A New Side of the World
Leon adjusted his cloak as he stepped into the city's lower districts. The stone beneath his boots changed texture—less polished, more fractured. The light dimmed. The people thinned.
Aboveground, the world wore a face: Guild flags, merchant stalls, polished gates.
Down here?
The city dropped its mask.
Walls narrowed. Smoke drifted from unseen fires. Blood mixed with rot and mildew beneath his nose, staining the back of his throat with iron.
He moved through an alley of leaning buildings and fractured tiles. No guards. No wardens. Just figures in corners with their faces hidden, daggers visible, expressions unreadable.
A man leaned against a cracked column, watching him with a half-lidded stare. No threat. Just a test.
Leon kept walking.
He wasn't here to prove a point.
He was following a whisper.
The kind of whisper that led to power.
The Signal
He found it five blocks in—no sign, no guards.
Just a red lantern hanging above a crumbling archway. It didn't flicker like a flame.
It pulsed.
A heartbeat in glass.
A man sat beneath it, legs crossed on a wooden crate, drawing from a hooked pipe.
One glance told Leon everything: sharp eyes, old scars, and posture that said he'd kill without standing.
"Clean coat. Straight back. No limp," the man muttered. "You sure you're meant for this end of the city?"
Leon didn't answer. He reached into his coat and flipped a coin toward him—engraved with a skull. He'd taken it off a rogue necromancer two days ago.
The man caught it mid-air, examined both sides.
Then knocked twice on the crate beneath him.
Stone groaned.
A metal door slid open beside him, revealing a stairwell coiling downward in darkness.
Leon stepped through without a word.
The door shut behind him.
The Underground Black Market
The temperature changed as he descended. The air thickened—not with heat, but with magic.
The stale rot of the surface gave way to an arcane density that clung to the skin.
The stairs opened into a cavern-wide space carved directly from the earth. Glowing blue torches lined the walls. Sigils burned along the ceiling, pulsating in sequences like breath.
And ahead—chaos, organized by desire.
Dozens of booths. Hundreds of traders. No banners. No badges.
Just power for sale.
A merchant swirled a vial of liquid with a soul inside—its face frozen mid-scream. A beast handler muzzled a two-headed hellhound, veins glowing with heat. A smith carved runes into a blade made from ribcage bone. Every strike made it hum like it was alive.
Leon moved through the crowds unnoticed.
He wasn't here for showpieces.
He was here for something real.
The Forbidden Tome
He found the stall tucked between two larger vendor spaces, half-hidden by hanging fabric and smoke.
The man behind the table didn't call out to customers.
He didn't look up.
He didn't need to.
The books spoke for him.
Ancient tomes lay stacked like bricks. Some breathed. Some twitched.
One in particular caught Leon's attention.
Its leather was blackened and cracked like burned skin. Silver runes lined its spine, pulsing slow and steady, as if the book had a pulse.
Leon stepped forward, tapped the desk.
"How much?"
The merchant's head tilted. A hood hid most of his face, but his eyes glowed faintly beneath the fabric.
"The Path of the Deathborn," he murmured. "For necromancers who reject their limits."
Leon's gaze didn't waver. "How much?"
The man smirked. A glowing number appeared above the book.
750,000 credits.
Leon didn't flinch, but he'd already calculated. He had 400,000 left from the dungeon clear—and nothing else to sell.
Before he could speak, the man leaned forward.
"There's a second way," he said. "If you're not afraid of blood."
Leon didn't blink.
The merchant pointed to a far tunnel lit with red torches.
"The Arena. Win three fights. The tome is yours."
Leon followed the direction of his finger.
Somewhere beyond that tunnel, the ground rumbled faintly. Cheers rose and fell.
A place where strength wrote contracts.
Leon turned back to the book.
Then toward the arena tunnel.
"I'll fight."
The Black Market Arena
The arena wasn't made of stone—it was carved from bone.
Skulls lined the archways. Glyphs circled the pit in perfect symmetry. Each one glowed red, tethered to blood.
The crowd sat in jagged rows above the pit. Rogue mages, bounty hunters, exiled duelists. All silent.
Until the announcer spoke.
"NEW BLOOD ENTERS THE ARENA!"
The crowd erupted. Not joy. Hunger.
Leon stood at the center, his mana gun in hand. His Sorcerer hovered behind him, silent. His Warrior Zombie waited just outside the torchlight—motionless but ready.
A gate across the pit creaked open.
And out walked a man in black armor, chains hanging from both arms, glowing faintly. Five skeletal warriors followed behind him, each one tethered by a rune-lit cord.
The announcer roared.
"FIRST MATCH – LEON VS. THE DEATHBOUND GLADIATOR!"
Opening Analysis – The Chain Contract
Leon's eyes didn't linger on the gladiator.
They followed the chains.
Five undead.
All tethered.
The runes etched into the iron glowed faintly—each one pulsing in sync with the Deathbound's heartbeat. The contract wasn't basic—it was reinforced. Damage would transfer, but in controlled ratios.
Hurt the undead, hurt the caster.Hurt the caster, weaken the undead.
An aggressive formation. Efficient. Clean.
But predictable.
Leon's mana gun clicked as he slid a new round into place.
This wasn't a battle of summons.
This was a kill mission.
The Bell Rings
The arena bell rang once—low and heavy.
A blood-red glyph surged to life beneath the Deathbound's feet. His chains hissed, stretching out like live serpents.
The skeletal warriors rushed forward in a wide formation, scythes raised.
The Deathbound hung back, hands out, ready to redirect damage across his network.
Leon didn't wait.
He sprinted left—fast, low, tight motion.
One shot.
Headshot.
A skeletal warrior's skull cracked. The chain pulsed. Across the arena, the Deathbound flinched—but the damage split across his undead, dulling the blow.
Still, he'd felt it.
Leon slid into cover behind a broken statue base, calculated the angles.
"Stagger them."
The Strike Begins
His Elite Undead Sorcerer raised one clawed hand—then slammed it downward.
A shock burst of compressed mana rippled beneath the enemy formation, cracking the arena floor.
The undead staggered.
The chains recoiled.
Leon rolled from cover and fired three more shots in succession:
One shattered a ribcage.
One struck a femur.
The third clipped the Deathbound's shoulder.
The gladiator growled, adjusting the link flow in real time.
"Flank him," Leon ordered.
His Warrior Zombie didn't sprint.
It vanished.
A burst of bone-shadow shrouded it—Core Bond residuals still flickering. It reappeared behind the enemy caster, swinging its greatsword in a horizontal arc.
The Deathbound blocked with both chains—barely.
He staggered, but managed to redirect damage into his tank zombie.
A smart move.
Leon pressed forward.
Leon Enters the Fight
This wasn't about trading shots anymore.
Leon broke into a sprint, crossing the arena as spells hissed around him.
The Deathbound shouted a command. His undead surged again—this time two peeled off, charging Leon directly.
"Come on, then."
He ducked the first swipe, slid beneath the second's scythe swing, and fired point blank into its spine.
The undead dropped.
The Deathbound gasped, one knee buckling.
Leon didn't stop.
He vaulted off the fallen skeleton's back, raised his gun mid-air, and fired at the caster's left thigh.
Hit.
Blood.
The chains flickered.
Leon landed in a crouch and dashed to the right, circling behind the tank unit.
"Disrupt," he said.
His Sorcerer cast again—not at the undead.
At the chains.
The bolt hit where two connections overlapped.
The resulting mana backlash made the entire chain matrix recoil violently.
The Deathbound grunted. One of his undead snapped backward, disconnected and collapsed.
His network was cracking.
Leon kept moving.
Finishing Sequence
The Deathbound's eyes locked on him—desperate now.
He surged forward, dragging the last two undead in a reckless rush.
Leon didn't dodge.
He stepped forward.
Gun raised.
The Sorcerer cast behind him—one final bolt at the enemy's feet.
The Warrior Zombie emerged from the caster's blind side, greatsword swinging up—not to kill, but to force him off-balance.
Leon fired three times in rhythm:
Chest.Throat.Heart.
The Deathbound's body seized.
The chains shattered like glass.
His last undead dropped mid-step.
Silence.
Then—
[System Notification: Arena Opponent Defeated – Deathbound Gladiator Eliminated]
The announcer's voice rose like a drumbeat.
"FIRST MATCH—VICTORY TO LEON DRAAAAYVEN!"
The crowd roared.
Coins exchanged hands. Wagers shouted. Half of them still confused how it ended so fast.
Leon lowered his gun.
His summons returned to formation.
No celebration.
Just readiness.
Aftermath
He stepped over the fallen gladiator's body without a word.
A medic dragged it offstage.
The announcer's voice echoed again.
"Prepare for the second match! Blood will spill again!"
Leon holstered his weapon.
And walked back to center ring.
Eyes already fixed on the next gate.