The barracks stirred to life, fighters grumbling and stretching, some limping toward the mess hall with bandages still fresh. Max followed, the familiar smell of porridge drawing him in.
Breakfast was surprisingly decent. The porridge was hot, steam curling from the bowls, and this time it carried the faint scent of spiced grain. It was still nothing to write home about, but compared to the first days, it was a small mercy. He ladled himself a bowl and sat at one of the long, scarred tables, listening.
Conversations buzzed around him — names of fighters, boasts of victories, speculation on who would make the cut for the sixteen final seeds. Max leaned in slightly, hoping to hear something useful about his last opponent. No one spoke of his name, but one rumor stood out: the last round would be brutal. The staff were holding back the strongest to the very end.
Max’s gut tightened. Figures.
He didn’t have long to stew on the thought. The bench shifted under a sudden weight, a massive shadow falling across the table.
A huge hobgoblin loomed over him, shoulders broad as an ox, tusks jutting from a scarred jaw. He was easily as large as the leader Max had fought back in the council chamber, and his presence sucked the air from the room. Conversations died around them, goblins watching with hushed anticipation.
The brute leaned down, eyes narrowing. “Puny human.”
Max calmly set his spoon aside. A familiar chime echoed softly in his ears.
[System Prompt]
You have observed: Gorath the Ironhide — Level 20
Weapon: Greatsword
Known For: Overwhelming strength and endurance.
Max’s pulse quickened. Level 20. His strongest opponent yet.
Gorath sneered. “This is no place for your kind. You’ll die today — and I’ll make sure of it.”
The room held its breath.
Max’s hand twitched toward his sword, but he stopped himself. Fighting here, outside the arena, could ruin everything. For all he knew, killing a competitor before the match might disqualify him from the entire tournament — or worse, fail his quest outright.
So he forced himself to breathe, to keep his tone level. “Then I’ll see you in the pit.”
Without another word, he rose, brushed past the towering goblin, and left the mess hall. The whispers and snickers of onlookers followed him, but he ignored them. The match would settle this.
The wait was long, the hours stretching as fight after fight echoed from the pits. Finally, the cloaked official in crimson called his name.
“Max Elion — Pit Two.”
He stepped into the arena, Solaris Edge humming faintly at his side. The cracked floor bore fresh scorch marks and bloodstains from the last match, the smell of iron heavy in the air. Across from him, Gorath strode in, greatsword slung over one shoulder, the crowd thundering his name.
The gong rang.
Gorath charged.
The impact of his swing nearly shattered Max’s guard, the greatsword slamming into Solaris Edge with bone-jarring force. Max staggered back, teeth gritted, his arms shaking from the effort. Another strike followed immediately, then another — each one so heavy that even blocking hurt.
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Max ducked under the fourth, countering with a slash across Gorath’s ribs. The blade bit shallowly into thick hide, drawing a thin line of blood but nothing more. Gorath grunted, almost amused, and hammered down with a blow that cracked the floor.
The fight dragged on, brutal and unrelenting. Max darted and slashed, Blinked to avoid crushing swings, but even when he landed hits, they seemed to do little. Gorath’s sheer endurance kept him coming, his strikes strong enough to numb Max’s arms each time they connected.
For every cut Max landed, Gorath landed a bruising blow in return. His chest burned from a shallow slice, his shoulder ached from a glancing strike, his breath ragged. Yet with each wound, Max felt the Vitality he’d invested pulling him back — his regeneration stitching flesh, his stamina holding longer than it should have. Without it, he’d already be on the ground.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
One bad step sent him off balance, and Gorath’s sword swung in, aimed straight for his arm. Too fast to dodge, too heavy to block.
I’m going to lose it—
“Solar Flare!”
Solaris Edge erupted in blinding white light. The flare seared across the pit, dazzling the crowd and slamming into Gorath’s vision. The hobgoblin roared, staggering back, eyes clenched shut. His strike veered wide, gouging stone instead of flesh.
Max didn’t hesitate. He Blinked forward, Solaris Edge cutting in a vicious arc. The blade tore through Gorath’s shoulder, severing his sword arm in a spray of blood.
The crowd gasped.
But Gorath didn’t fall.
He roared, blood spraying from the stump, and with his remaining arm swung a desperate punch that clipped Max’s jaw and nearly spun him off his feet. Even one-armed, he fought with terrifying strength, his fury refusing to let him yield.
Max backed away, watching carefully. The swings grew slower, the strikes weaker. Blood loss was doing what his blade couldn’t.
Finally, Gorath’s knees buckled. He dropped down to one, chest heaving, teeth bared in defiance.
Max raised Solaris Edge. “Yield.”
The hobgoblin spat blood. “Never.”
So Max ended it. One clean strike, the blade flashing in the torchlight, and Gorath’s head rolled across the pit floor.
The gong rang.
[System Prompt]
Qualifying Match Quest Complete
Result: Victory by Death
Credits Earned: 400
Status: Finalist — Advanced to Grand Arena
[System Prompt]
Confirmed: You have slain Gorath the Ironhide — Level 20
Credits Awarded: +500
Experience Gained: Immense
Loot Obtained:
- Greatsword of the Ironhide (Rare) A massive blade that crackles with lingering strength. Requires exceptional Strength to wield effectively.
- Ironhide Pauldron (Uncommon) Heavy shoulder armor that grants increased physical resistance.
Max stood over the fallen giant, Solaris Edge dripping red. His chest heaved, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, but he was alive.
The crowd thundered, half in awe, half in rage but Max ignored them. He had earned his place.
The qualifiers were over now, and the Grand Arena awaited.
[System Prompt]
You have gained enough experience to level up!
Level Up!
You are now Level 18
Stat points allocated
- +3 Free Points
Max let the glow of the prompts fade before his eyes, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. His arms ached, his body screamed for rest, but inside he felt it, Genesis Energy knitting him tighter, sharper, stronger.
Max quickly funneled two points into Strength and one into Endurance before closing the glowing window. Not one to waste time, he left the pit floor behind and made his way to the wash basins. Blood and grime clung to his skin, the stink of sweat heavy in his robes. He scrubbed until his knuckles ached, grimacing as he wiped gore from his arms. That last punch nearly took my head off, he thought darkly, splashing his face one last time.
At least his armor handled itself. The self-repair function hummed faintly, stitching torn fabric, mending cuts, and sealing cracks where Gorath’s strikes had hammered him. When he slipped it back on, it was whole again, though the memory of each blow still lingered in his bones.
The gate creaked open, and two officials in crimson cloaks waved him over. Max followed, every muscle sore but his steps steady.
The older goblin eyed him up and down with a raised brow. “You’re alive. That puts you in rare company.”
“What happens next?” Max asked with a blank look in his eyes.
“You wait.” The official flipped open a ledger. “All qualifiers must finish before the final sixteen are seeded. That means no more fighting until the others catch up.”
“How long?”
“Tomorrow the last matches finish. The day after, the Grand Arena begins.” He snapped the ledger shut. “You’ll be summoned when it’s your turn.”
Max nodded slowly. “So… two days.”
“Two days to lick your wounds, human. Spend them wisely.”
The officials turned away, already barking orders at another fighter staggering past.
Max lingered in the torchlight, rolling his shoulders. Two days wasn’t much, but it was more than enough. Enough time to rest. Enough time to prepare. And maybe even enough time to find someone who could finally teach him proper swordsmanship.
He exhaled, the exhaustion finally crashing down, and headed back to the barracks. His cot was little more than rough straw and thin blankets, but tonight it felt like luxury. Max lay down and closed his eyes, sleep dragging him under in moments.