The left triplet comes in low, sword angles toward Leon’s ribs. The right triplet mirrors him perfectly, his blade seeking Leon’s throat. Behind them, the third brother holds position, sword poised to exploit any openings.
Leon twists to the left. The blade aimed at his throat whistles past his ear, the wind from the strike brushing against him. The low blade catches his thigh instead of his ribs, steel parting cloth and skin. Blood wells immediately.
He fires at the left attacker, the manna around burning the air where the triplet had been. In the same heartbeat, all three shifts position, rotating their triangle formation clockwise around him.
The right triplet’s blade sweeps horizontally. Leon ducks just in time, steel carving empty space above his head. As he straightens, the third brother lunges from behind. Leon spins, bringing his gun up. The triplet’s sword scrapes along the barrel, sparks flying.
They reset formation instantly: one to the left, another to the right, and the third one to the center, All with perfect spacing. Leon turns in place, desperately trying to track all three. His wounded thigh throbs with each step.
The left triplet feints high, then cut low at Leon’s knees. Leon jumps backward, but his heel catches the arena’s edge, stone scraping his back.
The right triplet presses forward, his blade slicing across Leon’s forearm. Shallow but precise. Blood trickles down to his knuckles, and Leon’s grip on the gun slips.
The center triplet steps closer, and all three closes the distance together, tightening their triangle. Leon has maybe three feet of space left.
They strike in sequence: the left blade goes high, the right blade at attacks at mid-level, and the center blade comes low.
Leon throws himself sideways. The high blade misses, but the middle blade catches his shirt, tearing fabric while the low blade bites into his calf.
He rolls across the sand and comes up firing. The manna round punches into the left triplet’s shoulder. He grunts but doesn’t fall, blood soaks his shirt.
All three adjusts their formation to accommodate their wounded brother. The left triplet moves to a support position while the other two takes point.
Leon’s back hit stone again, he is trapped.
The right triplet smiled. "Finished."
Both point fighters charges together, their timing perfect, with no gap between them.
Leon aims at the ground between their feet and fires.
Manna explodes against the stone, sending debris erupting upwards. Sharp fragments stings his exposed skin, and both attackers also stumbles, their flawless synchronization shattered.
Seizing the moment, Leon lunges through the gap. His gun barrel connected with the right triplet’s jaw, and he hears the bone cracking. The fighter’s eyes rolls back as he collapses.
The left triplet screams, raw fury replacing his earlier calculated precision. He raises his sword with both hands and brings it down in a vicious overhead strike.
Leon grabs the unconscious brother’s body and drags it between himself and the descending blade. Steel bites deep into dead flesh instead of living.
The sword sticks to the body, and the triplet struggles to wrench it free.
Leon presses the muzzle of his gun against the corpse’s chest, angling the shot toward the struggling fighter, and pulls the trigger.
The manna round punches through ribs and sternum, emerging from the dead body’s back and continuing into the living triplet’s chest cavity.
Blood erupts from thesecond brother’s chest as he folds over the wound, his sword clattering to his sand. His legs gives out, and he collapses beside his sibling’s corpse.
The last surviving triplet stares at his fallen brothers, blood dripping from his wounded shoulder onto the sand. His sword hand trembles.
"We don’t lose," he whispers, his voice thick with anger and fear. "Never lose."
But instead of fleeing, rage consumes him. He screams, expressing a raw, animalistic fury, as he charges at Leon with his blade raised high.
Leon sidesteps, letting the triplet’s momentum carry him past. The gun barrel cracks against the back of the fighter’s skull. He stumbles but manages to stayed upright.
Spinning around, the last brother slashes wildly, steel whistling through the air. Leon jerks backward, narrowly avoiding the blade that was haphazardly going for his throat, by mere inches.
Determined, the triplet presses forward. Blood leaks from his wounded shoulder, but it dioesn’t slow him down. He swings horizontally at Leon’s ribs.
Leon ducks, the sword sweeping over his head. Rising quickly, he drives the stick of his gun into the triplet’s stomach, forcing the air from the fighter’s lungs.
Doubling over, the triplet maintains his grip on the sword and thrusts upward mindlessly.
Steel grazes Leon’s side; though shallow, it is painful, and blood soaks his shirt.
Leon seizes the triplet’s wrist and twists hard, feeling the bones grind together. The sword clatters to the ground.
In retaliation, the triplet throw a wild punch, connecting with Leon’s jaw. Stars explodes in Leon’s vision.
Both fighters staggers away, and the triplet dives for his fallen sword.
But Leon’s manna rounds through the triplet’s spine.
The fighter’s back archs and his scream cut off mid-breath as he collapses face-first into the bloody sand.
His fingers twitches once, then falls still.
Leon stamds over three corpses, with smoke coming out of his gun barrel. The crowd erupts in frenzied cheers.
Medics storms the pit, their rough hands dragging the lifeless bodies towards the gates. Others splashes harsh alcohol across Leon’s wounds, igniting a fire that spread through his cuts; there is no healing magic, only survival.
"Drink." A medic shoves a bottle at his lips. The liquid tastes like mud but clears his vision.
Leon’s zombie appears at the pit’s edge, their connection pulsing with exhaustion and satisfaction.
The tournament master climbed onto his platform, his voice booming across the packed seats.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight’s survivor advances to tomorrow’s quarterfinals!" He gestures to the remaining fighters gathered at the pit’s edge. "Eight warriors remain. Three more battles stands between our finalists and glory."
Leon counts the survivors: scarred veterans, desperate hunters, men and women with nothing left to lose.
The master lifts a crystal vial filled with golden liquid, its inner light causing it to glow. "The ultimate prize: Sanctuary Guild healing elixir. Military grade, it cures any wound, any disease, any curse."
The crowd erupts in cheers. Leon gazes at the vial through a haze of blood and sweat. It is just three fights away.
"Tomorrow night, the quarterfinals begin!" the master continues. "Our F-Rank survivor faces his greatest test yet!"
A gate opens across the pit, and a figure emerges from the shadows.
Leon’s blood turned to ice.
The man moved with the fluidity of mercury, six throwing knives glinting in his belt. Geometric scars adorns his arms, tally marks of fallen opponents.
"Merik Quickknife Fenn!" the master declareds. "Forty-seven sanctioned kills. His speed is unmatched across three kingdoms."
Quickknife studies Leon with a cold, mechanical stare. There is no emotion—only a chilling evaluation.
"F-Rank," Quickknife says, his voice lacking warmth. "Three men couldn’t kill you. Tomorrow we’ll find out if one can."
He turns and exits without any formality.
Leon slumps against the pit wall, every muscle protesting in agony. His dislocated shoulder feels like molten metal.
Three more fights. Three more chances to die.
The golden elixir awaits him beyond a gauntlet of legends.