It really was one-on-one combat.
Bolton, clearly fired up, wouldn't shut up this time, while Martha did everything she could to hide her nerves. The crowd in the stands roared in anticipation as a pretty girl stepped forward, handing out cups filled with numbered sticks.
"Those who draw numbers one and two stay in the arena. The rest—evens to the right exit, odds to the left," Martha finished, forcing her voice to stay steady.
I glanced at my number—five—and headed for the left exit. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Torrent, Vauzer, and that brute from the demon academy moving in the opposite direction.
My frown deepened.
What were the chances I wouldn't end up against one of them?
With my luck?
None.
The first pair stayed in the arena—a girl from Grandina Academy and some guy from ours whose name I never bothered remembering.
The fight didn't last five minutes.
When the girl could no longer fight—lying on the ground, staring up at him with desperate, pleading eyes—
he drove his spear of force straight through her heart.
No hesitation.
I flinched.
A cold shiver ran down my spine as I watched it unfold on the large screen in the waiting room.
"Why the hell would he do that?" I snapped, anger breaking through before I could stop it. "She lost. She surrendered. Why go that far?!"
"If he proves he's willing to go all the way, he's more likely to secure a powerful patron," someone from my group said flatly. "She had higher scores. He just took out a stronger competitor."
A pause.
"Whoever you get paired with—they'll do everything they can to make sure your corpse gets dragged out of that arena. So here's some advice—ditch the sympathy if you want to live."
My thoughts darkened.
What would've happened if I'd taken the risk and stayed with the Holivan family?
No one would've noticed the soul swap.
I would've lived in luxury—never thinking about survival.
Would I have cared then?
About the Specials?
Would I be this angry if I were sitting somewhere safe, behind closed doors, watching people tear each other apart just to stay alive?
Would I even flinch?
If I got the chance to go back—to that day—and choose differently…
Would I?
The same voice dragged me out of it:
"Oh. Your friend's up."
I looked at the screen.
Torrent was stepping out from the far entrance.
"Watch closely," the voice went on. "One of us is dying today. And if he's as soft as you are… well, sorry—but I'm the one walking out."
I glanced at the guy leaving the waiting room.
Was he always like this?
Or did this place strip away whatever humanity he had left?
I looked back at Torrent—grinning wide as he stepped into the arena—
and something inside me tightened.
Even if I had the chance to go back…
I'd still choose this.
My chest clenched.
I trusted my friend's strength.
But not his opponent.
That arrogant look.
The kind of person who'd cling to life with everything they had—
or drag you down with them.
There was nothing I could do for Robert now.
But deep down—
I was glad I wouldn't be the one facing him.
The relaxed, cocky grin on Robert's face vanished the second he realized his opponent wasn't weak.
I'd never seen him fight like this.
Sharp.
Heavy.
Brutal.
Nothing like me.
Torrent fought like a battering ram—like a tank smashing through anything in front of him.
At first, it looked like that alone would win him the fight.
But his opponent wasn't stupid.
He kept retreating. Blocking. Testing. Looking for openings.
I eased up a little when I saw the guy gasping for air, bleeding heavily.
Robert relaxed too.
That was the mistake.
The moment his opponent collapsed, as if completely spent—and Robert turned away, already convinced it was over—
the bastard pulled a silver object from inside his clothes.
In a blink, it expanded—stretching several meters long.
Electricity crackled along its length.
Only reflex saved Robert's heart from being skewered on the spot.
Torrent jumped aside, throwing up a shield of condensed force.
But to protect his chest, he had to take the hit with his arm.
The moment it struck—
his arm went limp.
Dead.
Useless.
The opponent didn't hesitate.
He went in again.
The shield shattered.
Torrent didn't react in time.
He crashed to the ground.
Now his right arm—and his leg—
were gone.
Out of the fight.
I couldn't look away.
Cold sweat ran down my back.
This was bad.
Really bad.
The opponent got back up and aimed straight for Robert's chest again.
But Torrent—
propping himself up on his left arm, he shifted his weight and let himself fall sideways, releasing a thin layer of force—
fragile as a veil—
straight toward the crackling weapon.
I shut my eyes.
I couldn't watch.
How the hell was he planning to stop that with something so weak?
That kind of force might scare off low-level creatures—
but against a human?
It should've done nothing.
The crowd gasped.
A heavy crash slammed into the arena floor—concrete cracking.
I opened my eyes.
Then froze.
That thin layer of force—
wasn't weak at all.
"So that's what you've been working on…" I muttered, relief hitting me hard.
It was his ability.
He could affect objects—make them heavier.
The opponent couldn't hold the weapon anymore.
It dropped—
slamming into the ground hard enough to fracture the concrete.
With a scream, the guy dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.
"I surrender!" he shouted.
Torrent didn't care.
Not after that.
Dragging himself forward with one arm and one leg, he crawled to the fallen weapon, grabbed it—
and struck.
Not the heart.
Maybe on purpose.
Maybe not.
Didn't matter.
It went deep enough.
With a choked scream, the guy collapsed—impaled by his own weapon.
Blood spread across the floor, filling the cracks.
The crowd roared.
Torrent raised his left hand, forcing out a strained, crooked smile.
Medics rushed in with stretchers, carrying both of them away.
The next pair was called.
And the second person I really didn't want to face stepped into the arena.
Scott Roy.
Huge.
Cold.
That steel gaze—completely self-assured.
Watching the guy from our waiting room step out to face him, I already knew how this would end.
It wouldn't last long.
And the student from the demon academy wouldn't even get scratched.
I turned away from the screen and poured myself a glass of water.
After Torrent's fight, my mouth was dry.
My hands were still shaking.
Then—
an explosion.
The glass slipped from my fingers and shattered.
The floor of the waiting room trembled.
I spun around.
At the center of the arena—
a cloud of dust.
And from inside it—
wild, broken laughter.