Hope’s eyes widened.

  March to the red?

  His gaze locked on the red beam stabbing up into the sky. Red… Here? A call to come here!?

  He gripped his spear tighter.

  This wasn’t good. He had to get out—fast!

  He took off, sprinting around the chamber, eyes scanning for anything he could use to climb. A crack, a dent, a loose brick, a ledge.

  Nothing.

  “Shit.”

  He ran to the barrier again. Slammed his shoulder into it. Damn thing didn’t bulge.

  Eve stood on the other side, her palms flat against the invisible wall, eyes now filled with something like worry. She shook her head slowly.

  Hope stood there, breathing hard.

  “What the hell is this…” he muttered.

  He closed his eyes for a second.

  What did the voice say? March to the red. One survives.

  One… one survives…

  His gut twisted. What kind of sick bastard—

  CRSHH!.

  Suddenly, a wall slid open on the far side of the arena.

  Someone stepped through. Barefoot, dirt-covered, wrapped in rags. A Crawler, just like him. Similar spear in hand.

  ID: 170439

  Level 29

  He locked eyes with Hope. Neither moved.

  Seconds later another wall slid open and another one entered.

  This one had twin bone daggers and a cold look in his eyes. His skin was tanned, with fur on his shoulder and sharp teeth. An Yvernis.

  ID: 915204

  Level 27

  Now they were three.

  Spaced out in a rough triangle around the circular chamber.

  No… not a chamber…

  An arena.

  Hope exhaled sharply as minutes passed, and more began to walk in, the walls closing behind them just as they stepped inside. He saw the same two he had seen from afar in the desert—the two with fur—entering almost at the same time.

  Later, he noticed the girl from the jungle. The one who’d survived the ambush. Her level showed at 30, just one below his.

  Time kept passing, and none moved, all staring at each other with caution.

  Walls kept opening and closing. They went from ten to twenty, from twenty to thirty, until 36 of them stood present, each no more than a couple dozen feet apart from the next. Anxious. Tense. Some more ready than others.

  But Hope’s mind wasn’t fully on them.

  Blood. A broken shard of glass. The sound of wheezing breath and dripping water. And then a voice.

  "You made your choice, kid. You chose to live."

  Hope took a deep breath, as the memory burned through the haze. He looked up at the blue sky, framed by that wide circle above.

  His eyes slowly shifted as he focused on it. That light behind them… slowly fading as they turned colder, emptier.

  CRSHH!

  The ceiling began to close, sand spilling from the edges in soft streams. The red beam vanished—

  —and with it, the last glimmer in Hope’s eyes.

  A deep, final slam echoed through the chamber, sealing the sky away for good.

  Now, only firelight remained.

  And then—it began.

  They roared as they rushed toward each other, eyes red with fury, fear, and decisiveness.

  Rocks flew. Sand kicked up in clouds. Blades slashed through flesh. Screams tore through the arena like wild dogs. Someone shrieked. Someone else fell. Blood sprayed in the air and soaked into the sand around the twitching corpses.

  Hope didn’t move at first. He just watched.

  He watched as one Crawler tackled another, slammed his head into a column, and kept going—again, and again—until it cracked open.

  He watched as one of the Yvernis from the desert caught a blade with his forearm, then had his spine shattered by a downward axe swing that nearly split him in two.

  He watched as the girl from the jungle darted low behind a Crawler, pulled him in front of her just as a rock smashed into his head—then slit his throat clean while using his body for cover.

  And as he watched, eventually, one came at him.

  Another boy, skin scraped raw, dirt caked under his nails. He gripped his spear tight, too tight.

  Hope didn’t blink.

  He saw the panic in the kid’s eyes. The shallow breath. The trembling jaw behind clenched teeth.

  As the kid charged, Hope stepped forward, slid to the side, let the thrust whistle past his ribs—

  —and drove his own spear forward.

  The tip struck the throat before being quickly retracted.

  The boy’s eyes widened as blood gurgled up from his mouth. He dropped to his knees, hands reaching for the wound like he could shove the life back in.

  Hope stared at him.

  Watched his eyes twitch, trying to say something.

  Then they stopped moving.

  Hope stepped back as something flashed in the corner of his eye. A System prompt. He ignored it.

  A rock spun toward his face.

  He tilted his head to the side. The thing sliced past, kicking up a hiss of wind and a puff of dust.

  He didn’t move toward the attacker—didn’t have to. He just watched as another one rushed in with a makeshift stone axe and split the thrower’s skull from behind.

  The new attacker stared at Hope for a moment, his face smeared in blood from the kill—then shouted and charged.

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  Hope stood his ground, unfazed, eyes scanning the rest of the battlefield.

  Less than a dozen left.

  He leapt back, using a column for cover as rocks whistled past him. The attacker didn’t stop—kept pushing forward, heavy steps and white knuckles pressing hard on his axe.

  Hope reached into his pouch, grabbed a rock, and hurled it at his face.

  The kid flinched, dodging by reflex—

  SCRSH.

  Hope’s spear punched through his chest, straight through the heart.

  He didn’t linger. He yanked it free, blood spraying fast from the ragged hole.

  As the boy clutched at the wound, Hope stepped away in quick, short strides and slid behind the column again, shielding himself from the rocks still flying his way.

  His heart beat faster than usual… but not too much.

  Eyes closed, face blank, he leaned his head back against the rough stone.

  And listened.

  He listened as a Crawler’s scream rose high—then choked off into a gurgle, followed by the thud of a body slamming into sand.

  He listened as someone begged, “Please! No—” right before the dull crunch of bone shattered it.

  He listened as a rock cracked against someone’s jaw, followed by staggered steps, a fall, and a low moan that faded too fast.

  He listened as a roar ripped through the air, full of rage and fear, followed by the squelch of a blade digging deep, the struggle of feet scraping, and the sudden silence that came after.

  He listened as another Crawler shouted in a broken voice, tried to rally—or to live—and then was cut off by a sound like meat hitting stone.

  He listened until steps came his way.

  Hope narrowed his eyes, focused, and stirred the air using Air Magika.

  A swirl of sand lifted around him, sweeping past both sides of the column in a sudden gust, spinning loose dirt through the light.

  The steps faltered.

  Hope grabbed a rock from his pouch, stepped out, and hurled it low. It slammed into the attacker’s thigh.

  A sharp cry followed. Hope moved in—

  —but caught a flicker of motion from the side. Another one coming, fast.

  He didn’t push it. He backed off and slipped behind the column again.

  Moments later, he heard someone else finish off the one he’d injured with a sickening crunch—a wet, heavy impact, followed by the thud of a body collapsing onto the sand.

  Afar, he heard another piercing scream.

  And then a shout—raw, desperate. “Please! Don’t! I give up, I give up! I—”

  The voice cut off with a crack.

  Then came a lower voice. Calm. Cold. “One survives. One claims the power.”

  A dragging sound followed. Slow. Rough. Sand shifting under weight. Then a gurgle. A breath pulled through blood and grit.

  Then silence. A long silence.

  But Hope knew… from the sounds alone… there were two left.

  Hope stopped hiding and stepped out into the open.

  He stood between two pillars and eyed the other two. One held a spear—the same one he’d seen at the start. The other… the girl from the jungle, holding two bone daggers.

  They all locked eyes, none of them moving.

  The one with the spear shifted his weight.

  Hope waited.

  The other girl didn’t move either. Her eyes flicked between them, fingers tight around her daggers.

  The boy with the spear stepped forward.

  Hope gripped his weapon low and began circling, slow and quiet. He kept the column at his back, gauging the distance, the rhythm of the Crawler’s steps.

  When the boy moved again—Hope moved too.

  He stirred the air with a pulse of Magika. Sand rose in a gust, swirling across the space, catching both their eyes.

  The boy swung blind. Hope ducked under, pivoted left, and jabbed low. The shaft cracked against the boy’s ribs but didn’t pierce.

  Another wild swing came—Hope stepped back, let it pass, then closed in again from the other side.

  This time, he thrust from below.

  The tip slid into flesh with a soft crunch.

  Hope disengaged in the same motion, sidestepping fast and away as the boy gasped and staggered. He dropped seconds later, face hitting the sand, blood pooling fast beneath him.

  Hope didn’t watch him fall.

  He simply turned.

  ID: 618350

  Level 31

  Her level had increased during the fight, apparently. It now matched his.

  She stared back at him, eyes wild. Blood streaked her face and soaked the hem of her shirt—none of it hers.

  Her chest rose and fell, fast, raw, eyes locked on his like a wild beast.

  She crouched low—shoulders loose, arms bent, one dagger up, the other low.

  Hope circled slowly. She mirrored him.

  The flames crackled in the distance. Sand shifted under his feet. His heart pounded, then fell into rhythm. Calm. Cold.

  Then she moved.

  Fast.

  She dashed sideways, feinted a lunge, and disappeared behind a column. Hope didn’t chase. He tilted his head and listened. Breath. Sand. And—

  A blur came flying out from his left.

  Hope twisted aside—barely in time—her dagger slicing the air where his side had been.

  She was already pivoting again, striking high.

  He raised his spear to block—caught the force in the shaft—then ducked as her second blade came low and fast.

  The edge kissed his ribs. A shallow cut.

  Hope grimaced and backed off two steps, spear angled, blood seeping warm down his side.

  She didn’t let up.

  She came again, wild but focused, cutting at his legs, torso, throat—testing him.

  Hope retreated, step by step, each block driving pressure up his arms.

  Then—moment of space. He took it.

  He closed his eyes and called the Air Magika.

  Sand burst around them, kicked up in a swirl that cloaked his body and stung her eyes.

  Her step faltered.

  Hope struck forward.

  She spun away, barely dodging, slashed blind through the dust—missed.

  Hope pressed on.

  Another thrust—deflected.

  Another—sidestepped.

  She growled, eyes flashing, mouth curled in rage.

  Hope waited. Timed it. Let her close.

  Then—air surged forward.

  He channeled everything into one burst—focus, stance, weight, Magika.

  The spear tore through the dust like a bullet.

  Her eyes widened.

  She jumped back—too late.

  The tip struck clean beneath her ribs, punching through.

  Hope felt the impact run down the shaft into his grip. But then—

  She grabbed the spear.

  Hands clamped tight around the wood, knuckles white.

  And pulled.

  Hope’s eyes narrowed, watching as she dragged herself forward, impaling deeper. Blood spilled fast, thick and dark, down her side.

  A sharp cry ripped from her throat, full of rage and pain.

  Her arm came up—dagger flashing.

  He braced—

  —but she missed.

  Her hand trembled, lost strength mid-swing. The blade scraped past his shoulder and dropped.

  A sharp, involuntary breath followed—hitched and broken—as if her body had suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

  Then her knees gave way, folding beneath her without resistance, and her whole frame slumped forward into him.

  Hope didn’t move.

  Her head landed against his collarbone, her weight pressing into his chest as hot blood gushed freely from the wound. It soaked through his shirt, spreading thick and warm across his skin.

  She twitched once—jerkily.

  Then again, softer.

  Then nothing at all.

  She began to slide downward, the spear still lodged beneath her ribs, dragging slightly as her weight shifted.

  When she landed, her body curled at his feet, knees twisted beneath her, one hand bent awkwardly near her mouth. Her daggers lay on the sand beside her.

  Her face tilted toward him by accident—or not—but her eyes remained fixed in his direction.

  Blank.

  Motionless.

  Dead.

  Hope stood still.

  His pulse hadn’t settled. The weight of what he’d just done hadn’t hit—not fully. It lingered somewhere behind his ribs, quiet, waiting.

  For now, he just breathed. In and out. In… and out.

  Slowly, his fingers eased their tense grip on the blood-slick shaft as he drew the tip from beneath her ribs.

  He looked down.

  Just a girl now. Curled at his feet, her small frame soaked in red, her own blood pooling beneath her.

  Then he raised his eyes.

  Across the arena.

  Around him—stone, dust, blood. Discarded limbs. Torn flesh. Faces frozen in pain, in rage, in fear. Thirty-five bodies scattered like broken tools in a pit that reeked of iron and smoke and rot.

  There was no wind.

  No movement.

  No sound, except the slow drip of blood.

  He was the last one standing.