The colossal iron gate of the arena trembled as machinery churned behind it.

  Metal plates scraped together with a long, guttural groan that didn’t sound engineered at all—it sounded like the exhausted exhale of an ancient creature forced awake.

  When the gate finally pulled open, a wave of cold, artificially recycled air blasted through the corridor.

  It carried everything Level 10 was made of:

  Rust.

  Oil.

  The sharp sting of electrically burnt ozone.

  And the sour breath of tens of thousands gathered in a pit that was never meant to hold this many living bodies.

  Z-69 stepped into it without hesitation.

  The neon from outside bled over him, painting his silver hair and pale metal-touched skin in shades of violet and ultraviolet.

  His new armor clung to him, not bulky, not ornamental—just deadly-efficient, every plate crafted with John’s angry precision and sleepless dedication.

  The lines of circuitry along his chest glowed faintly with a muted purple pulse.

  Not bright enough to alarm.

  But steady enough to remind him—that something inside him was always stirring.

  Waiting.

  Lumina perched on his shoulder, fur ruffled, tail draping down his back like a scarf with a heartbeat.

  She looked small—too small for a battlefield like this—yet her presence radiated heat like a tiny furnace clinging to Z-69’s neck.

  Behind them, John stomped forward carrying a bag that clanked like a toolbox wrestling itself.

  “Hold it. Hold it—HEY!” John barked.

  Z-69 paused.

  John swung the heavy duffel toward him.

  It hit the ground with enough force to make Lumina squeak.

  Inside was a silver-foil packet of high-energy dried meat.

  But unlike normal rations, the surface of this packet was heat-sensitive—reacting faintly to Z-69’s proximity.

  John jabbed a finger toward it.

  “You see that? Eat it the moment your chest heats up. I don’t want The Hunger popping out tonight and turning the opening match into a horror documentary. And don’t just nod this time—actually remember it.”

  Z-69 stowed the packet at his belt.

  “I understand.”

  “You say that every time, and then you walk straight into suicidal nonsense.” John muttered. “Just—don’t forget it.”

  Z-69 bowed his head slightly.

  A silent acknowledgment.

  More sincere than any promise spoken aloud.

  The arena greeted them with thunder.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Not literal thunder—but the collective roar of thousands of throats vibrating metal, air, and even the cavern dome above.

  Z-69 stepped through the final threshold—And saw the world he had to survive.

  A vast circular colosseum carved deep underground, large enough to swallow an entire district.

  The floor was built like a synthetic ruined city, complete with broken skyscraper fragments, shattered billboards, overturned vehicles, and neon-lit rubble scattered like bones.

  It wasn’t a stage.

  It was a graveyard disguised as entertainment.

  A hundred drones buzzed overhead like metallic insects, their lenses glowing cold blue as they scanned and livestreamed every breath, every twitch of muscle, every drip of sweat.

  The audience stood packed shoulder-to-shoulder in tiered steel balconies—some leaning so far over the railings that one wrong move would send them falling straight into the battlefield.

  People screamed his name.

  People cursed it.

  People worshipped him.

  People feared him.

  “Number 69!!”

  “That’s him—THE white-haired freak!!”

  “He tore a heavy war drone apart barehanded!”

  “No Category! No data! The system can’t measure him!”

  “BET ON HIM BEFORE THE ODDS GO TO HELL!”

  Z-69’s steps didn’t change.

  The noise washed through him like a tide that never reached shore.

  Lumina pressed her body closer to his neck.

  “I hate this place… It smells like burnt metal and angry humans.”

  “Yeah,” Z-69 replied quietly. “I know.”

  Her ears twitched.

  She felt it too.

  Something in Z-69’s chest crystal pulsed again.

  Slow.

  Heavy.

  Awakening.

  A towering robot MC descended along a rail, metal joints clicking with each movement.

  Its LED eyes glowed deep crimson, its voice modulated to resonate through bone.

  “ROUND 3 — THE ARENA.”

  “FORMAT: ONE-ON-ONE DUEL.”

  “RANDOM TERRAIN SELECTION.”

  “SURVIVAL RATE: LOW.”

  The crowd roared like an avalanche.

  John elbowed his way through the mass of gamblers near the railing, cupped his metal hands, and yelled with all the rage of a worried father:

  “IF YOU LOSE SIGHT OF HIM EVEN FOR A SECOND—DUCK! THAT SPEEDSTER WILL TAKE YOUR HEAD OFF BEFORE YOU BLINK!”

  Lumina tugged Z-69’s ear furiously.

  “LISTEN. TO. HIM.”

  Z-69 nodded once.

  “I already know.”

  “No you don’t! You’re just trying to sound cool!”

  “I am cool.”

  “NO, YOU'RE NOT—YOU’RE JUST MONOTONE!”

  The hologram flickered overhead.

  A new face appeared.

  Sharp jawline.

  Deadly smirk.

  Eyes like razors masquerading as pupils.

  “JIN — Speed-type.”

  “Rank B”

  ”Alias: ‘Dagger of Level 10’ ”

  ”Record: 27 Wins”

  ”Unofficial Kills: 14”

  Lumina hissed.

  “Ugh. His face already pisses me off.”

  Jin didn’t walk out from the opposite gate.

  A breeze slipped out.

  A blur flashed across the field.

  And suddenly he stood there—five meters away, hands in pockets, expression lazy.

  His movements were so light they barely disturbed the dust at his feet.

  “…You’re number 69?” Jin asked, tilting his head with casual arrogance.

  “Yes.”

  “I heard you sliced apart the High-Grade Military Drone from Round Two?”

  “So they say.”

  Jin chuckled, rolling his wrist until faint arcs of static electricity flickered around his fingers.

  “Good. I was worried today would be boring.”

  “This guy radiates pain in the ass.” Lumina muttered inside Z-69.

  Above them, the CORE EYE shifted from blue to blood-red.

  “MATCH 1 — ROUND 3”

  “TERRAIN: RUINED CITY SIMULATION”

  “GRAVITY: 0.7G”

  The ground rumbled.

  Steel plates rearranged.

  Artificial wind surged through collapsing buildings.

  Jin stretched his arm like warming up before a jog.

  “My terrain.” he said. “Try not to die too early.”

  Z-69 lifted his blade.

  “Come. Show me what you got.”

  The robot MC raised its massive mechanical arm toward the sky.

  Silence fell.

  Even the crowds held their breath.

  Even the drones stopped humming.

  Even the air paused, as if the entire underground city awaited the ignition of violence.

  “ROUND 3 — OPENING MATCH.”

  “CONTESTANT 69 VS JIN THE SPEEDSTER.”

  “3…”

  Z-69’s crystal pulsed.

  “2…”

  Jin leaned forward—and the ground beneath him cracked.

  “1…”

  Jin vanished.

  “BEGIN!!!”

  A sonic boom erupted where Jin had stood.

  He didn’t run—he tore through space, his speed bending the air into visible distortion lines.

  Lumina shrieked inside Z-69’s mind:

  “RIGHT!!! RIGHT!!!”

  Z-69’s muscles reacted before conscious thought.

  His short blade swung out—a violet arc splitting the neon haze.

  A streak of black blurred past his face.

  A thin slice of Jin’s aura-turbulence cut a strand of Z-69’s hair clean off.

  Jin materialized several meters behind him, skidding lightly, eyes wide.

  “You—BLOCKED that?”

  Z-69 turned, lowering his blade.

  “Pretty fast.”

  That single line hit Jin like a slap.

  His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but something akin to excitement.

  “Ohhh… So you’re like that.”

  He cracked his knuckles.

  “Great. Don’t die too early. Let’s see how long you can keep up.”

  Lumina clung to Z-69’s armor.

  “Be careful! He’s too fast to track with sight!”

  “I’m not using sight.” Z-69 murmured.

  Above them, the crowd screamed like an animal tearing itself apart.

  The arena lights glinted off his blade.

  Z-69 raised his blade again, calm as a sleeping god.

  The real battle began.