The morning sun bathed the Capital in golden light, but the energy around the Arena felt... off.
Dillion walked through the arched entrance, armor buckled tight, his new bracer snug against his forearm, and his shield slung over his back. His breath was steady, but his pulse ticked faster with each step.
May walked beside him, unusually quiet.
"You sure you're ready for this?" she asked.
Dillion gave a small nod. "As ready as I’ll ever be."
She hesitated, then added, "Just… be careful. Last time you faced Cane, it didn’t end well."
"I remember."
He didn’t need reminding. The memory of being thrown across the bar — of the humiliation, the helplessness — was burned into his mind. But this time was different.
He wasn’t the same Dillion.
He stepped into the staging tunnel beneath the Arena, waiting for the call. A few other competitors passed by, offering nods — a couple even whispered the new nickname that had begun to circulate after yesterday's match.
Water Gun.
It had started as a joke. But after taking down Voss?
It was catching on.
The crowd’s roar rumbled through the stone. Then, the distorted voice of the announcer echoed through the hall, theatrical as always.
?? “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Get ready for BRACKET C-4 — a rematch some of you have dreamed of! A rising rookie versus one of Sora’s top-ranked terrors!”
?? “Back in the ring — the one they call WATER GUN — DILLION ROGERS!”
The gates opened.
Dillion stepped out into the sunlight.
The cheers hit him immediately. Not deafening — not yet — but real. Earned.
?? “And facing him, ranked in the top 1000, the brawler from the Badlands, the Crimson Berserker — ANDREW CAAANE!”
The opposite gate opened...
…and nothing happened.
No footfalls. No roar. No entrance music.
Just silence.
The announcer hesitated — a rare break in character. The crowd murmured, confused. Players exchanged looks in the stands.
The announcer chuckled nervously, trying to recover.
?? “Well, maybe he’s fashionably late. We’ll give the man his... dramatic moment!”
The crowd quieted as the timer began to tick. Ten minutes passed.
Still no sign of Cane.
Dillion stood in the center of the arena, unsure if this was a trick. A test. A joke.
But no.
The judge near the edge raised a glowing flag and stepped forward.
?? “Due to absence and failure to appear… victory goes to DILLION ROGERS!”
The crowd erupted, part cheer, part confusion.
Dillion blinked.
That was it?
He turned slowly, walking back toward the gate, unsure what had just happened. May met him just inside the tunnel, her brow furrowed.
"Something’s wrong," she said quietly. "Cane doesn’t just… not show up."
Dillion nodded once, uneasily.
He didn’t know it yet…
But someone had made sure Andrew Cane would never fight again.
And far above the Arena, behind the glass of a tower chamber, the masked Soul Wardens watched silently — not with surprise, but with purpose.
As Dillion stepped through the arena gates and made his way toward the waiting area, the roar of the crowd fading behind him, a voice called out from the hallway.
“Hey—Water Gun.”
Dillion stopped and turned.
Leaning casually against a stone pillar was a tall figure in dark leather gear, a single pauldron strapped to his right shoulder and a sleek, His Soul Mark shimmered faintly beneath his collar—a rich, deep blue. His face was sharp, youthful, cocky—but his eyes were tired. Old.
Dillion recognized him immediately.
Death Walker.
The most infamous Blue Soul Mark in all of Sora. Known not for his victories, but for something else entirely—his unmatched death count. Hundreds of deaths across a dozen regions. Some whispered he died for money. Others, for fun. But what made him terrifying… was that he always came back stronger.
Dillion blinked. “You’re...”
“Yep.” Death Walker pushed off the wall and strolled up. “And you’re the rookie with the pressure washer fingers.” He grinned. “Nice hit on Voss, by the way. Wasn’t expecting that.”
“I—uh, thanks,” Dillion said, unsure whether it was sarcasm or a compliment.
Death Walker tilted his head. “You fight with instincts, not ego. That’s rare. People usually come here trying to be legends. You? You look like you’re trying to survive.”
Dillion wasn’t sure how to respond.
A faint rumble shook the hallway. The announcer’s voice echoed faintly from above.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
?? “Now entering the stage — Contestant Jerry Huston, known across the frontier as DEATH WALKER!”
Death Walker didn’t flinch. He adjusted his gloves and cracked his neck.
“Welp, that’s my cue.”
He started walking past Dillion, then paused just beside him.
Jerry gave Dillion a mock salute and turned. “Stick around. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Dillion didn’t hesitate—he bolted toward one of the viewing rooms, racing up steps two at a time until he reached a projection screen showing the next match.
The arena splayed wide across the vision of a floating Eden drone. On one side stood Jerry—calm, unarmed, unbothered.
May had left to grab water, but Dillion barely noticed he even forgot she was there. The crowd was humming with excitement, and even the announcer’s voice came through the crystal speakers with a strange kind of reverence.
?? “A matchup for the ages, folks! On the left, the reigning Rank 25 — the swift, the silent, the Stormblade of the Cliffs — JEREK VALEN! And facing him, the infamous rogue of the river — the man who bleeds blue, walks with death, and stares down the storm — DEATH WALKER!”
The arena came alive as Valen entered — a tall, lean fighter with a jade Soul Gem and long green scarf that trailed behind him like a flag. Wind swirled lightly around his boots, whispering with his every step.
Then came Jerry — Death Walker. He wore no armor. No weapons. Just a light tunic and dark gloves that shimmered faintly with moisture. Water flowed behind him like a serpent, coiled and ready. His Soul Gem, a deep blue, pulsed steadily above his chest.
The match began fast.
Wind blades whipped from Valen’s outstretched hand — crescent arcs cutting the air like razors. Death Walker moved like a shadow, the water twisting into shields and spears mid-movement, blocking each strike with unnerving precision.
Dillion leaned in closer.
“Damn…” he whispered. “He doesn’t even flinch.”
Jerry flowed more than fought. His footwork looked like dancing, his hands painting waves that turned into lances of water, daggers, and shields. He kept pace with Valen, even landed a few quick counters that drew gasps from the crowd.
And then — it happened.
Jerry flicked his wrist. His hand shaped into a mock pistol.
Pew.
A thin, concentrated burst of water fired from his finger, hitting Valen square in the chest. The crowd erupted.
Dillion froze.
“…That’s my move,” he whispered.
May had returned just in time to hear him. “Your what?”
Dillion didn’t answer. His heart was pounding.
Jerry wasn’t just mimicking it — he perfected it. The water bullet had more force, more control. He even used it mid-dodge, combining it with agile footwork that made the attack nearly impossible to see coming.
Valen was shaken — but not defeated.
He gritted his teeth, wind howling now, forming a full-on vortex that knocked Jerry back. Jerry responded with a tidal burst, absorbing the momentum and turning it into a forward sprint, his water spiraling around his arms like drills.
They clashed again and again — wind versus water, speed versus flow.
Dillion watched, breathless. The battle wasn't one-sided. Jerry was good — insanely good — but Valen had experience, composure, and the ability to adapt.
In a final exchange, Jerry launched a series of finger shots through a swirling stream of water — a full combo. Valen slipped one, blocked two, and got hit with the third.
But he smiled through the pain.
A sudden updraft lifted him just as Jerry dashed in. A twisting cyclone erupted from Valen’s boots, sending Jerry into the air. And mid-spin, Valen hurled a condensed tornado like a javelin.
Jerry crashed hard. His water collapsed.
Silence.
?? “DEATH WALKER… IS DEFEATED! VICTORY TO VALEN!”
The crowd erupted, and Dillion stood motionless.
“…He lost,” he whispered.
May touched his shoulder. “He almost didn’t.”
Dillion stared at the screen, watching Jerry’s body dematerialize in shimmering blue particles. He couldn’t shake the image of the finger pistol. The precision. The calm. The power.
He had so far to go.
But for the first time, he wasn’t intimidated by it.
He was inspired.
Dillion didn’t move for a while.
The crowd still murmured around him — excited, unsettled, already shifting their attention to the next match. But Dillion’s eyes stayed fixed on the now-empty screen. He could still see it. That water. That control. The precision in every motion.
Death Walker hadn’t just used Water Manipulation — he had commanded it.
Like it was part of him.
Dillion flexed his fingers slowly. His hand twitched, recalling the shape of the pistol he’d crafted in a moment of instinct. What Jerry had done… it wasn’t instinct. It was mastery.
He thought of Stark. Of long nights training under moonlight. Of bruises, blisters, and breathless frustration.
And yet…
He still had further to go.
May stood beside him, arms folded. “He was good,” she said softly.
Dillion nodded. “Too good.”
“But beatable,” she added, looking up at him. “You saw how close it was.”
“I did.”
“Which means you have a shot.”
Dillion exhaled through his nose, gaze hardening.
Then he heard footsteps behind him — armored boots, crisp and deliberate.
A tournament official approached, clad in a silver-trimmed black robe and carrying a tablet embedded with a floating soul crystal.
“Dillion Rogers?”
Dillion turned. “Yeah?”
The official gave a short bow. “Your next match has been confirmed. You’re scheduled to face Jerek Valen in one hour. Bracket A, Semifinals.”
May stiffened beside him.
Dillion blinked. “…Valen?”
The official nodded. “You are to report to Arena Delta in forty-five minutes for prep and stage entry.”
With that, the official turned and left without another word.
Dillion turned to May. “Valen. That was his real name?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “That’s the guy who just beat Death Walker.”
Dillion didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then he turned, moving with purpose. “I need to clear my head.”
May kept up. “You going to train?”
He shook his head. “No. Training’s done. I need to remember.”
They found a quiet corner outside the contestant chambers — a small terrace overlooking the city, where clouds passed lazily over the stone rooftops and tall arena towers. Dillion sat on the edge, shield resting at his side, knife holstered.
Dillion stood on the terrace a moment longer after May had gone quiet.
The breeze tugged at his cloak, but he barely noticed it. Instead, he raised his palm and summoned his Soul Gem.
The familiar soft blue crystal floated above his hand, humming gently — but this time, it pulsed with something more.
Power.
He reached into his pouch and withdrew two others:
-
A green Soul Gem from Kardon the Crusher — still warm, dense with strength and stamina.
-
A black Soul Gem from Jerry — water-tinged and refined, echoing with the experience of a seasoned fighter.
Dillion swallowed.
“Alright… show me what I’ve got.”
The Soul Gem brightened in response.
Dillion Rogers
Soul Mark: Blue
Level: 15
Skills:
-
Shield Guard (Rank 5) 0/50
-
Shield Bash (Rank 5) 0/50
-
Dexterity (Rank 5) 0/50
-
Overwhelming Strength (Rank 2) 0/10
-
Weak Point (Rank 3) 0/10
Spells:
-
Water Manipulation (Rank 5)
-
Swift Boots (Rank 4)
Enchantments:
-
Fog (Granted by Knife)
Soul Points Remaining: 0
He took a breath, held the green Soul Gem over his main gem… and let it absorb.
The green light flickered, then vanished into the blue — absorbed like drops into a river.
+10 Soul Points
He repeated the process with the black Soul Gem. This one pulsed heavier — resistant — but eventually broke down into his own.
+20 Soul Points
His Soul Gem shimmered. Stronger. Clearer.
Dillion could feel it. Like the air around him had changed.
“Let’s put this to use…”
Soul Point Allocation:
-
+10 → Overwhelming Strength → (Rank 2) → (Rank 3) 0/20
-
+10 → Weak Point → (Rank 3) → (Rank 4) 0/20
-
Remaining: 10 Soul Points
The rush hit like a wave. His muscles tightened slightly. His mind felt clearer. Reflexes sharper. Every little advantage would count now.
And against someone like Valen… he would need all of it.
He closed his hand around his glowing Soul Gem and exhaled, letting it vanish back into storage.
His fingers curled slowly into the shape of a pistol.
He’d always thought Water Manipulation was just that — control over water. But Jerry had shown something else. Flow. Timing. Creativity. Precision.
Dillion had the basics. But now… now he needed to evolve.
He closed his eyes.
Visualized the flow of water — not just how it moved, but how it wanted to move. Gentle, powerful, sudden. Always changing, never still. He pictured himself not controlling it… but becoming part of it.
His breathing slowed.
Then May sat beside him, handing him a small cloth-wrapped roll of food. “You need energy.”
Dillion accepted it, nodding gratefully. They ate in silence for a while.
“You scared?” she asked.
“A little.”
“That’s good. Means you’re taking it seriously.”
Dillion smiled faintly. “Thanks, Coach.”
She nudged him. “Just don’t die. I still need someone help me carry books home still.”
He stood, gripping his shield.
As he heard the Roar of the crowd begin.