Using that opportunity, Egon moved.
The axe slammed down into the sand with a heavy crunch, missing him by inches.
Dust exploded.
He twisted, driven by adrenaline, and slashed toward the man’s ribs with a wide arc.
The sword scraped his flesh. Shallow—but it drew blood.
"What—"
The crowd roared. Not for him—but in surprise.
The burly man staggered back a step, his eyes narrowing in surprise.
Egon bet he must be thinking how he dodged.
"Well... You don’t know about my Omniscient eyes, do you?" he chuckled inwardly, finally getting some confidence.
"That’s it, runt?" he spat, lifting his axe again.
But Egon wasn’t the same as five seconds ago.
He could feel something inside him shifting. Like some invisible gear clicking into motion.
He had information. Knowledge. Cheats.
Even if he was weak now, he knew how the strong survived.
"If this is the start of the story... then I’ll write it in my name."
The man lunged again, his axe slicing the air in a brutal sweep.
Too wide.
Egon ducked low and slashed at his thigh. A clean hit this time.
He groaned, wobbling for a second.
As time passed, his movements were growing sloppy.
Egon wasn’t winning through strength.
He was surviving through foresight.
Although he managed to dodge the fatal blows, shallow cuts grazed across his skin, and each one burned like fire.
"You’re.. unbelievable, runt!" The Hercules growled between ragged breaths, kneeling on the ground, utterly exhausted.
Yet... no one called the match.
No signal of victory. No announcement of a draw.
That’s when it hit him: the match would only end when one of them was dead.
So he froze.
Defending himself was one thing. But killing a living breathing human?
The very thought made his stomach churn.
Just imagining it felt sickening.
"What are you hesitating for, runt?" he barked, lifting his gaze defiantly. "I don’t need your pity. Kill me now!"
"Yes, kill him!"
"Kill!"
"Make him bleed!"
The crowd, once hostile, now roared in bloodthirsty support.
But his hands trembled and his feet refused to move. The blade hovered inches from his opponent’s throat. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to strike.
Only now did he truly understand.
These fantastical worlds he once yearned for... they weren’t just about power, women, or fame.
They were about survival, ruthlessness, amd Cruelty.
And the courage it took for each "Protagonist" to abandon human morality... was far beyond what he had imagined.
But now—
He had to make that choice.
He had to cross that line.
So, he moved... and raised his sword high.
Whoosh!
Suddenly, Hercules lunged at him, springing like a beast. His hand thrust forward, revealing a short knife hidden under his sleeve.
"Amateur!" he roared mid-air, eyes blazing with desperate hunger for victory.
But Egon wasn’t the same helpless fool anymore.
With his Trait still active, his intention was already laid bare. Egon saw the tension in his wrist, the flicker of deception in his eyes, the concealed knife’s path.
He was ready.
He dropped low and drove his steel sword upward.
Puchi!
The blade tore through his abdomen and a hot spray of blood erupted, splattering across Egon’s face.
The metallic stench filled his nose. Warm droplets streaked down his cheeks and chin. His opponent’s wide eyes reflected disbelief, horror... and fear.
He coughed, blood foaming at the corners of his lips.
Then his body crumpled to the ground with a dull thud.
For a moment, Egon just stood there in silence.
Then he felt goosebumps crawl across his skin as he stared at the lifeless body crumpled before him.
He had done it. He killed someone.
But instead of feeling victorious, his stomach twisted with guilt. A heavy weight sank into his chest. The sword slipped from his hand and clanged against the blood-soaked ground.
"Why... why does this feel so wrong?"
Around him, the crowd erupted. A storm of noise.
Some screamed in wild excitement, drunk on bloodlust. Others cursed in disappointment, furious at losing their bets. Their voices blended into a deafening roar, one that made his very existence feel like a speck beneath a tidal wave.
Then—clank.
A section of the metal wall groaned and slid down, revealing a narrow exit passage lit by flickering torches.
It felt like the signal that he survived.
Heart racing, Egon stumbled toward the opening. His legs, heavy with fatigue and dread, moved on instinct. He didn’t dare look back. He feared the gate might shut again. That he’d be dragged back into the madness again.
And then suddenly—he saw him.
Beyond the steel bars at the passage’s end, leaning casually against the stone wall with a glint of annoyance in his violet eyes.
Silver-white hair.
That effortless charisma. That proud, noble posture.
Egon didn’t need anyone to tell him who he was.
The protagonist: Archon Ashborne.
The Heaven-blessed, plot-armored main character of this world.
In that instant, it all clicked.
Egon wasn’t even a rival or sidekick.
He was... him. The disposable extra. The nameless sword slave who died before the protagonist’s match. The one whose corpse was meant to set the tone for the next glorious battle.
A faceless stepping stone.
But not anymore. Not today.
Because now, he was still breathing. Still walking.
And fate had already made its first mistake.
Egon glanced at his face, envy twisting in his gut.
So perfect...
His silver-white hair shimmered under the arena’s torches. His features were sharp, elegant, almost ethereal.
What? You think appearance didn’t matter. No, it matters. If he had his looks, he could have become a boy toy of rich lady.
It’s not just abput looks. Not a speck of doubt or fear tainted his expression. Just calm, confident boredom. Like this world owed him victory.
He didn’t even spare Egon a glance.
Why would he?
Egon probably looked like trash as he was filthy, bruised, blood-splattered. His skin stung with cuts, and his limbs still trembled from the fight.
Archon passed him without a word, without a thought.
Archon Ashborne: The world’s darling.
He walked into the arena like it belonged to him. And maybe it did.
Egon stopped there, just beyond the gate, hidden in the shadows. He should’ve kept moving, but something rooted him in place.
Curiosity? Spite? Or maybe he just wanted to see him bleed. To prove he wasn’t untouchable.
He already knew the outcome of the fight. He had read this Chapter before. Archon would win, of course. Decisively. The crowd would chant his name, and the world would celebrate another destined step toward greatness.
Still... Egon wanted to see it with his own eyes.
To see if fate was as flawless as the story claimed.