The hooded figure landed on the porch and went inside the wooden house. Jankarik cursed internally. What kind of help was that that she declined at the last minute and made him do this? Took him almost one hour to get here. The guild master was going to be mad about wasting time like this.

  Taking a deep breath, he adjusted the hood and his armor, and then opened the archaic, craggy wooden door.

  The interior of the house was rather unadorned for a meeting of this importance, but it was the old man Gedras’s style, so he couldn’t complain. Didn’t dare, to be exact. Who even had the guts to criticize the strongest man in the nation? Not him. He still wanted to live a little longer.

  That same old man was sitting on a stone chair, holding a white scroll open. Every time Jankarik greeted this man, he felt like every bit of his secret was laid bare in front. At least his knees held this time. No embarrassment.

  And the situation didn’t make it easier for him either, because sitting across the plain table was a woman in her full black set of armor, with a radiating silver quiver resting on the wall behind. If the old man gave the feeling of an old serene forest, then that woman was full-on a predator ready to pounce and tear him apart. Her gaze was that of an apex hunter. Bloodthirsty and cold.

  Luckily, he was also here. That lessened the pressure a bit. The final person in the room — someone who naturally held power over him and was on his side, his guild master — was currently looking at a giant map on the main wall. It engulfed the whole wall, with even some parts around the edge being cut off abruptly.

  Jankarik greeted all of them, apologized for being late, breathed out internally and relaxed his posture a little when his boss nodded, and maintained the reporting pose when informing them of the great news.

  “The centaur chieftain had agreed to our terms. They would join us when the time arrived. They also asked me to bring this to you, guild master.” He took out a scroll sealed with a crimson signal in the middle and presented it.

  “What’s that, Zishilum?” The huntress asked.

  “Jullkrisk is in the final step,” his boss said and threw the scroll onto the table. The crimson seal, which was already broken in half, rolled to the side and dropped.

  Inside the scroll was a drawing of three half-human and half-horse creatures standing on a black altar upon the top of a snowy mountain. Words came out of their mouths as they were chanting something in their own language. On top of the altar was the centaur chieftain, who was bigger than all of his three other kin combined. The moving picture ended with the altar radiating bright light for a few seconds, engulfing Jullkrisk in the middle, and then returning to its original state right after.

  “Even faster than we expected. I thought it would take him at least eight more years to do it,” the huntress bobbed.

  “Give the scroll to Khrystna and sell it at an auction. The late B-grades would want it.” Zishilum flicked his fingers.

  Jankarik caught the scroll flying at him. Even though he had just become a B-grade, he could see the value of this in making the evolution easier. He could very much want to keep it for himself if not for the fact that they were on an ambitious quest. Ever since he had learned about this from his boss, his life had been pretty much revolving around it. All other matters just became rather mundane and pale in comparison to it. After all, its result would change the fate of the whole nation.

  “Any news from the others?” The huntress turned to him.

  “Please forgive my incompetence. I haven’t been able to work it out with them yet.” His body shuddered and tensed up.

  “Up our offering by 25%. In the meantime, probe the Feather Alliance. See if they are interested in going with us,” his guild master guided.

  “Alliances are good, but we also need to rally our forces. The main one is still us, after all. Gedras, come with us. Why are you such a scaredy-cat?” The huntress turned to the old man.

  Jankarik took two steps back. He didn’t want to stay in the line of fire.

  “I am old. The prosperity of my force would always be number one. As of now, I won’t risk it.”

  The same answer. Jankarik thought to himself.

  “Then don’t blame us when we scoop everything up. Zerkshi will enforce a call to arms commandment. I will commit to it, whether you join us or not,” the huntress made a declaration that sent shivers down Jankarik’s spine.

  The weight of that action was heavy. It brought immense growth and opportunities, but also exhaustion and potential destruction if the result didn’t pan out well. The last one more than fifty years ago had elevated Zerkshi into the massive force they were today. Gyoti was the one rising along with it, so seemed like she had decided to double down now. What a daring leader she was!

  No one made any comments. The old man Gedras just sat there like the declaration meant nothing. Was that the belief of his absolute power that even this sudden development meant nothing? Or maybe he knew this beforehand already?

  Though he felt like his heart was being squeezed by the pensive look of his guild master. No, at least his boss didn’t know.

  Jankarik failed to suppress his heart from drumming. The fact that his leader was in such deep thoughts could mean many ways. One of which would—

  “Vendona will do the same. We are committed to this bet till the very end. Jankarik, return and tell Khrystna about it. Work closely with Gyoti and Zerkshi. Make sure that everyone understands and dedicates their all. Remove anyone who wavered. As for Clotserinn, try to get their resources as well. I suppose it won’t be a problem, Gedras?”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The old man just closed his eyes, sitting rather comfortably on his wooden chair. Until Jankarik left, he still didn’t see any reaction from him.

  Flying straight to the portal, Jankarik grabbed his chest. His heart and mind were close to exploding from what had just happened. Any doubt he had concerning the plan had just vanished. There was no turning back now. But exactly because of that, he could feel a flame burning inside his body. This was history in the making, and he was right in the center of it.

  ***

  Zalanir woke up to the noise and shouting from outside. Sleep helped recover resources faster, but it didn’t reduce his perception of the surroundings like Meditation did. Not like Sound Sense helped alleviate anything ever since he picked the skill up.

  He glanced at the three translucent bars in the top right corner. Except for the full health, both mana and stamina were above 90%, so he had only managed to sleep less than three hours. Cursing and wiggling back and forth on the thin mat, Zalanir closed his eyes again. If only he had his foam pillow now.

  Where is the damn management team? What’s his name again, Gdun? No, Dgun. Come and solve this. Zalanir grumbled.

  He waited. And waited. But the noise didn’t stop. Then, his ears caught a sound that jolted his body straight up. There was no way he could mistake the sound of two weapons colliding. The fight pit had successfully drilled this particular sound into the deepest part of his brain.

  Rushing outside, what filled his view was that of fire and blood. Some of the shacks were ablaze. The air was loaded with suppression and a sense of urgency. Under the big tree that marked the entrance to the resident area, four fighters were throwing attacks and weapons at their opposition. Zalanir recognized one of them, a man in the 40s who was swinging a sword around and ensnaring his enemy with vines. Of course he knew the man, because he was his fricking shackmate.

  Ulken managed to bind and immobilize the opponent, then he ran toward the cluster of fighters gathering outside of their own shack, including Zalanir.

  “Today, we fight for our freedom. This is our chance. Everyone, let’s go. Our comrades are fighting. Let’s burn this place!” Ulken let loose a battle cry.

  A revolt!

  He briefly caught Ulken’s eye, but the man just nodded and continued his revolting chant. The fact that his shackmate proactively did what he was doing now told Zalanir that this wasn’t an action on a whim. It had to be a planned one.

  Suddenly, everything clicked in his mind.

  The reason the man had just kept on returning late and leaving when the sun hadn’t even jumped out of its cloud bed was this. Not a woman, but a rebellion. How wrong he was. All the secret whisperings, meetings with other fighters hinted at this. Of course, it would be a rebellion. How did he miss this? Or perhaps he just regarded the idea of a revolt as non-plausible.

  After standing like an idiot who had no idea how to proceed, Zalanir ran after the last fighters to get out of this area. He had delayed enough already. This was the last group of fighters to leave the residence, so if he missed it, then he would be left alone here without even the slightest idea of what was happening. No. He missed the cause of the revolt already. He wouldn’t want to repeat the same mistake twice.

  On the way to the main area — the intersection of the three ways among the pit, training area and residence — Zalanir gulped at the sight of bodies littered across the grounds. Arms missing. Resting. Deaths. He literally had to jump over three dead bodies to advance. One of them wore the typical blue clothes of the bookmakers. A deep cut across the body that almost mutilated the right biceps seemed to be the main culprit.

  A bit farther away, the fighting pit was no longer a place of gathering but a furnace of chaos. Flames licked the night sky, devouring the gates and all the stands. Where once stood the largest section on the western stand was now just layering debris. Smoke curled upward in thick, suffocating plumes.

  Torches swung back and forth in the hands of the rebels, their light casting jagged shadows across the walls and the dirt ground. Maniac fighters came at each other like ephemera seeking out lights and ended up with similar fates.

  The group of fighters he was following took up scattering weapons from the ground and joined the revolt with Ulken and others’ encouragement. Their target seemed to be those who opposed and blocked them from marching forward, even though lots of them were fighters themselves. What exactly were they aiming for? If it was freedom, then why didn’t they run to the main entrance? In fact, they just passed by it after running circles around the pit, assaulting two groups of bookmakers on the way.

  As time went by, all Zalanir saw was bloodlust. And revenge. Fighters who had beef before now took the chance to go at each other. Strong rebels who killed or defeated others during this course started to shout and throw swearing and cursing around, and whoever replied or protested became their new targets.

  Zalanir caught Lithma resting in a corner when the forces were taking down the cafeteria.

  “Hey, what’s going on? You know why people do this?” Zalanir pulled Lithma to the rear.

  “What? Because no one wants to be goods whose purpose is to entertain people with the fighting. We risk ourselves in there fighting monsters and each other, but for what? Nothing.” Zalanir was taken aback by the angry tone of voice of his sparring partner. This was the first time he had heard the man talk this way.

  “Couldn’t we get out at level 35 and pay the fee? Besides, all the fights inside the pit rewarded levels. You could even treat them as training for the eventual freedom.”

  “Hah. You say that because you are good enough to treat it as training,” the Mohawk scoffed. “Others come down there treating each fight as if it were their last day. Some didn’t even make it past the first monster they faced. Oh yeah. You always slip off to practice inside this place after finishing your fight, so no wonder you didn’t see much. How many times have you seen a fighter getting their guts eaten by monsters, and then the guards just left them there? They could have stopped the monsters, but they didn’t. Why? Because of all the bullshit about the fighting pit being a show, and a good show needs gore, as they said. No, you don’t see shit, because you are always in your own mind trying to train. You treat this as training, whereas for others, it is life-or-death. Why don’t you go training now? Fight me! Heh! What’s wrong, partner?” The Mohawk laughed and slammed his spear.

  Zalanir backed off. It wasn’t wise to confront the man right now. Whatever he said wouldn’t come across at this moment. But what he had just heard now stuck inside his head. Was it true? Was he just so invested in training to be better that he just ignored everything else to the degree of not realizing the deep hatred from the fighters towards the pit organizer?

  Maybe he had still treated this world as not real. A dream, perhaps? Or whatever it might’ve been. Caused even Kael, the chubby man who lost his arm, was said to have a chance to regrow it later in C-grade. Yeah, he just realized it now. The thought of this world being fake hadn’t gone away. It just shifted from being active to lurking behind his decision-making.

  Letting out a long sign, Zalanir stood there like an empty husk. His mind replayed every scene that he remembered from that incident on the bridge to all the fights, levels, and people he had met. Time to move on—

  A sharp pain jerked in his back, bringing him back to the turmoil that was about to see a major development. Something just penetrated his lower back. Motioning his right hand back to search for the cause, he touched a concrete object that two seconds later he recognized as a dagger hilt. Someone just threw a dagger at him?

  Swirling around, he caught sight of the guards, bookmakers, and the Invincible Gang approaching. A certain Red Nose walked in front. The bastard was certainly looking his way. A small dagger twisted and turned as the man fiddled with his fingers.