The door sealed behind him with a dull thunk.
Ronin stepped into a massive, empty chamber—metal walls, smooth flooring, glowing panels high above casting sterile white light across the arena. No observers, no cheers, just silence. Even the official hadn't followed him in.
It was just him… and the anticipation.
Another door slid open across from him.
Zeke Glade entered.
Mid-thirties, average build, brown hair slicked back with practiced precision. His clothes weren't for combat—they were rich, embroidered, custom-fitted. Every thread screamed luxury. This guy didn't fight for survival. He fought for fun.
He didn't say a word. His expression was unreadable, blank as a wall.
Bzzt.
A cold, mechanical voice crackled through a ceiling intercom.
"Begin."
Neither moved.
They stood, watching, weighing, reading. Ronin took in the slight shift in Zeke's posture, the way his fingers twitched, coiled, ready to counter. Too calm. Too smooth. This guy wasn't just another rich idiot—he'd trained.
But Ronin wasn't patient.
With a sharp breath, he exploded forward.
Zeke's eyes widened. Just for a heartbeat—but that was enough. The man threw up a palm on instinct and—
FOOSH. A blast of shimmering blue water surged from his hand.
Ronin skidded to a stop, thrust up his own palm, and—
WHOOOM. A geyser of fire collided with the torrent of water.
Steam detonated outward, blanketing the chamber in white mist, hissing and curling around them like ghosts.
Zeke leapt back, coughing, wiping sweat from his brow.
Ronin didn't follow. He stood still, eyes narrowing.
He saw it. His fire was eating Zeke's water. Not just neutralizing it—consuming it.
Zeke gave a bitter smile, almost impressed. "Magical's B-rank, huh?"
Ronin tilted his head. "Yours?"
"C-rank."
Well, He wouldn't be in the tournament unless something was B-rank.
Physical, then.
Ronin's lips curled into a grin. That explained it. He could end this now—blast Zeke into the wall, win without breaking a sweat. But something in him resisted the easy route.
He didn't come here for a clean win. He came to get stronger.
He wanted to feel the limit—and break it.
Ronin dropped his arms. Fire faded.
No more magic.
He lunged.
Fists first.
Zeke blinked, caught off guard again, but reacted fast. He sidestepped the incoming hook and countered with a vicious right straight.
CRACK. The blow connected with Ronin's cheek, jarring his jaw.
Fuck, that hurt.
Zeke was smooth, efficient—every strike sharp, no wasted motion. It wasn't about power. It was technique. Muscle memory trained into his bones.
Ronin barely kept up, swaying out of the way of the next punch, but the third caught his ribs. The fourth grazed his brow.
Any sane person would've backed off. Thrown fire. Ended it.
But Ronin wasn't here to play it safe.
He could feel it—that faint thrumming in his skull.
The crystal.
Each blow, each dodge, each exchange... it was building something. It wasn't heat. It wasn't mana.
It was data.
He wasn't sure how he knew—but the crystal in his head was absorbing every movement, every pattern Zeke made. Ten percent. Fifteen.
Zeke grunted mid-swing, annoyed. "You're strong. Why aren't you using your fire?"
Ronin didn't answer. He just swung again.
Missed. Again.
Zeke jabbed his chest, elbowed his neck, and shoved him back.
"You won't win close-range," he muttered. "I've trained since I was six."
Ronin staggered, eyes burning, sweat dripping. Twenty-five percent. Thirty. Forty.
He grinned through bloodied teeth.
"Good. Then I'm learning from the best."
Zeke hesitated at that. Just a flicker of confusion—and Ronin used it to press forward. The beating continued. Fists to the face. A knee to the gut. His breath rattled in his lungs.
Seventy percent. Eighty. Ninety-five.
Almost there.
Zeke ducked low and swept Ronin's legs. He hit the floor hard, stars flashing behind his eyes. Then—
BOOM. A heavy boot slammed into his ribs and sent him rolling.
Ninety-nine.
Zeke stepped closer, drawing back for one final blow—
The crystal clicked.
One hundred.
And the world... shifted.
The energy dispersed instantly—not like a wave of power, not like a boost in strength—but clarity.
Everything slowed.
Zeke moved. But Ronin saw it before he moved. Every twitch of his muscle was like a signpost. Every breath gave away his next step.
It wasn't power. It was prediction.
And suddenly—
Ronin couldn't be touched.
Zeke threw a sharp left. Ronin leaned an inch. It missed by a mile.
Zeke swung a flurry of precise jabs. Ronin weaved, ducked, sidestepped like he'd choreographed it days ago.
The calm was euphoric.
Ronin didn't think.
He knew.
A gap opened. He didn't hesitate.
BOOM. His fist buried into Zeke's ribs.
The older man flew back, tumbling end over end.
Ronin watched him hit the floor, clutching his side.
He could feel the crystal... dormant now. Like it had downloaded Zeke's entire moveset and now waited for a new target.
Zeke got up, barely. "What the hell happened? You're… different."
Ronin's eyes were cold. Calculating. "Am I?"
Zeke charged—super speed now, faster than before. Desperation in his steps.
But Ronin saw it. He knew it.
He caught Zeke's wrist mid-swing and—SMASH. His other fist shattered into Zeke's jaw.
Zeke's body reeled back—but it jerked to a stop.
Ronin hadn't let go.
And he didn't stop swinging.
BAM.
BAM.
BAM.
Each strike more brutal than the last. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. Zeke struggled, twisted, finally yanked free and stumbled back—
His face was a wreck.
And for a second—Ronin stared, wide-eyed.
He had done that.
He didn't even realize how far he went. Normally, he would've stopped after a few good hits. But this… this felt too good.
The power. The control. The certainty.
Was the crystal changing him?
Zeke collapsed to one knee, blood dripping from his mouth. "I… I concede."
The door hissed open. Medics rushed in.
Ronin didn't wait.
He turned and walked out, heart hammering, fists still clenched.
Outside, the other awakeners turned as he emerged.
They hadn't seen the fight. Not a single moment. Zeke was still inside. The air was thick with uncertainty.
Oren and Aurelia both stared, waiting.
Ronin turned toward the corridor marked Winners—and walked.
Oren nodded to himself, satisfied.
Then—
Zeke stumbled into view behind him.
His face was unrecognizable. Limping. Blood trailing behind him.
The silence broke.
"Holy shit," someone whispered. "That guy is fucking brutal."
Brock barked a laugh, eyes gleaming. "Now that's what I'm talking about. That's how you leave a damn opponent."
His lackeys murmured agreement.
Oren and Aurelia exchanged a glance. No words. Just a silent acknowledgement.
This was only the beginning.
And the matches… were only going to get worse.