Livia Whitefield, the Rose Knight, staring at him with a hunger for revenge.

  The bell rang. Low. Heavy. Resonant.

  "Round Two," Wilhelm muttered, drawing the Marrow-Cleaver. "Let’s see if I can afford to keep living today."

  The bell for the second round didn't ring. It tolled.

  Wilhelm was busy trying to catch his breath on a jagged spire of floating rock, clutching the rusted metal horse in his pocket like a talisman against bad luck. He checked his stats.

  "Okay," Wilhelm wheezed. "Hide. Survive. Collect the 10,000 SP participation trophy. Go home."

  Then the screaming started.

  It wasn't the chaotic screaming of a brawl. It was the rhythmic, wet screaming of a slaughter.

  Wilhelm peeked over the edge of his rock.

  Below him, on the central platform, was a garden. Not a real garden. A garden of steel and blood.

  Livia Whitefield was moving.

  She didn't run. She flowed. She was the Rose Knight, the Knight of Flowers, but with the power of a tactical nuke. She wore white armor that gleamed so bright it hurt to look at, and in her hand, a rapier made of green crystal.

  Three students bulky boys with heavy axes charged her.

  Livia sighed. It was a sound of pure boredom.

  She flicked her wrist. She didn't even look.

  Thwip-thwip-thwip.

  The rapier moved faster than light. Three red flowers bloomed on the chests of the boys. They collapsed, clutching their hearts, their armor pierced like wet paper.

  "Messy," Livia critiqued, stepping over a groaning body. "No elegance. No poetry."

  She looked up.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Her eyes locked onto Wilhelm.

  She didn't smile this time. She just looked... inevitable.

  "You," she said. Her voice carried across the void, sweet as honey, heavy as lead. "The Bastard."

  She bent her knees. The stone under her boots cracked.

  Result: You are a statue.

  BOOM.

  She launched. She crossed the hundred-meter gap in a heartbeat.

  Wilhelm panicked. His brain screamed MOVE, but his nerves were running on dial-up internet while she was on fiber optic.

  "Sheet Ice!" he shrieked, slapping the rock.

  The ground froze.

  Livia landed. She hit the ice.

  She didn't slip.

  She dug her heels in, shattering the ice instantly with raw [STRENGTH]. She treated friction as a suggestion she chose to ignore.

  "Cheap tricks," she whispered. She was in his face now. He could smell her. Roses and iron.

  She thrust.

  Wilhelm tried to parry with the Marrow-Cleaver. He tried to bring the heavy blade up.

  Too slow.

  Shhhk.

  The green crystal blade went through his shoulder. Through the Rib-Cage Plate. Through the flesh. Through the bone.

  "AHHH!" Wilhelm screamed, dropping the Cleaver. He stumbled back, clutching his shoulder. Blood hot and red sprayed onto the white ice.

  "Is that it?" Livia asked, tilting her head. She looked genuinely disappointed. "I heard you killed a Golem. I heard you saved the city. But look at you."

  She kicked him in the chest.

  It felt like being hit by a carriage. Wilhelm flew backward, slamming into a stone pillar. His vision went grey.

  "You're just a number error," Livia said, walking toward him. "A rounding mistake."

  Wilhelm gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. He raised a shaking hand.

  "Thermal... Shock..."

  A beam of fire and ice shot at her.

  Livia didn't dodge. She just... bloomed.

  She raised her hand. She spoke a word. Not a spell. A Decree.

  "??????????" (Ki-En-Gal-Ra).

  The world vanished.

  The stars disappeared. The void disappeared. The rocks disappeared.

  Marble columns erupted from the nothingness, choked with emerald ivy. The floor became a carpet of white petals. And everywhere... roses. Huge, bleeding roses with thorns the size of daggers.

  It was beautiful. It was breathtaking.

  It was suffocating.

  "Welcome to my garden," Livia said. She wasn't walking anymore. She was floating on a bed of petals. "The rule is simple, Bastard. Beauty Commands Submission."

  Wilhelm tried to stand up. He felt anger. He felt the urge to burn this garden down.

  Critch.

  As soon as he felt aggression, the vines moved. Thorns shot out of the ground, wrapping around his legs, his arms, his neck. They dug in. Drinking his blood.

  "The more you hate me," Livia smiled, "the tighter they squeeze. It is rude to fight in a garden, Wilhelm."

  Wilhelm choked. The vines were crushing his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't cast. His blood was dropping fast.

  "Die," Livia whispered, raising her rapier for the final strike. "Die like the weed you are."

  Wilhelm closed his eyes. So this is it. Killed by landscaping.

  Clack.

  A footstep.

  Not a float. A step. A heavy, weary boot hitting the marble floor.

  Livia froze. She turned her head.

  Gerald Falken was walking through the garden.

  He held his sword loosely at his side. He didn't look angry. He didn't look like he wanted to fight. He looked... tired. Like a man walking home after a double shift at the funeral parlor.

  The thorns... they didn't touch him.

  They reached for him, sensing a intruder, but then they recoiled. They found no aggression. They found no hate. They found... nothing.

  "How?" Livia hissed. Her perfect composure cracked. "Why don't they bind you? Why don't you fight?"

  Gerald stopped ten paces from her. He looked at the roses. He looked at Wilhelm, bleeding and choking in the vines.

  "Fight?" Gerald asked softly. His voice was grey smoke. "I'm not fighting you, Livia. Fighting implies I care about the outcome."

  He took another step.

  "I don't want to hurt you," Gerald said. "I don't want to win. I just want the noise to stop."

  "Attack me!" Livia screamed. The petals swirled around her, a storm of razor-sharp beauty. "Show me your rage!"

  "I have no rage left," Gerald said.

  He walked right up to her. Through the petal storm. The petals cut his cheek, but he didn't flinch. He didn't react. He just accepted the pain as the tax for walking.

  Livia thrust her rapier at his chest.

  Gerald didn't parry. He stepped into the guard.

  He grabbed her wrist. Gently. Like a father stopping a child from touching a hot stove.

  "You are so loud," Gerald whispered.

  He twisted.

  Not a combat twist. A simple shift of leverage. Because he wasn't fighting her strength. He was fighting her expectation. She expected resistance. She expected him to push back.

  He pulled.

  Livia stumbled. Her balance perfected by years of duels failed because she was leaning against a wall that wasn't there.

  She fell forward.

  Gerald stepped aside.

  He placed a hand on her back and pushed. Gently.

  Livia Whitefield, the Rose Knight, tumbled off the edge of the marble platform.

  She fell into the void of her own Domain.

  "NO!" she screamed, the illusion shattering around her.

  The garden dissolved. The stars returned.

  Livia drifted away into the zero-G darkness, flailing, humiliated by a man who hadn't even drawn his sword.

  Wilhelm dropped to the rock. The vines vanished. He gasped, sucking in air that tasted of ozone and blood.

  Gerald stood over him. He offered a hand.

  "Get up," Gerald said.

  Wilhelm took the hand. Gerald pulled him up effortlessly.

  "You..." Wilhelm coughed, spitting blood. "You beat a Domain... by being depressed?"

  "I beat it by being empty," Gerald corrected. He sheathed his sword. "She feeds on emotion. I gave her nothing to eat."

  Then the bell rang.

  DOOO-OOOOOM.

  Desmus’s voice boomed.

  "THE ROUND IS OVER!"

  The retrieval golems swarmed in. They grabbed Livia. They grabbed the other fallen students.

  A giant holographic scoreboard appeared in the sky.

  The list scrolled down.

  And at the very bottom.

  Wilhelm stared at the board. He swayed. He touched his bleeding shoulder.

  "Novaru," he whispered. "The Scum."

  He looked at Gerald, the new King of the School.

  "Well," Wilhelm spat a glob of red onto the floating rock. "Nowhere to go but up, right?"

  He laughed. A wheezing, broken sound.

  "And hey... I didn't die. That's a win in my book."

  He limped toward the exit gate, the lowest ranked student in the history of the Schola, clutching his side and grinning like a man who knew a joke nobody else had heard yet.

  "Class dismissed."