The data shimmered across the projection screen.
Dirga sifted through it all—names, stats, affiliations, and brutal footage of each seeded fighter in action.
Each clip was worse than the last.
Blazing infernos. Imploding minds. Choirs of death. Monsters wrapped in human flesh and something far worse wrapped in illusions of beauty. And still—he watched.
One by one, he dissected their movements. How they opened a fight. How they ended one.
Then he filtered through their abilities. Not just what they did—but how they thought.
"...Already started scanning them, huh?" Sasa’s voice came from the far end of the long dining table, muffled slightly by the half loaf of spiced flatbread stuffed in his mouth.
Dirga didn’t respond. He was still watching a slowed replay of Irmadax melting through a fortress wall—with himself.
"...You already know how the energy paths work, right?" Sasa asked, taking another bite of something that steamed and hissed unnaturally on the plate.
Dirga finally glanced up, eyes sharp as gravity blades. "Thanks for not explaining it sooner."
Sasa just grinned and lifted both hands in a mock apology. "Hey, come on. You figured it out. Isn’t that the fun part?"
He’d pieced most of it together while registering for the City ID—how the city’s levels worked, how the power paths affected rank, and how it all boiled down to one thing: who survived.
It wasn’t just about strength. It was about adaptability. About awareness. Knowing when to strike and when to hold back. In this place, hesitation was just another way to bleed.
Sasa kept going. "There’s an age cap on Hell Roulette, remember? One hundred and fifty years. Most of these people are still in the lower levels of refinement—Level 1, maybe Level 2 if they’re freakishly talented."
Dirga’s brow twitched. "So even the top seeds..."
"Yup." Sasa nodded. "Just stronger toddlers. But toddlers with knives."
Dirga leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "There are six main paths to refine energy, right? Soulcraft, Aetherbody, Spiritflare, Manacode, Elementlink, and Luminarach..."
He paused. "Which one’s the best?"
Sasa stopped chewing.
He gave a thoughtful hum, tapped two fingers on his chin, and finally raised three fingers into the air.
"Hardest? Soulcraft. Strongest? Soulcraft." He dropped the other two fingers. "But it’s the slowest. No inheritance. No blueprints. You make your own path, your own abilities. It’s like sculpting a mountain with your hands while the others are following paved roads."
Dirga folded his arms, thoughtful.
"But..." Sasa’s grin returned, a little wilder this time. "That’s why it’s the strongest. You don’t just use your powers—you own them. They’re tailor-made to your mind, your instincts, your will. A Soulcrafter who masters their craft is a walking singularity."
"That rare?" Dirga asked, eyes narrowing.
Sasa laughed softly, but there was no humour in it. "Rare. Most people don’t have the patience. They want quick results, flashy moves, borrowed scripts. Soulcraft is different. It demands everything. If you’re not ready to break yourself a thousand times just to rebuild better, you don’t last."
Dirga said nothing. He didn’t need to.
His Concept—the Black Star—was already carving its own rules.
"But if someone on a different path can master 100% of their energy? Same result." Sasa pointed at him with his chopsticks. "In the end, it comes down to one thing: skill."
Silence hung between them for a few moments.
Outside the estate, the light from Sector A’s artificial stars bathed the windows in a cool, synthetic twilight.
Inside, the room was quiet. Refined. Simple, but rich. Polished marble. Golden etchings. Nothing screamed wealth—but everything whispered it.
Dirga stood and turned his gaze toward the wall screen again.
One last look at the top nine.
He wasn’t intimidated.
His mind wasn’t just memorizing opponents. It was mapping possibilities. Pressure points. Weaknesses layered beneath pride. That was the real game—seeing not just the fight, but the shape of the fighter behind it.
Breakfast ended in quiet tension. Plates were cleared, news feeds muted, and the golden light filtering through the estate’s tall windows cast long, meditative shadows.
Of course he did. fr\(e)ew(e)b.(n)o (v)(e)l.com
Legs crossed in the air, spinning slowly in place, a half-empty teacup hovering beside him like an obedient satellite. The devil looked far too comfortable, as if gravity had never once been his concern.
"This devil really loves to float..." Dirga muttered under his breath.
"So," Sasa began, turning lazily mid-air like a drifting leaf, "what do you want to do now?"
Dirga raised an eyebrow. "You’re asking me?"
Sasa smirked. "Why not?"
Dirga leaned back, folding his arms. His voice turned dry. "Let’s see... You trained me, threw me at Lucian, trained me again, then dropped me into a hell-forest with no food, no support, and no warning."
Sasa held up a hand like a waiter holding back a check. "I gave you one word."
Dirga’s glare deepened. "Survive doesn’t count."
Sasa chuckled. "Sure it does. Great life advice."
Dirga exhaled sharply. "What’s your plan now, then? More cryptic training? Another death gauntlet?"
The devil finally stopped spinning. He floated down just a bit, enough to meet Dirga’s eyes.
"You’re free until the tournament."
Sasa shrugged mid-air and made a finger-flicking gesture—what Dirga had come to recognize as his version of the whatever emoji.
"Yeah. You earned it. Spend the days however you like. Rest. Train. Gamble. Stab someone in the street if you’re bored—I hear that’s popular in Sector C."
Dirga narrowed his eyes. "No mission? No secret test?"
"Nope." Sasa spun again. "You already passed what mattered. The rest? Up to you."
Dirga didn’t move, didn’t answer right away.
But his mind was already racing.
Two weeks. That’s all he had until Hell Roulette. No more forced trials. No more dictated paths. Which meant...
The Black Star was his to sharpen.
And if this time was his—
He’d make damn sure of it.