"What the fuck is this luck?"
Hector gripped the short sword that he had taken from a random corpse, pointing it toward the lion beast's chest.
The weight of the moment bore down on him, filling him with an overwhelming sense of pressure and tension.
That was the fear about what short time that he had
Each step felt like dragging lead weights, and fear consumed him. This was, without a doubt, the first time he had ever felt such raw terror.
Honestly, if anyone claimed they wouldn't be scared in a moment like this, Hector would think they were liars.
Everything had unfolded so quickly. He knew nothing about these damn creatures—his knowledge, once a source of pride, was now utterly useless. What had gotten him this far wasn't skill or brilliance; it was dumb luck.
As others hurled themselves at the lion beast, Hector fled, the stench of corpses choking the air around him. His mind spiraled with darkness. And yet, amid the chaos, his chance had come.
No one in the arena could have foreseen what came next.
No one believed the lion beast still had enough power for another strike.
It was supposed to be over.
The creature's previous mighty frame was left a mere echo of decay. Its body, once packed with muscle and thunderous, armored skin, had withered into a brittle shell of flesh and bone.
It was dying.
That final blow must have drained it, leaving it teetering on the brink of death. Hector couldn't afford to waste this godsent opening.
"Quickly! I need to finish this thing!" he shouted, his voice shaking with urgency. He lunged forward, knowing this might be his only shot.
The gap between him and the lion beast vanished—two meters, then one.
Thud!
The sound reverberated—subtle but visceral—as layers of flesh and steel met, marking the critical instant.
Right now, his sensations were entirely different, a strange fusion of anxiety and thrill. It was bizarre—almost unreal.
After all, the lion beast had fallen by his hand. Its body stiffened, now nothing more than a dead husk. Blood oozed from the stab wound in its chest, dyeing his hand a dark crimson.
The blade had pierced its heart, leaving no chance of survival—unless, by some grotesque miracle, the beast had two hearts.
Hector's rigid stare remained fixed on the creature's lifeless eyes, huge, as large as a human head. Slowly, he felt the tension in his body ease.
"Phew! Is it over?" he muttered, carefully pulling the sword free. His gaze lifted, meeting the eyes of the King, who had watched everything unfold with an unmistakable gleam of excitement.
But the King didn't utter a word. Instead, he simply smiled—silently, eerily.
Suddenly, a chill crept down Hector's spine as he caught the look in the King's eyes. It was as though the man was wordlessly saying him:
"Take a guess."
Hector's instincts kicked in. Without hesitation, he ran, putting distance between himself and the lion beast's corpse.
"Damn it! What now?" he growled, scowling as his eyes swept the surroundings with tense anticipation.
He wasn't alone in his unease. Everyone in the arena shared the same growing anxiety.
Yet, as the minutes ticked by, nothing occurred.
Thirty minutes later.
The crowd began to relax, though a layer of caution still lingered beneath the surface.
"Hey! You go ask the King!" someone whispered.
"No way! He'll kill me! You do it! I'll pray for you!"
An awkward hush fell over the group—no one willing to make the first move.
Hector, meanwhile, sat alone by a wall, resting his worn-out body. No one approached him. In truth, people were keeping their distance from one another entirely.
Naturally, no one dared to initiate another fight—not even the monsters. Everyone understood that dwindling their numbers themselves would only weaken the whole. If another beast were to show up, survival would become a distant dream.
Exhaustion.
Pain.
Dread.
One by one, they drifted into their own heads, consumed by private thoughts.
Then, cutting through the oppressive stillness, came the sound of footsteps—light, deliberate. The source moved straight toward Hector.
A beat of silence passed before Hector raised his gaze and narrowed his eyes. Slowly, he rose to his feet, now face-to-face with a ghostly-looking stranger.
"Hello," the newcomer greeted, lips curled into a sly grin. His eyes were nearly closed, as if studying Hector through slits rather than staring directly.
He was a man with perpetually narrowed eyes, dressed in what once resembled an elegant black yakuza-style outfit, now tattered and frayed from countless battles.
The instant Hector saw him, a single thought pierced his mind: Wolfe Clan.
The Wolfe Clan—one of the three dominant clans in existence. Famed for their unmatched swordsmanship, they had reached heights few could even dream of.
That truth made the man before him all the more threatening.
Hector knew better than to show any weakness. If he did, this one would seize it without mercy. Steeling himself, he responded in a flat, detached voice, "What do you want?"
"Nothing major. Just a few questions." The man's grin never faltered, though he shot a brief, wary glance at the King looming overhead.
Then his smile stretched wider. It seemed that there was something happening to him right now
"Answer every single one if you want to stay alive."
The casual threat sent a cold shiver down Hector's spine. His thoughts spiraled, buckling beneath the pressure. Words failed him for a moment, fear strangling his voice.
"What do you mean?" he finally choked out.
The pale man laughed—a cruel, sneering chuckle that sliced through the air like a blade.
Shing!
It happened too fast. A streak of light flashed before Hector's eyes, followed by the hiss of a blade being unsheathed.
A sharp sting bloomed on his forehead. Seconds later, the pain deepened as warm blood trickled down the bridge of his nose.
The pale man grinned, eyes locked on the thin line of red he'd carved into Hector's skin.
"So, you're not the hidden master I thought you might be," he sneered.
"Just a sly little rat, no backing, no real strength to speak of."
"Don't waste my time with empty words. I've seen everything you've done."
"Hell, you know it yourself," he added with a mocking curl of his lip. "You're not worth the top reward, you miserable rodent."
As the insults piled on, Hector's thoughts raced, clawing for a way out. The options were bleak.
With how poorly he had fought earlier, no one would buy the idea that he came from a prestigious clan. Any real member would've had elite training beaten into them since childhood.
But the guy in front of him? He had backing—serious backing. The kind of force that crushed mountains. You didn't toss around the word "massive" unless it meant something. Something terrifying.
Damn it, Hector cursed silently. Why do I always end up dealing with lunatics like this?
His odds of survival? Practically zero.
Fight back? Dead.Give up? Still dead.
Then, something snapped.
A quiet laugh slipped from Hector's mouth, catching even him off guard.
He stared at his opponent, gaze steady and oddly serene.
"You're right," he said with a crooked grin. "I'm just a rat."
The man cocked his head slightly, intrigued by the sudden composure.
"But listen carefully."
An eyebrow rose, curiosity now mixing with suspicion.
"Go on," the swordsman said with a soft, amused smile.
Hector let the silence simmer—then suddenly bellowed:
"I'm Hector Lyder! And I'm your grandfather!"
The arena froze.
"I know you've been searching for your grandpa!" he shouted again, voice echoing across the stunned crowd.
Pandemonium erupted.
"His grandfather?! He found him?!"
"A loyal child...how touching!"
"So moving! He's truly devoted!"
Whispers and gasps flooded the air. All eyes turned toward the pale man, their suspicion now replaced with sympathy and awkward admiration.
His face contorted, humiliation blooming across it like wildfire.
For the first time in years, he was speechless.
A tremor laced his voice as he hissed, "G-Good! If that's how you want to go out…"
With a snap, his sword was drawn again—faster than before.
"Then die!"