The spear pierced through bone and metal and flame.
The Dullahan’s head rolled from its hand.
The light in the beast’s eyes died out.
And Dirga collapsed to one knee.
Breathing like he’d just come out of a war.
But the arena didn’t shift.
Didn’t pull him back yet.
Sasa appeared above him in a throne of floating dice.
"You survived. Again. I’m so proud," he said with a wink.
Dirga just held up a single finger.
Sasa gave him a salute.
And Dirga vanished — returning to his penthouse, where rest and memory waited for him.
The peace was familiar now. Almost comforting.
First came the hot shower — water tracing the cuts and bruises that hadn’t fully healed.
Then sleep. Deep. Still. Dreamless.
The next morning, the ritual continued.
He dressed simply: hoodie, sweatpants, and quiet determination.
Telling him about what just happened
He always kissed her forehead before he left.
And he always whispered the same thing:
"Wait for me. I’ll save you."
Back in the penthouse, time passed like breath.
The next wave was coming.
The pattern had solidified:
Fifty fights, a break.
Then push to the boss.
Now? It would be harder.
Sasa appeared while floating on his back in midair, eating popcorn from a bag labeled "Suffering – Extra Crunchy."
"199 fights this time," he said cheerfully. "Then the boss at 200. Should be fun."
Dirga’s jaw clenched.
"How many days has it been?"
"Fifteen." Sasa grinned. "You’re halfway through the month."
Dirga knew what that meant.
And they weren’t just insects anymore.
The camouflage had evolved — some now shimmered with light-refraction cloaking, others could phase slightly out of space.
Some were fast enough that even sensing them wasn’t enough.
Like betrayal under the skin.
Even the Crimson Core struggled now.
It did its best — forming needles, shields, shifting into weapons and tools in response to Dirga’s will — but the sheer number of threats strained even his sharpened instincts.
And still, he endured.
By the third round of training, something in Dirga had changed.
His stamina, reflexes, and precision had all sharpened — honed through pain, repetition, and an endless swarm of enemies and mosquitoes.
He wasn’t just fighting anymore.
This time, Dirga pushed through 145 brutal matches before needing a break.
But the boss at Match 200?
Not just any zombie — this one looked like it crawled out of the worst kind of apocalypse.
Towering taller than most ogres, its frame looked like it had been chiseled from rotting stone — slabs of dense, decaying muscle stitched together over bones thick as steel girders. Veins bulged black and pulsing. Flesh sloughed and regenerated constantly, like it didn’t know whether it was dying or healing.
It didn’t speak. It didn’t grunt.
It just came at Dirga — a storm of raw instinct and monstrous brutality.
No rhythm. No form. No tactics.
No mind games. No illusions.
Just strength against strength.
But this one... this one was too strong.
Every strike Dirga landed, it shrugged off.
Every slash, every blow — repaired.
Torn muscles regenerated before the blood hit the ground.
Bones cracked back into place with sickening snaps.
Eyes that should’ve been gone blinked back open.
Dirga narrowed his eyes.
One blow. That was the answer.
He focused his breathing. Centered his weight.
Then reached for the Crimson Core.
It pulsed in his hand like it already knew.
With a thought, he unraveled it — the dice transforming into a crimson bandage, winding tightly around his arm, glowing faintly like burning thread.
He flexed his fingers. Closed his fist.
"Punch Style: Collapsing One Point."
His body moved like a coiled comet.
He leapt — pulled the creature toward him with gravity — and met it halfway with a punch that carried everything he had.
The air folded in on itself.
And the zombie’s chest caved in — not like something that had been hit, but like something that had been devoured by a singularity.
A dying star collapsing in its center.
The beast didn’t get up.
Dirga stood there, breathing hard, arm trembling, blood dripping down his jaw.
Another monster down.
And the path forward still endless.
After another brief return to peace, Dirga did what had become routine.
A shower to wash away the blood and grit.
A change of clothes — yet another pair tossed into the garbage, too torn and stained to salvage.
A quiet visit to the hospital, to Naya.
He didn’t say much. Just held her hand. Whispered he was still fighting.
Three hundred ninety-nine matches.
Match 400 was the boss.
Twenty-two mosquitoes.
They no longer came in singles.
They arrived like storms.
Some came in clouds — drifting low, humming with death.
Others shot through the air like cursed bullets, their camouflage so advanced it was almost supernatural.
Each sting was agony.
His senses had evolved into something alien.
His perception no longer blinked.
He could see them — anticipate them — feel the air shift as they moved.
Most of them, he killed before they even had a chance to think about stinging him.
But still, they came.
And still, he fought.
Dirga had expected the final round to be 250.
That was the pattern.
But of course, Sasa never followed logic.
He just trained harder.
From match 200 to 299, Dirga didn’t use a single rest.
He’d stockpiled every minute, every meal, every breath.
But from 300 onward — the tone had changed.
The monsters grew tougher. Faster. Smarter.
Some exploded on death.
One had mimicked his own telekinetic attacks.
Harder. Smarter. Desperate.
He used three full rests between match 300 and 399.
And now, standing in the echoing silence after match 399, he could feel it.
His body was a battleground.
Mosquito welts burned like curses across his arms and neck.
Crimson carved rivers along his ribs.
His right thigh bled openly from a deep gash, soaking the arena floor in dark red pools.
Dirga stood alone in that broken colosseum of hell.
And without hesitation, he lifted his head and said to the sky:
"Use all of it. Rest. Food. Water. Everything."
He didn’t care if the final fight killed him.
But he wasn’t going to crawl into it half-prepared.
Because the final boss was waiting.
And Dirga... would meet it head-on.