The first thousands of beasts had already met their fate — blood and ichor pooling into the arena’s sand, soaking into long-bleached soil. Yet still the handlers outside whipped their wards forward. More wolves. More frogs with boiling mucus in their throats. Hyena-men digging their claws into the sides of the lesser beasts, snarling orders with slavering mouths.
The weaker ones still cowered. Tier I knew instinctively: prey should not advance toward this child. Every step was a betrayal of their own thriving instinct — yet the screeches of their Tier II lords lashed them back to motion. Their bodies obeyed, even if their hearts quailed.
And the boy remained where he was.
No giant blades descended from heaven. No titanic transformation unfurled. His pale hair stuck to his brow from sweat, his chest rose and fell with human breath — yet his eyes, aglow with paradox, promised a nightmare.
The arena shook as the first Tier II entered.
A pack of Ironback Apes — three meter simians with steel-like plates erupting from their shoulders and backs — smashed their knuckles into the sand. Level 40, still tier I, snarling commanders of the lower beasts. Their eyes had seen battle, and their aura forced the lesser Tier I forward like cattle whipped into the slaughterhouse.
Beside them clambered Venomfang Drakes, serpentine monsters with wings too small for grandeur, but laced with acidic spit that could chew through steel. Their hisses became commands in themselves — ordering packs of slavering beasts to hit the boy’s flanks.
And behind them — looming as tall as houses — the troll captains, brutish and pale, their eyes tiny black coals buried in fat-laden skulls. Level 50, skin thick as stone, tusks dripping with anticipation. These were no dumb brutes; they moved to coordinate Tier I charges into formations, driving John into the center.
But the boy did not flinch.
The crowd murmured with dread. Some scholars shook their heads already:
“No child can stand beneath Tier II… perhaps this is the foolish end of the Enclave prodigy…”
The monsters surged. Tier Is in their thousands, funneled by ape roars and troll bellows. A black flood rushing to trample a single boy.
And John moved.
Fluid. Precise. Sword Mastery sang through every vein.
The boy blurred forward, not retreating. He entered the wave, both swords flashing arcs too swift for mortal eyes. A wolf leapt: its skull halved. A frog spat acid: John ducked low, blade flicking up to carve its throat before skin even blistered. Every cut severed the beast in its weakest knot — joints, ribs, arteries revealed to his crimson-halo gaze.
Prowling Step — activated.
He rippled between them, leaving hesitation where his body had been. Beasts struck each other more often than him. He cut them apart like a weaver unraveling cloth.
But then the sand shook as the first ape slammed into his range.
Iron fists thundered down. The ground split under the weight. John’s twin blades whirled, sparks screaming — Parry engaged, barely deflecting impact enough to roll away. His stance resettled instantly. The ape lunged again, but John darted inside its swing, sword embedding through the armpit where plating ended. He shoved upward — piercing lung. The roar strangled as the ape fell. A commander dead in two cuts.
The crowd gasped.
Another ape howled, charging. Behind it, a troll surged, tusks ready to ram him aside.
John’s eyes narrowed.
“Paradox Echo.”
The troll’s tusk slammed into his shielded guard — pain bursting, ribs cracking. But the energy stored, burning behind his eyes. His next swing let loose the absorbed force.
Swords cried with power as he cut diagonally upward… shearing through the troll’s tusk, jaw, and skull. The head split clean, collapsing with a quake.
Snakes hissed acid. Drakes spat gouts of venom. The air smoked with poison.
But John’s voice cut steady.
“Luminous Veil!” A radiant ward glowed, soaking poison.
“Arcane Thread!” Glowing filaments snared one drake mid-air, wings bound — his blade pierced it from neck to stomach as it fell.
“Tidal Lash!” Water cracked like whips, breaking the spines of wolves.
He fought as two beings merged: a human warrior of surpassing blade skill, and a paradoxical spellcaster whose Tier I incantations hit like Tier II expert sorceries.
Every cast was magnified. Every swing fatal.
And beasts kept coming.
Blood coated his arms, hot and slick. His breath ragged. Cuts scored his skin. Exhaustion gnawed, but his Quick Recovery ticked like clockwork, staving collapse. His vampiric half whispered hunger, feral thirst — but John clenched teeth until blood drew from gums. He remained human, swords only, refusing to lean fully into fangs or claws.
The monsters realized slowly: they weren’t facing a prodigy to overwhelm. They were facing inevitability.
Tier I started breaking. Packs turned tail, only to be whipped back by Tier II snarls. Their cowering grew worse, the arena filling with hesitation, even as their commander lords raged forward.
At last, the strongest among them stepped onto the sands.
A Venomspine Behemoth — Level 80, apex of Tier II beasts in this challenge, like a hybrid of two creatures John faced in the past— thicker than a house, bristling with reels of spines dripping toxin. Eyes like bloody moons glared down at John. Around it scuttled six Hellhounds (Lv. 60), flame leaking from cracked hides.
Spectators rose to their feet. The arena shook with anticipation.
The Behemoth roared. Air bent. Spines launched like spears.
John sprinted straight into them.
Swords a blur.
Feet blurring across sand.
Every dodge measured.
One spine raked his shoulder clean open. He hissed but didn’t fall. Blades dug into Hellhounds, slashing fire apart — the animals spilled flame across sand as they died.
He charged the Behemoth itself.
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It hurled spines. It spat venom arcs. It swung claws large enough to fell towers.
But John — still human — screamed back.
“Feral Battle Sense — activate!”
Crimson flared in his eyes. His strength spiked. He leapt, higher than any boy should. Twin swords plunged into the beast’s chest. His muscles pulled, tearing himself up the creature’s torso. It screeched. His blades carved glowing arcs. He reached its skull — and drove steel through eye socket to brain.
The Behemoth collapsed, sand quaking like an earthquake.
Silence fell.
From ten thousand to corpses. Tier I shredded. Tier II commanders slain. The last Behemoth toppled.
Dust cloud lingered, ash, ichor mist. In its center… stood the boy. Two blades, dripping black and crimson. Legs trembling — but unbroken.
The monsters’ aura died there. The surviving remnants scattered in panic, fleeing the arena walls but some extra spells made short work of them.
And the crowd… erupted. Some in cheers. Some in fearful silence.
Elyndra whispered a prayer. The principal of the Enclave only stared, unable to disguise trembling hands.
Not one Tier III beast had entered, but John had already changed the measure of power.
System Notifications
Mass Record Achieved!
You have defeated:
- 9’980 Tier I Beasts.
- 20 Tier II Beasts.
- Commanders x 20.
- Apex Venomspine Behemoth x1.
XP Gained:
- Sovereign of Paradox: + 1’121’400 → Level 11 → Level 30.
- Apex Paradox Warden : + 1’121’400 → Level 10 → Level 30
Special Recognition:
Skill Growth Potential Increased.
New Hidden Feat: “Human Form: Unbroken”.
John’s blades trembled at his sides. He exhaled, sweat and blood misting the air.
A boy. In human form. Against orders of monsters. And he stood — not only alive, but all others dead around him.
The 8’000 level?20 beasts had rewarded him with 60 XP each, while the 1’500 level?30 monsters granted 200 XP apiece. From there, the 400 level?40 foes yielded 600 XP each, and the 80 tier?I level?50 beasts gave 950 XP each. Stronger still, the 15 tier?II level?50 monsters provided 1’100 XP apiece, the 4 level?60 beasts another 1’600 XP each, and finally, the lone level?70 monster granted a hefty 2’500 XP on its own.
John now knew more about the XP needed for different levels.
He was now level 30 in both tracks with 1’147’230 cumulated XP on his Sovereign of Paradox class and 1’137’100 cumulated XP on his Apex Paradox Warden class.
The arena had never been so loud. The roar of the people, the chanting of his name, the violent cacophony of triumph—it was a storm of sound. And then, suddenly, as if the overburdened world itself had inhaled, it fell silent.
John stood amidst the carnage. Steam rose from torn carcasses, acrid smoke of blood and venom drifted into the sky. The sand was no longer gold but black-red, sodden with gore, shreds of flesh, shattered bone. The stench hung thick as poison.
And yet, at the center… stood a boy. Pale hair plastered to his forehead. Two battered swords clutched tight, tips sinking into the sand. His uniform was shredded, his arms dripping red seeped with his own blood and the filth of monsters. His chest heaved, but only with breath. Not collapse. Not strain.
Just steady defiance.
High on the royal balcony, the king did not sit. His face was unreadable marble, but his knuckles tightened white against the hilt of his scepter. He did not look at the monsters’ wreckage. He looked only at John.
A boy, twelve years old, who had just done what generals and aura knights of fifty summers would balk at.
Beside him, Elyndra stood—no longer serene, but pale as dawn fog. She had seen his power, had glimpsed fragments of the impossible coiling within him. But this—this was more than rare. This was unnatural. Her lips trembled, and her whisper barely reached the other dignitaries:
“He didn’t transform. He didn’t unleash the Dhampir. He stayed… human.”
The ripple this caused spread through the noble rows like lightning. “Impossible.” “A trick?” “No mage lends strength here!” “No rings, no artifacts—he was searched.”
And then came the silence-breaker.
The arena system itself thundered.
A massive translucent screen of script unfurled across the sky above the battlefield, visible to every peasant and every archmage alike:
System Announcements
The crowd erupted in madness. Even the nobles were no longer composed. Some shouted in disbelief, others began throwing coin to the arena sands in reflexive worship of impossible victory. Commoners chanted his name. Scholars began scribbling furiously, already preparing treatises that would last centuries.
And among the fighters waiting their turn in the shadows of the arena gates… many paled. How could they compete? Their matches would be dust after this meteor’s impact.
John, unaware of the storm above, swayed on his feet. His swords dug into the ground, and his eyes, still crimson, slowly faded back to sober human colors. His body screamed for rest. But his back remained straight.
The king’s voice cut the madness, heavy as law:
“Let it be written. Let it be witnessed. Aurelia’s youngest has broken the scale. Child of Aurelia, your path begins here—not as a boy of the Enclave… but as the first challenger to the order of power itself.”
Even Elyndra stiffened, for she heard it: the king’s words were no longer just recognition—they were political branding. Aurelia had claimed him.
Whispers hissed among elven dignitaries, angry and afraid. To them, the shimmer of John’s aura was not glory—it was heresy shaping into flesh.
And already, the gates began to close, the corpses harvested by servants. The sand would be cleansed. But the mark of this trial would not wash away.