Chapter 158: The Arrogance of Indifference
The air in the designated waiting chamber was thick with the hum of teleportation magic and the low, simmering tension of warriors preparing for battle. Sam Lee stood before a full-length mirror, his movements languid and deliberate. He shrugged on his signature black coat, the fabric falling into place with a sharp, final sound, as if sealing a contract.
His assistant, a young man with a datapad clutched tightly in his sweaty hands, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The silence was unbearable.
"Sir," the assistant finally ventured, his voice a little too high. "As per your instructions, I've scheduled the meeting with the Hydrozoan delegates. But... if I may, sir... according to the registry—and I've checked it ten times to be sure—your tournament match is today. In fact, it begins in less than an hour. You've scheduled the meeting for just thirty minutes after your match is slated to end. Sir, with all due respect, could there have been... a misunderstanding?"
Sam Lee finished straightening his cuff. He turned his head slowly, his eyes landing on the assistant. A smile touched his lips, a thin, cold curve that held no warmth. It was a smile that promised consequences, a mere baring of teeth that conveyed more anger than a shout ever could.
"Do what you are told to do. Nothing more, nothing less," Sam's voice was dangerously soft, each word a shard of ice. "And before you speak such pointless words again, learn to read the mood in the room."
Without another glance, he turned and stepped onto the platform of his private teleporter. A shimmer of light enveloped him, and he was gone, leaving the assistant standing alone in the suddenly freezing room.
---
The transition was instantaneous. One moment, the sterile quiet of his chamber, the next, the roaring, open-air expanse of the Arena of the Shattered Spire. The ground was made of floating, interlocking hexagonal plates, with bottomless chasms yawning between them. The air thrummed with the energy of a thousand spectators.
Sam Lee emerged, his polished shoes clicking against the arena floor. He was late. And he was dressed for a boardroom, not a battlefield.
Across from him, his four opponents were already positioned, having used their extra minutes to size each other up and, perhaps, form fragile, unspoken alliances. Their frustration was a palpable force.
There was Grokk, a 20-meter-tall Titan, his green skin rippling over a physique carved from pure, raw power. His mere presence was a threat. Beside him, Ignis of the Phoenix Race beat his fiery wings, each feather a flicker of contained sunlight. Then there was Vrik, an Gandharva, his four muscular arms crossed over his chest, a master of speed and sonic attacks. And finally, AX-7, a Mecha, its entire right arm replaced with a multi-barreled plasma cannon that hummed with lethal charge.
They had all arrived early, hoping to strategize, to manipulate, to betray, or to assess—to do whatever was necessary to be the one victor in this brutal game of 1 in 5.
And then Sam Lee had arrived. Two minutes before the start. In a suit and coat.
Their collective anger was a simmering volcano. It was an insult. A blatant disregard for their power, for the sanctity of the tournament, for the very danger they represented.
Grokk the Titan let out a low growl that vibrated through the arena plates. Ignis hissed, a sound like steam escaping a boiler. Vrik's four hands clenched into fists. AX-7's optical sensors whirred, focusing on the immaculate man before them.
Forcing their rage down, they tried to approach him. Maybe they could still use this, turn his arrogance against him. But they never got the chance.
Sam Lee ignored them completely. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a single cigarette, and placed it between his lips. With a casual flick of his thumb, a small flame ignited at its tip. He took a long, slow drag, the ember glowing bright red against the backdrop of the arena. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, then exhaled a perfect, contemptuous ring into the air between them.
"I don't care about your planning," he said, his voice cutting through the ambient noise like a scalpel. "Your whispers, your alliances, your pathetic schemes. It's all background noise. Save us all the time. Come. All four of you. At once."
The silence that followed was deafening. Then, it was shattered by a roar—from the crowd and from his opponents. He had not just rejected their unspoken rules; he had stomped on them. He had placed himself, deliberately and without a shred of doubt, on every single one of their nerves. He was not just a participant; he was a man who had already decided he was the curator of this fight, and they were merely his exhibits.
He's insane, the Phoenix thought.
He has a death wish,the Gandharva concluded.
I will crush him into paste,the Titan roared inwardly.
Target priority reassigned. Maximum force authorized,the Mecha calculated.
In that moment, any thought of fighting each other vanished. A common, singular goal united them: erase the arrogant human in the black coat from the face of the arena.
BZZZZZZZZZT!
The starting timer blared, its sound swallowed almost instantly by the explosive charge of four supremely powerful beings, all launching themselves with murderous intent at a single, unmoving man, who simply took another calm drag from his cigarette. The storm was here. And Sam Lee stood at its eye, perfectly still, and utterly, terrifyingly calm. The real meeting was about to begin.
to be continued…