The noise of the Floor 10 arena was like a storm trapped underground.

  When Z-69 stepped out of the final metal corridor, the wall of sound slammed straight into his face: screams, whistles, the clanking of metal as spectators

  slammed anything they could grab to make the chaos louder.

  This time, the arena had changed its face.

  No more simulated buildings, no more factories, no more slum districts.

  Instead, the entire battlefield was a sprawling “artificial desert”, a layer of dull yellow sand mixed with metallic dust, whipped into streams by cold wind.

  In the distance were scattered metal pillars, standing like the rib bones of some giant beast stripped clean of flesh.

  Above, floating holo-panels spun slowly, displaying the Battle for Ascension logo, neon red-purple flashing over the sea of roaring people.

  Z-69 stopped at the edge of the platform, eyes narrowing against the wind.

  The sand blasted against his face, but all he felt was an artificial dryness — this wasn’t natural surface wind, but the product of a massive air-conditioning system programmed to torment human lungs.

  Lumina clung to his shoulder, fur whipped by the wind, her tail curling tightly around the collar of his armor like a living scarf.

  “This place is so… dry. So uncomfortable. And it smell… just like those old air ducts back in Floor 13.” she said, eyes darting around cautiously.

  From the opposite corridor, his opponent stepped out.

  Galeon did not look impressive in any common sense.

  He was tall, thin, pale-skinned, short-haired, wearing a tight dark-gray outfit, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

  Black tattooed patterns ran from wrist to shoulder, mimicking swirling air vortices.

  No heavy armor, no handheld weapons.

  Only four metallic rings—two on his wrists, two on his ankles—glowing faintly blue.

  Galeon walked as if taking a stroll on a pleasant afternoon, squinting into the wind with satisfaction, as if inhaling a scent only he could enjoy.

  “The second duel of Round Three!” the robot MC roared through dozens of speakers.

  “On one side, contestant number 69 — the one who turned Jin’s speed into a joke! On the other side, Galeon — the Air Fiend! WHICH ONE WILL STOP BREATHING FIRST?!”

  The crowd exploded.

  “WIND!! WIND!! GALEON!!”

  “69!! 69!! 69!!”

  “Bet everything on Galeon! Everyone needs to breathe!”

  Z-69 stepped forward, sinking his feet into the sand.

  The grains collapsed under his heels, leaving unusually deep impressions — his body heavier than it looked, thanks to armor and the strange density of his zombie musculature.

  Lumina crouched and hopped off his shoulder as he approached the starting line.

  “I have to get out.” she grumbled, clearly displeased.

  “This match doesn’t allow pets inside. But you… you better survive.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Z-69 replied calmly.

  “You keep saying that. You’re trying to make it your catchphrase or something.” Lumina muttered, but still leapt out of the field, running along the support-pet pathway and climbing up near the stands where John leaned against a rusted metal railing.

  John glanced down at her, chewing an energy cigarette.

  “Right on time.”

  “Shut up.” Lumina replied. “I’m worried.”

  John blew out white smoke, eyes fixed on the battlefield.

  Below, Galeon raised his hands toward the sky as if greeting an invisible audience.

  “You’re number 69?” he asked, voice mild, not loud but amplified by the system. “The kid making Floor 10 scream these past few days?”

  Z-69 looked at him, silent.

  “Good.” Galeon shrugged. “I like quiet ones. You people always look prettier when you suffocate.”

  The MC gave the final roar:

  “COUNTDOWN: 3… 2… 1… BEGIN!!”

  For a moment, nothing changed.

  Then — the wind disappeared.

  Z-69 felt it first.

  Not by skin — but by the absence of resistance around his body.

  The sand at his feet stopped flying, dust settled as if someone had turned off a giant fan.

  The air around him became… heavy.

  He inhaled out of habit.

  Nothing entered.

  His chest rose, then fell — but without that familiar sensation of cool air passing through.

  Only emptiness.

  The stands realized it seconds later when the camera zoomed in.

  “Eh… why is the sand still?”

  “That’s Galeon’s ability?!”

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  “Holy crap… he’s really choking him!!”

  Galeon remained where he stood, hands positioned before his chest as if holding an invisible sphere.

  The rings on his wrists emitted a faint vibration, humming like an old machine sighing.

  “I’ll be polite.” he said, voice echoing. “I’ll give you… ten seconds to surrender before you stop breathing.”

  Z-69 took another breath.

  Still… emptiness.

  His lungs began to contract by instinct.

  A normal human in a vacuum-like zone would panic immediately, heart racing, mind blurring from lack of oxygen, organs screaming.

  Z-69 felt none of that.

  His heartbeat didn’t change.

  The dizziness he expected — did not come.

  Instead, one thing rose violently, the memory of the human body he once had, kicking and screaming inside him:

  “You must breathe, you must breathe, or you’ll die.”

  His body began to “struggle”, not from oxygen loss — but from habit.

  His chest convulsed, throat tried to swallow nonexistent air.

  His shoulders tightened, jaw clenched.

  From the stands, he looked exactly like someone being drained of air.

  “That’s it!! Look!!”

  “69 has to breathe too!!”

  “No one beats Galeon up close!!”

  “Z-69…” Lumina clawed the railing, metal screeching.

  John said nothing.

  Galeon lowered one hand, the other still gripping the “air ball.”

  “Twenty seconds.” he said. “Most people kneel around now. You’re impressive, 69.”

  Z-69 stared back coldly, though his chest continued to heave, no longer in natural rhythm.

  His half-human, half-zombie brain started to notice something wrong.

  “I don’t feel dizzy.”

  “My heart isn’t racing.”

  “My lungs aren’t burning.”

  “So why… am I…”

  Then he realized:

  the sharpest feeling wasn’t “dying” —it was irritation.

  Like a machine running a habit loop that no longer applied.

  “I… am a zombie.”

  The thought snapped into place, short, sharp.

  Not human.

  No air exchange.

  No oxygen in blood.

  Everything inside him driven by the crystal in his chest.

  He knew this.

  John had told him.

  He’d heard it.

  But that knowledge had never reached his instincts.

  Until now.

  Galeon tilted his head back, tightening his grip on the invisible air.

  The remaining air around Z-69 — already thin — vanished completely.

  His skin pulled taut, hair lifting slightly, the sand sinking around his feet.

  This time, his instincts panicked violently.

  HIT.

  INHALE.

  His chest spasmed hard enough for his ribs to creak.

  Nothing entered.

  His eyes narrowed.

  His grip on the blade tightened, tip plunging deeper into sand.

  The stands howled:

  “HE’S ABOUT TO FALL!!”

  “KNEEL!! KNEEL!!”

  “GALEON!! SQUEEZE HIM!!”

  Galeon stepped forward, smile widening.

  “You’re strong, but you’re still human.” he said. “Beautiful. I always love this moment. The moment a creature realizes where it’s heading.”

  He closed his eyes slightly, savoring it.

  Z-69 stared at him, eyes turning a deeper violet, thunder buried behind them.

  “Am I… about to die?”

  He listened to himself.

  No.

  No fading vision.

  No dark spots crawling in.

  No ringing in the ears.

  No slowing of the world.

  Only distant wind outside the vacuum, the rattling metal, and—the monitoring band on his wrist, calmly glowing green.

  No energy shortage.

  No Hunger.

  Nothing threatening his real life except…the illusion his instincts insisted on.

  “I do not… need…” he muttered, voice strained not from lack of air but from resisting the habit to breathe.

  His nails dug into the blade’s grip.

  His chest stopped rising.

  He forcibly halted the motion — stopping a cycle his body has followed since birth.

  His body trembled in revolt.

  But the crystal beneath his armor — glowing faint purple — did not care.

  It kept feeding energy, steady and unstoppable.

  In the stands, Lumina froze, breath caught.

  “Z-69…?!”

  John adjusted his glasses, a slow smirk forming.

  “Good.” he murmured. “You finally remembered.”

  Galeon opened his eyes again.

  He waited for the final panic —but it never came.

  Instead of gasping, contestant 69 simply… stood.

  Chest still.

  Shoulders relaxed.

  Throat motionless.

  His violet gaze locked onto Galeon — unnervingly calm.

  The only movement on his face… was the faintest lift of his lips.

  “I understand now.” Z-69 said.

  The speakers captured his voice even in the suffocated zone — filtered, but clear.

  Galeon faltered.

  “W–what?” For the first time, his voice broke. “You—”

  Z-69 lifted his foot, pulling the blade from the sand.

  In that instant, the vacuum was no longer a chain — only a variable.

  Low pressure.

  Thin air.

  Irrelevant.

  His zombie nerves didn’t care.

  His muscles were powered by the crystal.

  No lungs needed.

  Human limits no longer applied.

  He moved.

  There was no whistling of wind — it had all been stolen — but the sand blasted backward as he dashed, leaving a carved trench behind him.

  Galeon’s face changed.

  “Wait—”

  He lifted both hands, tightening the vacuum, collapsing the entire desert’s air around Z-69, hoping to crush him under pressure.

  But Z-69 didn’t need air.

  He surged across the hardened sand as if sprinting on steel.

  Each footstep detonated tiny sand explosions behind him.

  The crowd fell silent for two heartbeats — then erupted:

  “WHY IS HE STILL RUNNING?!”

  “HOW WITHOUT AIR?!”

  “HE REALLY DOESN’T NEED OXYGEN?! WHAT IS HE?!”

  Cameras zoomed in on Z-69’s face:

  Those violet eyes showed no burst blood vessels.

  No signs of suffocation.

  No panic.

  Galeon stumbled backward, fingers twisting desperately.

  “You can’t!” he screamed, all composure gone. “You MUST suffocate! All of you! ALL OF YOU HAVE TO!!”

  Z-69 reached him in under three seconds.

  Lightning flashed across his blade.

  He didn’t slash for the throat — unnecessary.

  He swung upward, cutting across Galeon’s wrist where the metal rings glowed.

  SLASH!

  Purple electricity devoured the metal.

  The air-control device split, sparking violently.

  The vacuum collapsed with a muted boom.

  Air rushed inward, creating a violent backwind across the arena.

  Galeon was thrown backward by his own return wind.

  He staggered, slipping on the sand.

  Z-69 did not chase like a frenzied butcher.

  He took one more step, blade leveled.

  “Your ability only works on normal humans.” he said.

  It wasn’t boastful.

  It was a conclusion.

  Galeon stared at him, eyes trembling.

  “What… are you?” he whispered.

  Z-69 tilted his head, asking himself the same question.

  A few words appeared, then vanished like corrupted data.

  “I…” he said softly. “I’m not sure anymore.”

  Galeon raised his remaining hand, trying to twist the last bit of air.

  Z-69 didn’t let him.

  He lunged — like a humanoid thunderbolt — and drove the pommel of his blade, not the edge, into Galeon’s chest.

  THUD!

  Galeon flew backward, slamming into a metal pillar, then slid down.

  He coughed violently, chest contracting, unable to stand.

  “CONTESTANT GALEON – UNABLE TO CONTINUE.”

  The robot MC’s voice echoed — this time lacking drama, as if even its script hadn’t prepared for this.

  “WINNER: CONTESTANT NUMBER 69.”

  “ADVANCING TO THE NEXT MATCH.”

  A moment of stunned silence—then the arena erupted like a detonated engine:

  “69, 69, 69!!”

  “HE WON WITHOUT BREATHING?!”

  “WHAT THE HELL IS HE?!”

  “AMAZING!! LET HIM FIGHT AGAIN!!”

  Up in the stands, Elise leaned slightly forward, hand resting on the railing, lips curling into a subtle, unreadable smile.

  “Excellent.” she said softly, tasting the words.

  John flicked away his extinguished cigarette, crushing it under his boot.

  “He finally figured it out.” he muttered. “Slow, but better than never.”

  Beside him, Lumina let go of the railing, body going limp with fading tension.

  “I… thought he was really going to suffocate.” she whispered, half relieved, half angry.

  Down on the field, Z-69 stood in the artificial desert, blade embedded in the sand.

  His chest remained still for several more seconds.

  He let his body continue… not breathing, burning the sensation into himself.

  As if forcing a software update into his instincts.

  Slowly, he inhaled.

  Not because he needed it.

  But because it felt… familiar.

  The monitoring band glowed green.

  No Hunger spike.

  No energy drop.

  No alerts.

  “What am I?” he asked himself again — with no answer.

  He only knew one fact:

  He was still standing.

  Galeon was not.

  That was enough for the arena.

  Z-69 pulled his blade from the sand and turned toward the corridor.

  Artificial wind resumed, lifting sand into the air, hiding the lingering purple glow in his eyes.

  Lumina raced along the railing, chasing his silhouette.

  “Z-69!!! Wait for me!!!”

  On the giant holo-board, the new update flashed:

  [ROUND 3 – ARENA]

  CONTESTANT 69: 2 MATCHES – 2 WINS – 0 LOSSES

  Below it, an automatic comment appeared:

  RESPIRATION STATUS: UNDEFINED.

  No one paid attention to that line for more than a few seconds.

  But for Z-69, it was both truth… and another unanswered question.

  He still didn’t know what he was.

  He only knew that each match, each opponent, each breath—or lack of breath—brought him closer to the answer.

  And ahead, Round 3 still had one more match waiting.