The roar of the crowd hadn’t stopped — if anything, it had only grown louder.

  Dillion stumbled off the battlefield, his legs shaky, not from pain, but from adrenaline. His chest rose and fell as he followed a staff member down the corridor beneath the arena stands. The arena still vibrated from the energy of the spectators, and though the next match was being prepared, many in the stands were still turned, pointing, shouting, asking:

  “Who was that?”

  “Did he just beat Kardon?!”

  “That was a Blue Mark, right?!”

  The staff member guiding him gave a glance over the shoulder. “You alright?”

  Dillion nodded, but didn’t speak. His hands still tingled from the force of the Shield Bash. The image of his knife striking Kardon mid-air played on a loop in his head. He didn’t feel victorious — he felt… rattled. But somehow, calm.

  Then—

  “DILLION!”

  May’s voice rang through the corridor like a bell. She barreled toward him and, without asking, wrapped him in a tight hug that nearly knocked him over.

  “You—you were amazing!” she gasped, half laughing, half breathless. “I thought you were dead like four times!”

  Dillion gave a tired chuckle. “You and me both.”

  She pulled back and studied his face. “How did you even—was that fog? And water bullets? Since when can you jump like that?!”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Something just… clicked.”

  May smirked. “Clicked? You threw a six-foot-tall berserker into the sky and stabbed him in mid-air. That’s not a click — that’s a cannon blast.”

  He looked past her, back toward the arena. The crowd was still buzzing. Somewhere deep down, something shifted.

  He wasn’t just surviving anymore.

  He was being seen.

  Tournament staff waved Dillion through a guarded hallway beneath the arena, guiding him toward a large chamber lined with stone and polished steel. May gave him a playful salute and peeled off toward the stands, mouthing, “Don’t forget to breathe.”

  Inside, a tournament official in gold-trimmed robes sat behind a curved desk. The man glanced up from a tablet and smiled.

  “Dillion Rogers. Quite the entrance.”

  Dillion gave a cautious nod.

  “I’ll keep this brief. You’ve earned your first win, and due to the unique outcome, you’re eligible for two rewards.”

  The man slid a tray across the desk.

  “First — your opponent’s Soul Gem.” A glowing green crystal pulsed faintly on the tray. “Kardon’s. Officially yours.”

  Dillion picked it up carefully. Even in its dormant state, it felt… heavy. Not just in weight — in history.

  “Second — performance bonus,” the man continued. “Awarded for exceptional tactical combat. Clean fight, strong crowd response, creative ability use.” He tapped a rune on the desk. A second item shimmered into existence: a sealed, rectangular shard wrapped in spellthread.

  “A rare item: [Tactical Insight Scroll]. Use it outside of battle to boost your skill awareness and reaction speed. One-time boost. Don’t waste it.”

  Dillion nodded slowly, still absorbing everything.

  “Oh,” the official added, smirking, “and… you’re trending. Eden streamers are already talking. A few guild reps in the stands were scribbling notes. You’re what they call a ‘potential anomaly.’”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Anomaly?”

  “Means you’re not following the expected path. That’s rare. People notice.”

  As Dillion turned to leave, the sound system above crackled to life — the clown-masked announcer’s voice booming back into the arena.

  ?? “WHEW! Now THAT was a rookie debut! Somebody get this kid a nickname!”

  There was a brief pause. Laughter from the crowd.

  ?? “How about... Water Gun! Pew pew! Look out, he’s got a squirt trigger and no chill!”

  The crowd erupted again, some laughing, others already chanting:

  “WATER GUN! WATER GUN!”

  Dillion sighed as the doors closed behind him.

  “…Great.”

  Time passed. He couldn’t tell how much. One, maybe two fights?

  Dillion sat alone in one of the many contestant rooms carved into the coliseum’s inner walls. The room was small but comfortable — stone bench, clean water basin, a view-slab that showed a live feed of the current matches. The energy of the arena still pulsed through the stone, the muffled roar of the crowd rising and falling like waves against a cliff.

  His shield leaned against the wall beside him. The knife rested in his lap, his fingers tracing the grooves in the hilt. He was calm — more than he expected. No shaking hands. No racing heart. Just quiet.

  Am I really getting used to this?

  Then a knock came at the door.

  Not a staffer this time.

  A man in a deep gray coat stepped in, holding a flat crystal tablet and wearing a soft Eden pin above his collar. His hair was perfectly slicked, and his eyes glinted like polished obsidian.

  “Dillion Rogers?”

  Dillion stood slowly, cautious. “Yeah.”

  The man extended a hand. “Zaye Caulden. Talent Scout. Eden Watch Division.”

  Dillion didn’t shake.

  Zaye lowered his hand with a small, rehearsed smile. “No worries. Just wanted to extend preliminary congratulations. You’ve made quite the ripple with that last match. Quick thinking. Clean execution. You know, Eden is always watching for rising talent.”

  “I didn’t know Eden sent reps to tournaments like this,” Dillion said.

  Zaye shrugged, still smiling. “We go where the wind stirs, Mr. Rogers. Sora is full of noise. But every now and then, someone makes music.”

  Dillion narrowed his eyes. “You scouting me?”

  “Not officially. But let’s just say… your name’s on a few shortlists now. Keep winning, and you’ll see what that means.”

  With that, Zaye gave him a courteous nod and stepped aside as a tournament marshal called down the hall:

  “C-19! You’re up again! Arena prep, let’s go!”

  Dillion strapped his shield back on and slid his knife into place.

  Zaye spoke once more, voice quieter now:

  “Word of advice — don’t just play for the crowd. Play for the future. We remember the ones who shape the game… not just survive it.”

  Then he disappeared into the stone corridors.

  Dillion exhaled and stepped forward, boots echoing with each stride as he made his way back toward the light of the arena stage.

  The arena was buzzing with restless energy, the kind that came when people knew something was about to happen.

  The crowd didn’t know Dillion Rogers yet — not really. They knew of him. A fluke win, a wild match, a rookie with strange gear and good timing.

  But none of them expected him to step onto the stage again.

  And then the lights shifted.

  ?? “Oh, you knew he had to be back, folks!” the announcer’s distorted voice rang out, mischievous as ever behind the grinning clown mask floating above the arena. “He’s wet, he’s wild, and he’s weirdly accurate!”

  A pause for dramatic effect.

  ?? “It’s the rookie with the rippling reflexes and that absolutely adorable finger-blasting style — give it up for… WATER GUN ROGERS!”

  A beat of silence.

  Then laughter.

  Scattered at first — then spreading like fire through dry grass.

  “Did he say Water Gun?”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  But right behind the laughter came something else.

  Cheers.

  Amused, but enthusiastic. Light-hearted, but oddly supportive.

  Dillion stepped into the light with his usual quiet intensity, shield snug against his arm, knife sheathed at his hip, fog enchantment humming faintly.

  He heard the name.

  He definitely heard it.

  And while he didn’t crack a smile, a twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed something else:

  He didn’t mind.

  Not one bit.

  The crowd, still chuckling, began to chant as he took his position:

  “Water Gun! Water Gun! Water Gun!”

  Across the arena, Voss of the Glimmering Chain stepped into view, the mood shifting again — from light to lethal.

  But Dillion stood tall.

  They could laugh if they wanted.

  As the crowd’s laughter gave way to growing anticipation, the arena dimmed slightly — the light focusing now on the opposite gate.

  A low rumble echoed through the coliseum.

  ?? “And standing across from our… hydrated hero,” the announcer said, tone dripping with theatrical tension, “is a man who needs no gimmicks, no punchlines…”

  A hush fell over the crowd. Even the rowdiest players leaned forward in their seats.

  ?? “You’ve seen him choke the battlefield with iron. You’ve seen him silence spellcasters mid-incantation. His chain dances like lightning — and no one has ever broken it.”

  The gate slowly opened, revealing a tall, lean man in black and silver armor. A chain looped around his torso like a sash, the end of it pulsing with faint light. His expression was unreadable, his eyes distant — but alert. His Soul Gem glowed faint green, almost shimmering like glass under pressure.

  ?? “Give a very respectful welcome to… VOSS of the GLIMMERING CHAIN!”

  No explosions of cheers. No wild chants.

  Just a sharp, collective intake of breath — like the crowd knew something dangerous had just stepped onto the stage.

  Dillion watched Voss carefully. No weapon in hand — only the faint jingle of the coiled chain, alive with latent magic.

  The two fighters met eyes across the stone floor.

  And in that silence, the announcer’s voice came in once more:

  ?? “New blood versus old terror. Precision versus pressure. Water Gun versus the Chain!”

  ?? “BEGIN!”