The bell clangs.
Boldo charges like a boulder rolling downhill, an humanoid goblin, his massive fists swings like sledgehammers. Leon sidesteps, maintaining his distance, and fires once.
The manna round strikes Boldo’s shoulder but does nothing. The enhancement tattoos flares brighter, healing the small wound instantly.
The crowd roars. Boldo laughs, swinging again.
Leon circles, observing not just the muscles but the movement. Boldo favors his left leg slightly, and his right elbow takes longer to recover after extended swings. Enhancement magic can heal flesh but can’t fix structural damage quickly enough.
Leon fires again, this time aiming for Boldo’s left knee. The ligament snaps. Boldo stumbled, his tattoos flashing, as it tries to repair the damage, but healing takes time.
"Stand still and fight!" Boldo roars.
Leon’s second shot catches the big man’s right elbow, rupturing the tendon. Boldo’s arm sags, and his next punch swings wide, missing its target.
The crowd’s jeers turns uncertain; this isn’t going as expected.
With a fierce grip, Boldo siezes Leon with his good arm and slams him against the pit wall. The rough stone scrapes Leon’s back, eliciting howls of approval from the crowd.
In a swift motion, Leon jams his manna gun under Boldo’s armpit and fires at point-blank range. The shoulder joint pops, and Boldo’s regeneration falters, overwhelmed by compound trauma.
Leon drops and rolls away, grabbing a handful of sand and throws it into Boldo’s eyes. As the giant staggers and blindly, Leon methodically targets his legs, firing two quick shots at his ankle and calf. Boldo’s support crumples beneath him.
The big man swings wildly, barely able to stand. Leon circles behind and empties his last round into the back of Boldo’s knee.
Boldo crashes face-first into the sand.
He tries to crawl, but his body will not obey. His joints are ruined, muscles twitching as his regeneration flickers and he finally dies.
Silence envelopes the pit.
The matchmaster raises his hand. "Winner—the necromancer! Advancing to round two!"
Scattered applause mingles with confused murmurs. The betting boards flickers, adjusting the odds slightly, but most spectators still looks skeptical.
Leon limps toward the holding area, his gun in need of reloading and his ribs throbbing where Boldo had grabbed him.
Hark catches his eye from the crowd, nodding faintly, impressed.
"That was surgical," someone says from behind him.
He turns to see a woman with intricate facial scars studying him with professional interest. "Name’s Vera. C-Rank before I fell on hard times." She gestures toward the betting boards. "They still don’t believe you can win."
"Good. Lower expectations mean better odds."
Vera laughs. "Smart. Most fighters here depend on brute force. You think like a hunter."
---
Leon reloads his weapon with Hark’s specialized rounds, prioritizing penetration over raw damages and precision over power.
"How many matches?" he asked.
"Seven in total. It’s single elimination. Winners face increasingly desperate opponents." Vera’s scars twists into a smile that is both unsettling and alluring. "The final prize is worth dying for: a Sanctuary Guild healing elixir. Military grade."
"Military grade" meant it can cure ailments beyond the reach of conventional medicine, including his mother’s wasting disease.
"Next match in ten minutes," the announcer calls. "Graves versus Karsten Rell!"
Murmurs ripples through the crowd—recognition and excitement mingles in the air.
Vera’s expression darkens. "Rell used to be C-Rank. He lost his license after killing three hunters in a contract dispute and has been living underground ever since."
Leon checks his interface. His manna has recovered, and his zombie is ready in the shadows.
"Any advice?" he asks.
"He’s fast, loves knives, and holds grudges against anyone who still has their license."
The holding area gate swings open, and Leon steps back into the pit’s bloody sand.
In the center, his opponent waits. Karsten Rell looks lean and dangerous, multiple blade sheaths crisscrossing his chest. His eyes holds the cold focus of a man who had killed for money.
"Another F-Rank?" Rel sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. "They’re scraping the bottom now."
The crowd buzzes with anticipation. This fight would be different—faster, deadlier.
Leon positions himself carefully. Rell’s stance suggests speed over power; those knives can sever arteries before enhancement magic can heal.
The referee steps back. "Fighters ready?"
Rell draws two blades simultaneously. Leon raises his manna gun.
The bell rings.