Lucian's lungs burned with every breath. His legs felt like they were moving through mud, each step heavier than the last. The boost from his Wrath had long worn off, and now he was just running on sheer willpower. Sweat dripped down his temple, his vision slightly blurry. Around him, other participants raced toward the center of the park—ignoring each other, focusing solely on finding the Orbs they believed were hidden there.
Lucian glanced toward the center just once.
His instincts told him to turn… but he didn't. He had chosen to trust Lucas. No matter how insane it sounded, there was something about the way Lucas had spoken, with that strange certainty. And Lucian… well, he didn't have anything better to rely on.
So he kept going north, pushing himself forward even though his body screamed at him to stop.
But what he didn't realize was—someone else had started moving too.
A figure cloaked entirely in crimson attire—face, body, even hair fully hidden beneath layers of robes, a wide hat shading any visible features—had taken notice of Lucian's direction. The figure had been still moments ago, blending in with the chaos, seemingly uninterested in the scramble for Orbs. But the second Lucian passed by, the figure turned silently and began to move.
Not like someone chasing prey… more like a shadow gliding silently behind.
Their movements were calculated—always staying at just the right distance, avoiding Lucian's peripheral vision. Despite the chaotic footsteps of others, this stalker made none. The red robes fluttered gently with the wind, giving them an almost ghostly grace.
Lucian had no clue.
His focus was fixed on the tree line ahead, the distant north edge still out of reach. His hands were clenched, his knuckles white. He was pushing past exhaustion, driven only by trust and the desperation to not fall behind.
But the hunter behind him? They were patient.
They didn't rush. They didn't strike.
Not yet.
They were waiting.
And if Lucian didn't notice soon, he'd be in for far more than just a race for an Orb.
Meanwhile, a battle came near to it's end.
Josè exhaled heavily, his arms bruised, clothes torn, and knuckles cracked. Across from him stood the teenage swordswoman, her crimson kimono slightly torn at the sleeves, black tabi scuffed from the relentless exchange, yet her stance remained elegant, precise, and deadly.
Her katana gleamed with a cold light as she adjusted her footing. A gust of wind blew her long black ponytail to the side, the red ribbon trailing like a banner of defiance.
Josè spat to the side. "Tough one, aren't you?" he muttered under his breath.
The girl said nothing. Her dark eyes narrowed as she slid into a new stance—knees bent, katana angled low, her entire aura screaming Kashima Shintō Ryū discipline.
Josè darted forward first.
No fancy techniques—just a straight-up street brawler's charge. His feet dug into the earth as he closed the distance in a blur, aiming a swift roundhouse kick aimed at her ribs. She deflected with the flat of her blade, spinning gracefully to the side, her katana slicing toward his shoulder.
He ducked.
The blade missed by inches, cutting through strands of his hair.
He retaliated with a swift uppercut.
She jumped back, just barely avoiding it.
The two moved like predators—her movements fluid, refined, honed by tradition; his chaotic, unpredictable, forged in back-alley fights and desperation.
But every time Josè closed the distance, she adapted. Every swing of her katana met his limbs with cold precision, her expression unreadable, almost serene. She wasn't trying to kill him—she was outlasting him.
He knew it.
"Why're you so calm?" he barked between labored breaths, throwing a jab that was expertly parried. "Aren't you scared to lose?"
She blinked once, then responded softly, "This isn't fear. It's focus."
Josè clenched his fists tighter.
This wasn't working.
He needed to break her rhythm.
He feinted left, then shot low, going for a sweeping kick to her legs. She flipped backward gracefully, but he was already on her tail, charging mid-roll and landing a clean shoulder check into her chest.
She stumbled back—first time her balance had been broken.
Josè grinned. "Got you—"
Steel flashed.
He barely sidestepped her retaliatory slash, a thin red line opening across his chest. He grimaced but didn't stop. Using the pain as fuel, he surged forward with a flurry of punches—left, right, elbow, knee. She dodged and parried most, but his momentum was now relentless.
Her breathing picked up.
Their silhouettes blurred as fists and blade danced in the air, a storm of flesh and steel colliding under the crimson sky.
Then Josè caught her off guard—he grabbed her blade hand mid-strike.
"Sorry, sweetheart."
He yanked her forward and slammed his head against hers.
The impact echoed.
She staggered.
Her katana slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground with a soft clang.
Josè didn't wait. He landed a heavy hook to her gut, followed by a sharp elbow to her shoulder. She dropped to her knees, gasping.
He stood over her, panting heavily, his fists still raised.
She tried to rise, trembling, but her legs gave way. Her hands hit the dirt. Her eyes looked up, still focused—but her body had hit its limit.
Josè stood there, chest rising and falling rapidly.
From the nearby homes, spectators stared silently at their crimson screens, jaws dropped. No one could believe it—Josè, the one who'd been running and on the verge of collapse, had actually brought her to the ground.
To them, it looked over.
The mighty swordswoman was down.
Josè wiped blood from his mouth and exhaled slowly. "Hah… Guess this makes me the winner, huh?"
But even as he stood there, victorious for now, a flicker of unease passed through his eyes.
Because her gaze… still hadn't broken.
And her hand was inching slowly toward her katana.
The girl reached out to grab her katana, her fingers trembling as they barely brushed the handle. But before she could secure her grip, Josè stomped down hard on her hand, pinning it to the ground with his heel.
"You really thought I wouldn't notice you trying to reach for that sword?" Josè said coldly, his voice low and laced with mockery.
The swordswoman let out a pained moan, trying to pull her hand back, but Josè didn't let up. Her face twisted in agony. Before she could recover, Josè reached down, grabbed her ponytail, and yanked her face upward until their eyes locked.
He stared into her black eyes for a moment—eyes that still burned with stubborn pride despite the pain.
"Go home," he said, his voice calm but filled with contempt. "Help your mommy wash the dishes."
Without waiting for a response, he pulled his fist back and slammed it into her face. A sickening thud echoed as her head snapped back, blood spurting from her nose. She collapsed to the ground, groaning, her body twitching as she lay motionless on the grass.
Josè exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. It looked like he had won. Turning away, he shifted his gaze across the park, looking for Ethan.
His eyes widened.
Ethan was down on one knee, blood dripping from his mouth and nose. His body shook as if struggling to stay upright. But Huang Qi… was nowhere in sight.
Josè's heart skipped a beat.
And then… he felt it.
A presence.
Chilling, silent, deadly.
Slowly, Josè lowered his gaze—and there he was.
Huang Qi stood just inches away, crouched low like a predator that had waited patiently for the perfect moment to strike. His palm was already moving.
Before Josè could react, Huang Qi slammed his palm into Josè's chest.
A surge of force erupted through his torso.
Blood exploded from Josè's mouth as his eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a puppet with cut strings—unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Huang Qi walked toward the fallen swordswoman, his footsteps light, controlled. He knelt beside her and gently asked, "Are you alright?"
The girl sat up slowly, wincing from the pain still lingering in her face. "Yes… I'm fine," she replied, her voice soft but steady.
She reached for her katana, her fingers curling around the hilt as she pulled herself to her feet. Blood still trickled from her nose, but there was a determined fire in her eyes.
Just a few meters away, Ethan was already standing, breathing heavily, fists clenched. The bruises on his face spoke volumes of the intense battle he had just endured, yet his stance showed no sign of backing down. He was ready. Ready for a rematch.
Huang Qi turned to the girl and said, "You go. Collect points. I'll take care of him."
The girl nodded, her expression unreadable. She gave Ethan a brief glance—perhaps a warning, perhaps respect—then turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of moving contestants, on the hunt once more.
Ethan's eyes didn't leave Huang Qi. Josè lay unconscious nearby, still breathing but completely out cold.
One-on-one. Again.
This time, neither of them intended to hold back.
Ethan wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowing. "Is she your teammate or something? That why you let her go?"
Huang Qi didn't respond. He simply stood there, silent as ever, his gaze fixed on Ethan. No emotion, no expression—just focus. The wind rustled the grass between them, but neither moved. Then, in a flash, they both launched forward.
Their fists clashed mid-air—Ethan's raw street-hardened power against Huang Qi's razor-sharp precision. The ground beneath them cracked as they pushed against each other's strength, neither yielding an inch. Ethan swung a heavy roundhouse kick, but Huang ducked low, sweeping Ethan's leg in return. Ethan stumbled but caught himself, flipping back with agile footwork.
"You're faster than you look," Ethan muttered, charging again.
This time, he unleashed a barrage of elbows, knees, and rapid jabs. Huang Qi blocked them with fluid, minimal movements, countering with palm strikes that targeted Ethan's joints and pressure points. Ethan grunted in pain as one strike landed directly on his shoulder, momentarily numbing his left arm.
But Ethan smirked.
Using only his right arm, he grabbed Huang's wrist and pulled him forward, slamming a knee into the boy's ribs. The impact was brutal—but Huang didn't flinch. He spun with Ethan's momentum and slammed his elbow into the back of Ethan's neck, forcing him to the ground.
Ethan rolled, barely dodging a downward palm strike that shattered the ground beside his head. He kicked upward, catching Huang in the chin and sending him a few steps back.
Both were breathing heavily now.
Sweat dripped down Ethan's face.
They stared at each other, battle-worn yet unwilling to fall. The crowd around them was thinning, most contestants chasing the orbs or finishing side battles. But this clash, this raw, even fight, burned brighter than the rest.
Neither had the upper hand.
And neither intended to lose.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed.
Lucian's breath was ragged, his body drenched in sweat, legs trembling from exhaustion. But finally—finally—he saw it. A faint, golden glow near the base of an old tree at the northern edge of the park. The Orb of Stamina. His lifeline.
He pushed himself harder, ignoring the burning in his lungs, his vision narrowing onto that one glimmering hope.
But just as he was about to reach it, a voice echoed from behind him.
"Thank you for leading me to that fascinating object."
Lucian froze mid-step.
The voice wasn't particularly deep, nor was it feminine. It was calm. Neutral. Chilling in its simplicity.
He spun around, heart pounding, and saw someone standing there—a figure draped entirely in crimson. A long robe, gloves, boots, and even a hood that concealed their face and hair completely. It was impossible to tell whether it was a man or woman. They didn't move, didn't attack. They simply stood there, as if they had all the time in the world.
Lucian clenched his fists.
He didn't have a choice anymore. He had to fight. If he lost now, that orb would be gone—and with it, his only chance at survival.
He lunged forward with a right punch, putting everything he had into it.
But the crimson-cloaked figure leapt effortlessly into the air, flipping over Lucian's strike and landing directly on his face.
Lucian's body slammed into the ground with a thud, dust puffing around him.
The figure remained still—balanced perfectly, one foot pressing down on Lucian's cheek like it was nothing.
Lucian gritted his teeth. His vision blurred. He could barely breathe. His limbs ached. The night had grown colder, darker. The only light came from the moon overhead and the soft, inviting glow of the Orb of Stamina.
He reached up with one trembling hand, grabbing the figure's foot, trying to pull it away from his face.
It didn't budge.
The pressure didn't lessen.
Lucian had never felt so close to defeat—and yet the orb, the answer to all his pain, was just a few steps away.
Lucian grunted and pushed with every ounce of strength left in his body—but the figure's foot remained firm, pressing down like a stone pillar. His arms trembled, veins bulging, but nothing worked.
He was exhausted. Worn out.
His vision blurred further. Breathing felt like swallowing fire.
But then—his eyes caught something.
A stone. Just beside his hand.
Rough. Heavy. Sharp on one end.
Without a second thought, Lucian grabbed it, his fingers wrapping around its jagged edge. With the last fragments of his stamina, he channeled a pulse of lightning into the stone. The surge was weak—nothing like his usual Wrath—but it was enough to heat the stone and make it spark.
And then he struck.
The electrified rock slammed into the crimson figure's leg with a crackling sound.
"Argh!" the figure hissed, flinching back in pain.
The pressure on Lucian's face vanished instantly.
Without wasting even a second, Lucian rolled away, forcing himself up to his feet. His muscles screamed in protest, but he didn't care. He staggered a few steps and then turned—planting his palms on the stranger's chest and shoving them backward.
It didn't do much, but it bought him space.
Enough.
Lucian turned and ran—not with strength, but with desperation—his eyes locked on the glowing orb. He could hear footsteps behind him, fast and angry.
But Lucian didn't look back.
He leapt forward, almost collapsing mid-air—but his hand reached out.
Fingers brushed light.
Then they closed around it.
The Orb of Stamina was finally in his grasp.
His chest heaved. His vision flickered. His knees threatened to give in.
But all he had to do now… was break it.
And live.
[Time Left: 31 minutes]