Chapter 42
It’s the next day when I find myself standing in front of the obelisk longer than usual, watching names flicker in and out.
Our discussion from the day before still echoes in my mind, as does the fear for the future.
“We’re not moving fast enough,” I say quietly. I’m not advancing. And if I keep fighting the same low-point opponents, it will take us an eternity to get to a thousand points—if we ever do.
Moe nods. She studies the obelisk, her expression thoughtful. “No,” she agrees. “We’re not.”
More than three months and I haven’t even accumulated one hundred points. Not even one tenth of what’s needed to escape.
I exhale slowly, my gaze lingering on the shifting numbers.
The warriors with the highest number of points appear every now and then in orange, flashing on the obelisk like a warning, or perhaps a challenge.
Currently, Varex Naredi is the highest with eight hundred twenty points, followed by Syrinos Belakov with seven hundred forty. There are a few others ranging from six hundred to seven hundred points.
It makes me wonder how long it took them to reach that, and how long it will take me.
Restlessness grows within me as the answer echoes in my mind: a long, long time.
We need to move forward. We need to take risks.
Yet no matter how comfortable I’ve become with fighting low-point warriors, I’m wary about aiming too high. My ego has no place in this. Not when this is about survival; not just mine but also Moe’s.
I have to find a way to advance faster. While I am aware that it’s been only a few months since I cleansed my meridians and that consuming and absorbing energy takes time, I’m worried about how long we can keep this rhythm.
“Let’s choose the same as yesterday,” Moe says.
“Yes—” I stop when I see the obelisk shift.
At first, it’s no different from any other change. Names flicker, rearrange, disappear. But then the surface stills in a way I haven’t seen before.
A single line forms at first. Nykander v’Kyro (98).
Underneath is another name.
Zarek Raveli (87). Level two. Eight points.
Accept or Reject.
It’s a challenge—my first.
The battle points are higher than I’ve encountered before, even though he’s only a level two.
I frown slightly, taking it in. It must be because his total point number is high—eighty-seven. A little lower than my own, but it means he’s handled himself well until now.
Does that also mean my point value to an opponent is eight?
Somehow, I haven’t wondered that before. I kept choosing low to mid point contestants but I did not realize they would be shown the same point benefit if they won the fight.
Does the mean my own value has changed?
Since my level is unassigned, I could see how all the challenges I issued would be accepted: I was worth only a few points and with no clear level. As I started choosing more mid point opponents, I did not realize that my own point worth would be rising.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
“What is it?”
“I just realized another way through which this realm messes with us.”
“What do you mean?” She frowns.
I point toward the point benefit of the challenge. “We never stopped to think what my point benefit would show up as to the opponents. We started low, then went slightly up but we missed a crucial point.”
Her eyes widen.
“Your point benefit has been rising steadily, too.”
“And it’s likely eight now.”
“It’s unlikely low-point individuals will accept your challenges from now on,” she murmurs, mirroring my own thoughts.
“So whether I want it or not, I must aim higher and keep aiming higher. Otherwise no one will accept my challenges.”
“This complicates things. A lot… I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before.”
My lips flatten into a thin line.
“I suppose there’s only one thing left to do.”
I press Accept on the challenge.
“You’re sure?” she asks, her eyes flickering to me with worry.
I nod.
“I’ve fought level two before,” I say. “And I’m better now.”
I also have more points accumulated than him, though according to the system, we’re both worth eight points.
She watches me for a moment longer. Then she exhales quietly.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
I grab her hand and squeeze tightly. “I’ll be careful.”
“You better,” she whispers.
The obelisk accepts my answer. The surface starts rippling outward from the contact. As always, the response is immediate.
The world fractures instantly.
The ground tears apart around me, the roaring wind and yellow stone collapsing into a vortex of crimson light. The ground vanishes beneath my feet, the sky folds inward, and pressure crushes in from every direction until the whole of reality compresses into a single unbearable point.
Then it releases.
Stone slams beneath my boots.
I stagger as the new arena forms around me.
A ruined black courtyard stretches in all directions, its floor cracked into uneven plates of obsidian-colored rock.
Broken columns litter the battlefield, some toppled, others leaning precariously like the remnants of a dead civilization.
Dust hangs in the air. The space feels closed off and oppressive, far more so than any other arena I’ve experienced so far.
As always, an invisible barrier forms around us, and Moe is instantly teleported on the other side.
My opponent, Zarek, stands twenty paces away.
He is bare-armed, broad-shouldered, and completely still.
No weapon. No armor beyond shiny leather plates strapped over his chest. His expression remains unnervingly calm, the sort of confidence only possessed by men who know exactly what they can do.
And he probably does. He wouldn’t have reached close to ninety points while idling by.
I try to see myself from his perspective.
He probably sees me as a challenge, but one that he can win.
I have more points than him but an unknown level.
He’s probably guessing it’s either the same as his or lower.
Even now as he assesses me, a smirk pulls at his lips as he releases a low scoff.
His eyes look me up and down with a daring condescension.
I’m still wearing the same clothes as I did when I arrived, though I doubt they can still be called clothes after all they’ve been through.
My shirt hangs loose over my frame, the dark fabric worn thin from constant use and rough washing. The hem is frayed beyond repair, ragged threads dangling where the material has split apart, and several holes mar the lower edge from a few too many stabbings.
One sleeve is ripped near the shoulder badly enough that my skin flashes through whenever I move too quickly.
My trousers are no better. They hang low and loose, stained permanently with dust and old blood no amount of scrubbing has managed to remove.
The knees have worn nearly smooth from the number of times I’ve been driven to the ground, and several seams along the thighs have begun to unravel, the stitching giving way little by little with every fight.
I’ve yet to spend tokens on myself. It’s not worth it. As long as these clothes are serviceable, they’re staying. Even my small blade is an inherited from the terminated individual who used to live in our room.
But my appearance must be giving him some insight into me, some unknown satisfaction. Perhaps it’s because his clothes look so brand new that he’s looking down on my battered ones. Or maybe because he’s wondering what I am spending my tokens on if not at least a decent shirt.
He’s underestimating me.
The male’s gaze shifts to her briefly, then returns to me, as if she’s not important in the slightest.
A gong announces the start of the battle.
He lifts one hand.
I move instinctively—
Too slow.
An invisible force detonates against my chest.
The impact launches me backward. My body smashes through one of the ruined columns, stone exploding around me as I hit the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Pain radiates from everywhere, and I’m pretty sure I feel some wet liquid under my chest.
Am I bleeding?
I barely roll before something heavier than any blow I’ve ever taken crashes down on me.
Gravity.
My entire body slams into the floor. My lungs are pressed against my ribs so tightly it’s hard to get even one proper breath in.
“Nyk!” Moe cries out.
My limbs buckle. My face nearly cracks against the stone before I catch myself with shaking arms. Every inch of me feels ten times heavier. My chest compresses so violently I struggle to inhale.
Force Domain.
By the Seven.
Zarek walks toward me without urgency, his palm still raised. Sweat beads at his temple already, but his expression remains composed.
So he can’t hold it forever. That’s the only good news.
Although I never imagined a level two to be so strong, I do remember briefly using those abilities myself and how deadly they were.
Just my luck, I guess.
I grit my teeth and force myself upward. My muscles scream in protest. The stone beneath my hands fractures from the pressure as I rise inch by inch, every movement feeling like I’m dragging a mountain on my back.
His muscles are strained, the veins protruding noticeably through his skin. His sweat, too, has become a small rivulet falling down the side of his face.
He flicks his wrist.
The gravity shifts sideways. The world lurches violently.
I am ripped off my feet and hurled across the courtyard, skidding over stone before crashing shoulder-first into another ruined pillar. Pain erupts through my arm just as my previous injuries start to heal a little.
He is already on me before I can do anything.
Another invisible blast slams into me before I can rise, sending me tumbling again. Dust and shattered rock fill the air. Wound that were almost healed open again.
I roll to my feet just as the pressure returns.
My knees nearly buckle.
He’s trying to pin me again.
I force myself into motion before the weight fully settles, lunging sideways behind a broken slab of stone. The moment I move, the slab implodes. It’s crushed flat under a concentrated gravitational burst.