The Colosseum was a hurricane of sound. In the center stage, the participant Eron was mid-climax, his flashy flames illuminating the faces of thousands. But I sat in the darkest corner of the upper tiers, my ears—enhanced by mana signals—tracking thirty-seven distinct sounds that the rest of the world ignored. I had no flashy skills yet; I had only my raw experience and the tactical data I had gathered from the Elven team.
This team from another planet had approached me after my previous match. They were a unique group, none holding mastery over a single element, but all possessing above-average affinity in three. They were survivors who had spent their rest hours monitoring the "revive center" waiting rooms. Through a telepathic link with a fallen teammate currently awaiting revival in the void-space, they had intercepted a hidden mission alert: thirty-seven assassins were being deployed to eliminate participants and secure "revive slots" for themselves. They saw me as an experienced close-combat hunter and offered me command. Driven by "Benefit Logic," the flicker of starving children in my memories had flashed briefly before I accepted. I've had to become.
"Commander?" the Elven leader whispered now, his voice trembling behind the mana-barrier they had cast to mask our sounds.
"Five minutes," I replied, my voice a flat line. "Eron ends this in five minutes. If a single arrow is fired after that, we are exposed. You cover the South. I take the North."
I moved. I didn't run; I blurred.
Nearby, Lysandria stood perfectly still. As a mana-forged arrow was aimed directly at her heart, she didn't seem bothered by it at all. Her face remained a mask of eerie calm. I watched her, wondering if she was simply waiting for a miracle she was certain would come, or if she truly wanted to die. Either way, she stood there with a determination that bordered on the suicidal.
[Thwip.]
The sniper's arrow hissed, but I was faster. I appeared in the shadow of a pillar, my face an expressionless mask of cold efficiency. I didn't look at her; she was simply an objective to be secured. Aeldir, sensing a shift in the air, whipped his head around. He saw me and opened his mouth to shout, but I flashed a sharp "Silent" gesture. Stay out of the way, the gesture commanded. Aeldir froze, stunned by the authority in my eyes.
The massacre was silent. I snapped necks and severed arteries, while the Elves used illusions to hide the growing pile of corpses. Suddenly, a hidden assassin lunged from the floorboards toward Lysandria's back. I saw the poison on the dagger. My Draconian blood and regeneration made me the only one who could survive it. It wasn't a hero's sacrifice; it was a calculated trade.
I stepped into the path. The blade sank deep into my shoulder. With a sickening crunch, I twisted the assassin's head 180 degrees. I pulled the dagger out with a wet slide. The flesh around the entry point had already begun to dot and decay from the high-tier toxin, but within seconds, the black rot was consumed by my own boiling blood. The tissue knitted together before the first drop of blood could hit the floor. I cast a simple, low-tier healing spell over the area to close the surface skin, leaving nothing but a faint pink line.
As Eron's fight ended, a heavy, static pressure filled my skull. It wasn't just a notification; it was a weight.
[A new 'Story' has been born.]
[Story Name: Prophet who Discarded Assassination]
[Status: Mythic Rumor]
[Description: The Prophet who sees and mends with the future of an assassination mission.]
The air in my lungs still tasted of copper. I didn't feel the "heroism" the story implied; I only felt the cold math of survival. Thirty-seven variables deleted. Objective secured.
I signaled my squad to move. We moved toward the shadows of the corridor, ignoring the official praise.
The sound of rhythmic footsteps approached from behind. It was Lysandria's group. I didn't turn around. I didn't know who she was to me, and I didn't care to find out. I only knew that I was a slave in a tournament of gods, and my time was better spent preparing for the next slaughter.
Suddenly, the group stopped. Lysandria, Aeldir, and their entire team sank into a deep, formal bow. It was a sign of grace and absolute gratitude—a recognition of the life-debt they now owed to a nameless team of elven outcasts and their silent commander.
I didn't acknowledge the bow. I didn't give them the satisfaction of a glance. I simply took a deep breath and continued walking into the dark.