All across the continent, countless crimson screens shimmered to life, casting their eerie glow in living rooms, underground shelters, and broken cityscapes. No one could interact. No one could comment. They could only watch.
But they were hooked.
This wasn't just another fight. This was a storm bottled into a child's body—Huang Qi—versus a man in his prime, Josè, who now looked like a soldier stuck in the wrong war.
Back in the park, the cold breeze rustled the grass, but neither fighter noticed. The tension between them was electric.
Josè charged forward with sharp, practiced strikes—basic, but fast. A right hook aimed at Huang Qi's ribs. The boy, calm as still water, tilted just enough to let the punch graze air. His right foot pivoted, left hand swept in a blur—
SMACK!
An open palm slammed into Josè's chest. He stumbled back three steps, coughing, his stance broken.
"What the hell is this kid made of?" he muttered under his breath.
From their screens, viewers held their breath as the child advanced. Huang Qi didn't grin, didn't mock, didn't speak. His movements were fluid, refined—a lifetime of Shaolin discipline in a body not yet touched by puberty.
Josè tried again. A spinning kick. A feint. A quick jab toward Huang Qi's head.
Dodge. Block. Sweep.
Josè's legs were knocked from beneath him, but he twisted mid-air and landed hard, panting.
He was getting pushed back. By an eight-year-old.
From his crouched stance, he launched forward, aiming to catch the boy off guard. His fist went straight for Huang Qi's stomach—but the boy caught it.
He caught it.
And then, with eerie precision, Huang Qi used Josè's own momentum to flip him into the dirt. The sound of the impact echoed softly through the park, followed by the crunch of leaves as Josè rolled onto his feet again.
He was panting heavily now. Sweat rolled down his forehead.
"Why…" Josè suddenly spoke, not yelling, but just loud enough. "Why the hell are you this powerful? What—what is it? You trying to save the world or something?"
Huang Qi finally responded, voice calm and cold:
"No. I'm just not weak."
His words struck deeper than any punch could have.
Josè's eyes flickered. For a moment, fear and disbelief crossed his face. He took a step back. Then another. His breath grew shallow. His instincts screamed retreat.
And so, he turned.
The man who had entered the park full of confidence now dashed through the trees, vanishing into the shadows without looking back.
The crimson screens didn't cut off immediately. They lingered on Huang Qi, who stood still, watching Josè disappear into the distance. His silhouette was bathed in moonlight, calm and unwavering.
In every home watching, hearts pounded.
They couldn't cheer. They couldn't comment. But one thing was clear across every single screen:
They had just witnessed the rise of a monster in human form.
A cold breeze still whispered through the air.
Inside the Clone World, time stood still—unchanging, untouched. The only seconds that ticked forward were those bound to the quest's time limit. Nothing else aged. Nothing else moved beyond the rhythm of the game.
Josè ran.
His feet pounded against the park's cracked stone path as he sprinted with everything he had. Sweat clung to his skin, heart thudding like war drums in his chest. Behind him—relentless and silent—was Huang Qi.
The child was still pursuing.
Josè glanced back for the fifth time. Huang Qi hadn't slowed. His pace was calm, balanced, yet impossibly fast. Like a shadow that never strayed, never faded.
Josè gritted his teeth. "Why the hell won't this kid give up?"
He weaved past an old bench, ducked under a leaning tree branch, and launched himself forward again. His mind was reeling—this was no longer about pride, or victory. It was survival.
He's hunting me… like prey.
But Huang Qi wasn't chasing mindlessly. Every step he took was calculated. He had spent time on that battle with Josè—his time. And in this world where only the quest's timer mattered, wasting time meant risking defeat.
He wasn't going to let those minutes slip through his fingers.
He was going to eliminate Josè—and claim the points he had earned with effort.
Josè's breath hitched as he darted through a narrow path lined with broken bushes. His eyes scanned the area in desperation. He had to find Ethan.
"Where the hell are you, Ethan?" he muttered, nearly growling.
And then—he saw him.
A flash of movement near the wild thorns and overgrown trees. Ethan, just barely visible, was locked in battle with another participant. Josè squinted—he couldn't see who Ethan was fighting. Their features were hidden in the clash, in shadows and motion, but the exchange was intense. Fast. Ruthless.
"Dammit," Josè whispered, ducking lower. "He's busy."
He looked back again.
Huang Qi was still there, moving through the trees like a ghost, like something that wasn't supposed to be human. The cold wind tugged at his loose Shaolin robes as he advanced without urgency.
Josè's chest burned.
This wasn't just a fight anymore.
It was a chase.
But Josè had no other choice—getting Ethan's help was his only shot at survival. If he didn't, Huang Qi would eliminate him without mercy.
Without thinking twice, Josè bolted toward Ethan, pushing his tired legs to their limit. As he approached, his eyes finally caught sight of Ethan's opponent—and it wasn't someone he had expected.
She was a teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her long black hair was tied into a sharp ponytail with a crimson ribbon, fluttering in the wind like a flag of war. She wore a crimson short kimono-style top, its sleeves tight and efficient, and below it, a pleated hakama skirt of matching color. Black tabi socks gripped her feet, which were clad in ankle-high armored sandals. A firm waist sash hugged her figure, and from it hung a side-sheathed katana—currently drawn and gleaming with a dangerous crimson hue in her steady hands.
Her eyes, a deep black, burned with fierce focus. She was beautiful, yes, but more than that—she radiated strength. Her body was mature and her mature form moved with precision and grace, each step measured, each strike executed with the elegance of a seasoned swordswoman.
The katana she wielded wasn't ordinary—it sang through the air as she battled Ethan with frightening skill, using the famed sword style: Kashima Shintō Ryū. But Ethan had the edge. He was using Will. Her blade clashed against his skin again and again—yet failed to cut.
Ethan didn't need a weapon. His fists and feet were enough.
The air was still, but tension crackled like lightning between them.
Ethan stood calm yet alert, shirtless, breathing lightly. His body was lean, scarred in places, muscles coiled like springs. Across from him stood the girl—crimson-clad, her katana gripped with both hands, blade angled diagonally as per the stance of Kashima Shintō Ryū. Her eyes were unwavering. She was composed, her steps silent, controlled, precise. She looked like someone trained since birth.
Ethan? He didn't even have a weapon. But he didn't need one.
She moved first.
A flash of red steel whistled through the air as she stepped in, swinging in a swift, upward arc aimed at Ethan's torso. Her form was perfect—balance, grip, footwork—all in harmony.
Ethan slipped sideways just in time, her blade grazing the air beside his ribs. Before she could recover, he ducked low and swung his leg in a wide sweep. She hopped back, katana angled defensively, blocking his follow-up punch with the flat of her blade.
"Not bad," Ethan muttered, smirking. He cracked his neck. "But too clean."
He dashed in.
His movement wasn't elegant—but it was explosive. He threw a feint to the left, then hammered his right elbow toward her face. She twisted, narrowly avoiding the blow, then countered with a sharp thrust. Ethan parried it bare-handed—his palm striking the flat of her blade and redirecting it. The impact should've cut him, but the power of Will surged through his body, toughening his skin like armor.
Her eyes narrowed. She circled him, katana dancing through the air in short, controlled flourishes. She was testing him—seeking an opening.
She dashed forward again, blade tracing a diagonal slash across his chest. Ethan caught it with his forearm, pushing against it, then delivered a headbutt that stunned her. She staggered, but didn't fall.
Instead, she twisted mid-step and slashed horizontally.
Ethan leaned back. The blade cut a few strands of his hair.
"Close," he said, grinning. "But not close enough."
He surged forward, catching her wrist and spinning her body to the ground with a street-fighting takedown. She broke her fall expertly, rolling backward and springing to her feet. Her katana remained in her grip, barely.
This time, she didn't attack. She waited.
Their breathing steadied. Spectators from across the world watched in silence—crimson screens glowing in countless homes. No one could comment, no one could speak to them, but the world watched—hooked.
Then Ethan rushed in like a storm.
He launched a knee into her gut—she blocked it with the sheath strapped to her side, then slashed at his shoulder. The blade made contact, but didn't pierce. Ethan winced, but powered through. He grabbed her kimono by the collar and spun her around, slamming her into the ground.
A cloud of dirt rose.
She coughed, rolled, and got back up, blood trickling down her lip. Yet her stance was still firm. Her spirit hadn't broken.
"Kashima, huh?" Ethan said, cracking his knuckles. "You've got technique. But this—"
He pointed to himself.
"—this is raw survival."
Just as Ethan and the sword-wielding girl continued their intense battle, a familiar voice echoed through the chaos.
"Ethan, listen! I'll deal with your opponent. You focus on that kid. I can't defeat him.He's too strong for me."
Ethan paused, his fists still clenched, but his expression didn't shift. He glanced briefly at José, nodding in acknowledgment. "Fine. But don't underestimate her."
José gave a quick nod, his gaze scanning the surroundings. The girl who had previously formed an alliance with them was nowhere to be seen, but at that moment, it didn't matter. His focus had shifted entirely.
...
Meanwhile, in another corner of the arena, the situation was growing increasingly dire. Lucian and Lucas were in rough shape. Lucian was leaning against a tree, desperately trying to regain his stamina, his breaths shallow and erratic. He was drained—tired in a way he had never felt before.
Across from him, Lucas was engaged in a brutal hand-to-hand combat with Cyrus. But it was no contest. Cyrus was overpowering him effortlessly, his moves precise and brutal. Lucas had little room to maneuver, and every attempt to fight back was met with a crushing counter.
"This... isn't good," Lucas thought, blood dripping from a cut across his lip. He gritted his teeth, trying to push through the pain, but his body was quickly giving out.
Lucian, though still weak, finally mustered the strength to stand. His eyes were filled with determination, and his hands clenched into fists. He wasn't going to sit idly by. "I'm not relying on Wrath," he thought, his gaze narrowing. "I'll handle this the hard way. I'll join the fight and help Lucas."
Without hesitation, Lucian charged forward, despite the exhaustion that weighed down his every step. He knew what needed to be done. He had to buy Lucas time.
The battle between Lucas and Cyrus was nearing its peak. With each of Lucas's failed attempts, Cyrus grew more confident, his strikes growing more forceful. But just as Lucas stumbled back from a punishing blow, a flash of movement caught his eye. It was Lucian, rushing in.
Lucian's entrance didn't go unnoticed by Cyrus, who smirked, adjusting his stance.
"How long do you think you two can keep this up?" Cyrus taunted, his voice dripping with arrogance. "You can barely keep up with me, let alone team up."
Lucas's response was a growl, but his energy was already spent. It would take all his willpower to keep going, and even with Lucian now helping, the odds were against them. Still, they had no choice but to fight.
"We can do this," Lucian muttered, eyes locked on Cyrus. The tension in the air grew thicker, the weight of their desperation palpable.
The fight, now a battle of endurance, was far from over.
Suddenly, a massive crimson screen appeared in the sky once again, casting an eerie glow over the entire arena. The robotic voice echoed across the battlefield, sending a chill down the spines of all present.
"My fellow contestants. It is the time for an item drop. Here are two Orbs of Stamina for you all—oh, not for all, but only for those two who will get it first. Peace out!"
The words hung in the air, and the atmosphere shifted. All eyes turned to the glowing screen as the announcement settled in. The Orb of Stamina—a coveted item for any contestant on the brink of exhaustion.
The Orb was no ordinary object. It was a small, golden sphere, roughly the size of a cricket ball. Its surface shimmered faintly, as if inviting those in need to claim it. But the real magic lay in its function. If the orb were broken, it would restore all used stamina to the one who broke it, and not just that—it would give them an additional 20% of their stamina back. To make things even more enticing, the user would experience a 30-minute period with double the recovery speed. The catch? The orb was fragile. It was as weak as glass, a temptation to anyone desperate for a boost, but it wouldn't last long in the hands of someone who didn't act quickly enough.
As soon as the screen disappeared, everything went still. The battlefield, once filled with the sounds of combat and the rush of adrenaline, now held a tense silence. Ethan, the Japanese girl, Josè, Huang Qi, Lucas, Lucian, Cyrus—all the participants stood motionless, as if they were waiting for the drop, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the Orbs.
For the spectators, it was nothing new. Another twist, another announcement, another drop. They were used to such surprises. The thrill of watching a battle unfold in real-time was their entertainment, and this item drop was just another moment to savor. But for Lucas and Lucian, it was a lifeline.
[Time Left: 1:20 Minutes]